Hey guys, I originally wrote a sitcom about a special constable (around 18 months ago). After sitting on it for a while, I decided today to try and write it was a 'memoir'. Here's 'day 1'.
I'm joined by a filming crew today. There's an odd man with a plaid shirt and an adolescent-like beard. He has a camera. He unnerves me. His partner, I don't think in a homosexual way, is a slightly chubby, sexually unattractive boffin. He is asking me questions. He is called Daniel. I temporarily disregard his incessant questioning. I'm too busy looking at a stain on his collar. Is it cocaine? I watch out for evidence of frequent sniffs and a happy disposition. There is none. Still, I must keep an eye on this maverick. I've seen these arty types before.
12 seconds later I'm posed a question regarding my views on what constitutes capital punishment. I retort ''Paedophilia, rape, murder, certain types of manslaughter, treason, terrorism, and adultery''. Daniel then asks my views on the use of other punitive measures. Before I'm able to answer with what undoubtedly would have been the most insightful and interesting thing this young smackhead would ever have heard, a young local African-American shouts ''Peele, you knob dick!''. Initially flummoxed by the double negative and its deeper meaning, I'm soon on a hot pursuit after this young delinquent.
Minutes late I corner him. We're in a rough part of town, adjacent to a local notorious Greggs sandwich shop where I highly suspect untoward transactions are taking place 'after hours'. I'd been conducting surveillance on this establishment for the previous 19 days, missing my grandmother's funeral and my wife's birthday in the process. I had not yet collected any solid evidence. I feel a single trickle of sweat run down the inside of my leg, followed by more sweat. I'm nervous, but I'm ready. My training kicks in. I know this boy intimately. I know all boys intimately. I was this boy. I maybe still am this boy? Regardless, I must teach him a lesson. I instruct the camera team to stay a minimum of ten metres back. This boy has previous.
I lunge at the African-American. He lunges at me. We wrestle. For a brief moment, we're competing in the sport of Judo. Then he kicks me. I'm taken aback. Is this allowed? Had the globalisation of MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) created a secret-society of dishonourable thugs? This was not the world I wanted to live in, not the city I had worked so hard to gentrify. I pull out my pepper spray. Realising the severity of the situation, and my intended course of action, the boy submits and holds his hands up. I'd won. I was feeling simultaneously excited and fearful, but also aroused. Not because I'm a gay paedophile, but because I'd spotted with my 20/20 peripheral vision that some chicks had been watching my heroics. This was not the time to be merciful. I must establish dominance. ''Hands behind your head, Carl''. He obliges. I spray him in the face with my home-made pepper-spray and say coolly ''You'll see me around''. Through the tears and the screams, I could tell he appreciated the irony.
I walk away, winking at the babes as I pass. They grimace. I suspect because I'm covered in blood and bruises. The cameraman, obviously impressed with my exploits, asks me why I was ''over-zealous with such a young boy''. I didn't know what this meant, but I took it as a compliment. With further questioning, I find out what it means. I explain that Karl, the young African-American I'd just twatted, was an up-and-coming member of the Lostockhall Riot Squad, a grass-roots movement campaigning for evil. They are The League of Shadows, and I am Batman. The cameraman, whose name I later found out to be Patrick, seemed happy with my answer. Daniel not so much.
