I watched a television interview with Jeremy Clarkson recently in which he said that the eco-chuggers kept on getting the law changed thus making farmers’ lives increasingly difficult. Now they are after the gamekeepers and they will be after fishermen soon too. Noone pays much attention to them except for fellow eco-chuggers who have unfortunately infiltrated DEFRA and other organisations like the RSPB.
The point that Clarkson then made was that no farmer was within twenty miles of a police station and he is right. Who is going to know if a farmer protects his sheep from crows with a catapult or shotgun? Who is going to know if a seagull ends up in a labourer’s toasted sandwich? In other words the future is one where the town keeps on producing ridiculous legislation dreamt up in the town by townie lefties for rural communities to ignore completely. By this reckoning sausages could be banned and farms could become sausage havens like Amsterdam is a haven for wacky-baccy.
Which brings me to a letter I read in one of the Scottish newspapers some time ago, which further confirms my point. The police are completely asleep even in our towns.
The letter reads:
Dear Sir/Madam/ automated telephone answering service,
Having spent the past twenty minutes waiting for someone at Leith police station to pick up a telephone I have decided to abandon the idea and try emailing you instead. Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this on to your colleagues in Leith 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 West Cromwell Street which is just off Commercial Street in Leith. 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! which rings throughout the entire building. This game is now in its third week and as I am unsure how the scoring sytem 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 speed. I fear that it’s only a matter of time before they turn their limited attention to the bottle of calor gas between the two bins.
If they could be relied on to only blow their own arms and 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 just finished decorating the kitchen.
What I suggest is this. After replying to this email 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 clawhammer 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 X
I would bother to include the police reply and the follow-up message from the original writer but I do not have the hours and have to go and fire another dozen crows from the sky before lunch.
Paul Taylor, Perthshire