The Woolly Suits

Policemen in small highland communities have the life of Riley. There is no crime to speak of, and the most they are ever likely to have to deal with is a brawl at a Ceilidh.

My village has had a chequered history regarding policemen. Moving to the boondocks doesn’t appeal to the ambitious woolly suits; we get the policemen that don’t really have much interest in policing, and are consequently fairly laid back about enforcing the finer points of the law. Perhaps this explains the number of pissed drivers colliding with sheep and stags.

We do get the occasional oddball. One ex Met policeman was, shall we say, rather proud of his appearance. Christened ‘gorgeous George’ by the local populace, he was swooned over by the local young ladies. This admiration quickly ceased when it was discovered that he had a penchant for stopping the police car in quiet lay-bys to indulge in a spot of feverish masturbation. His colleague, who loathed him, was a serial womaniser. He was hauled before the Chief Constable after a local hotelier complained that he was shagging his sixteen year old daughter. He was given the choice of resignation, or joining the UN police in Sarajevo. He chose the latter.

The current lot are ok. They don’t do much in the way of policing, preferring to indulge in a spot of bird watching while in uniform. That’s how policemen should behave; busy bodying about checking tyre tread depth and tax discs would just alienate people.