Dear Sir/madam/
Re; your automated telephone answering service, Having spent the past
twenty minutes waiting for
someone at station to pick up a telephone I have
decided to abandon the idea and try
e-mailing you instead. Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this
message on to your colleagues in
Ashford, by means of smoke signal, carrier pigeon or Ouija board. As
I'm writing this e-mail there are
eleven failed medical experiments (I think you call them youths) in
Stanhope square, which is just off
Beaver Road; Six of them seem happy enough to play a game which
involves kicking a football against an iron
gate with the force of a meteorite. This causes an earth shattering
CLANG! This rings throughout the
entirebuilding. This game is now in its third week and as I am unsure
how the scoring system works, I have
no idea if it will end any time soon. The remaining five walking
abortions are happily rummaging through
several bags of rubbish and items of furniture that someone has so
thoughtfully dumped beside the wheelie
bins. One of them has found a saw and is setting about a discarded
chair like a beaver on crack-cocaine.
I fear that it's only a matter of time before they turn their limited
attention to the bottle of calor gas
that is lying on its side between the two bins. If they could be
relied on, to only blow their own armsand
legs off, then I would happily leave them to it. I would even go so
far as to lend them the matches.
Unfortunately they are far more likely to blow up half the street
with them and I've only just finished
decorating the kitchen. What I suggest is this - after replying to
this e-mail with worthless assurances
that the matter is being looked into and will be dealt with, why not
leave it until the one night of the
year (probably bath night) when there are no mutants around, then
drive up the street in a panda car
before doing a three point turn and disappearing again. This will of
course serve no other purpose than to
remind us what policemen actually look like. I trust that when I take
a claw hammer to the skull of one of
these throwbacks you'll do me the same courtesy of giving me a four
month head start before coming to
arrest me.
I remain sir, your obedient servant
Mr Smith
Mr Smith,
I have read your e-mail and understand your frustration at the
problems caused by youth playing in the
area and the problems you have encountered in trying to contact the
police. As the Community Beat Officer
for your street I would like to extend an offer of discussing the
matter fully with you. Should you wish
to discuss the matter, please provide contact details (address /
telephone number) and when may be
suitable.
RegardsPC Plod Community Beat Officer
Dear PC Plod,
First of all I would like to thank you for the speedy response to my
original e-mail. 16 hours and 38
minutes must be a personal record for Ashford Police station, and rest
assured that I will forward these
details to Norris McWhirter for inclusion in his next book. Secondly I
was delighted to hear that our
street has its own community beatofficer. May I be the first to
congratulate you on your covert skills? In
the five or so years I have lived in Ashford, I have never seen you.
Do you hide up a tree or have you
gone deep undercover and infiltrated the gang itself? Are you the one
with the acne and the moustache on
his forehead or the one with a chin like a wash hand basin? It's
surely only a matter of time before you
are headhunted by MI5. Whilst I realise that there may be far more
serious crimes taking place in Ashford,
such as smoking in a public place or being Muslim without due care
and attention, is it too much to ask
for a policeman to explain (using words of no more than two syllables)
to these twats that they
might want to play their strange football game elsewhere. The pitch at
Willesborough, or the one at
Kennington are both within spitting distance as is the bottom of
Westwell lake. Should you wish to discuss
these matters further you should feel free to contact me on **** If
after 25 minutes I have still failed
to answer, I'll buy you a large one in the White Horse at Willesborough
Regards Mr Smith.
Author