This is probably the last time I write here. I have decided to join the police.
On the pretence of having an open day, they summoned me to Stornoway nick for a high-level meeting. It was upstairs. A cop from Scalpay, who does the press-ganging for Northern Constabulary, persuaded me to lay down my pen and recorder for a truncheon and pepper spray. Wallop. Whoosh. I can’t wait.
From my photo, you may think I am past the first flush yet I’m in supreme condition. While telling me that anyone can join at 18, Inspector Willie “Scalpach” Maclennan winked loudly and added that there was no upper age limit. I knew exactly what was going on. Top cop Ian Latimer wanted me on the team.
“Really? No upper limit at all?” I wondered. He looked me up and down, adding: “There will be a fitness test.” He didn’t get those pips on his shoulder by being slow and he quickly deduced that my proud abdomen may look like a big belly but is actually a powerhouse of muscle, relaxed muscle. What a big asset, he must have thought.
So why now? There is talk of fuel price riots, you see. Latimer needs cool heads to prevent the Shader Red Diesel Users And Abusers Association from storming the pumps at the Welcome In in Barvas. After a couple of weeks’ intense training in Tulliallan police college, I reckon he’ll want me back to co-ordinate the operation. Too important to leave to polite skinnymalinks like Chief Inspector Philip Macrae. Seniority is so overrated.
I passed the police entrance exam – in 1977. One question stumped me. It was “Who wrote the opera Pirates of Penzance?” Afterwards, the sergeant asked: “How did you get on, lad?” “Tricky pirates question,” I said. He goes: “I’m sure a bright spark like you knew it was Gilbert and Sullivan.” I said: “Didn’t they do Ooh Wakka Doo Wakka Day?”
Suddenly I yelled: “There’s a disturbance out there.” Whereupon the sergeant immediately exited the room and proceeded in a westerly direction to the front desk, giving me just enough time to retrieve my paper and insert his answer. Thick but cunning, that’s me. I would be ideal for CID.
Only a technicality stopped me joining up back then; my bum was technically too close to the pavement. But the Scalpach insists there is no height restriction now. Even a rookie gets £21,000 a year. That’s fantastic money for an 18-year-old – especially for someone unlikely to squander it on the mind-altering substances on offer in most pub toilets from Invershneckie to Lovely Stornoway.
And the salary goes up loads every year. So I am going to ask for mine to be sort of backdated to include every increase since I sat that entrance exam back then. I’ll hound the drunk drivers in lawless dives like Garynamonie and Garynahine for wonga like that. Not only am I confident of being accepted but also I’m very sure of being fast-tracked for meteoric promotion. When Ian Latimer realises that I could go back to writing about him in the P&J, he’ll make sure I go to the very top.
Me in a hat with scrambled egg on it. I can see it now. I’ll move force headquarters from Perth Road to the Barvas Moor. It will have an overhead watchroom to intimidate law-breaking Westsiders, which are all of them. I’ll bring in daily breathalyser tests for all drivers in the Free Church (Continuing). Well, they’re all on something. I shall also test the emissions from all Galson Motors buses daily – and from the councillor who runs them.
In fact, I will harass every councillor. The parent councils of all the schools earmarked for closure will help me with that, I suspect. No cost to the taxpayer.
Did I mention that another potential employer is coming to see me on Monday? Donald Trump has a record of getting the best people. I can see me in the Trump World Tower bawling out my posse of gorgeous, pouting secretaries – just like Sybil at the council here. “Get me Heimer in Great Falls, Montana. Get me Buck in Great Bend, Kansas. Get me Auntie Kirsty Ann in Great Bernera, Uig.”
Career choices, they say, are our most important. One thing is sure; Ian Latimer’s package is going to have to be a good one. Because I know The Donald’s cousins, Calum and Willie Murray in Tong.
I wouldn’t be surprised if I was writing to you next week – from the 27th floor of a skyscraper. Just imagine; Calum and Willie and me looking down over United Nations Plaza in downtown New York, a low-flier in each hand. Just like being in the Crow’s Nest in the Legion.
Published in the Press and Journal on June 4, 2008
