So, the rooms we live in are provided by the charity we work for, the rent is very reasonable. they do keep nagging us though. about smoking pot in them. “please smoke your joints outside?” they keep asking, “that’s our property and we are legally liable”. of course, they have a good point, and of course, we ignore them and keep puffing away like octogenarian grannies on a the 25th mile of a marathon. thing is, the job is stressful, all that bum-wiping, and lifting, and bed-sores, and feeding, and death, and boredom and stair climbing, and caring. you need an outlet and weed was ours. well, that and e, and acid, and ska, and football hooliganism, and speed and uk surf: a genre of music that has sadly not survived.
eventually the bosses do what they got to and call the fuzz. i’m watching the box in the communal area and supping on a pint of shepherd neame, when i see four burly looking blokes and a german sheppard stop outside my room. i know instantly what has happened, and rather than panic, i get up and walk calmly into my fate of being a homeless and jobless criminal. i even manage a smile.
i lead them into my room and just point to the weed on the table next to the bong. they say “all very well and good sir,” all of them staring at my sorry little bag of grass, “but we will need you to strip.” so, i go through the humiliation of a strip-search (wishing that there had been at least one wpc there, to see my dong), and then they let the dog have a good sniff around. she is well trained and loves me, or at least how i smell. there is no other puff in my room and the only point that grabs her attention is my laundry basket. there are socks in there that, if you threw them at the wall, would stick to it, and the cops ask if i have anything in there.
“not that i know of.” i lie, knowing that the cop will have to rummage, very thoroughly through them all.
As they take me to the cop shop i think of doug.
doug and i have rooms next to each other, we smoke a lot of weed together. we score from the same geezer, every thursday, on payday. just like we did today. only difference between us is that i cycle and he walks or grabs a bus. i always get home quicker. he was just arriving, as i was leaving, which means… he’s like half an hour away. he ain’t back yet. there may well be a chance for him to avoid getting busted, if only i can get hold of him before he gets home.
the cops aren’t rough with me or anything, after all, they have what they want, and we almost have a laugh together. all the time i’m thinking of doug. “am i allowed a phone call?” i ask.
“sure.” they smile, “who do you want to call?” i tell them it’s my mate doug. “come with us.” they beckon, and i follow, assuming they are taking me to a telephone. all i wanna say to him is
‘get out of the fucking house man! the pigs are coming!’ they lead me into a room where i see doug, sat, being interviewed by two other cops.
“here is is”, says one cop, “what do you want to say to him?”
“get out of the fucking house man!” i say, “the pigs are coming!”
I have a tee shirt with the words “unfuck the world” on it. The other day, in the supermarket, a cop, stood next to me in the line, looked at it and said “You know I could nick you for that?” I could tell by his smile that he wasn’t being serious but, I wasn’t in the mood.
“I don’t think you could, actually.” I replied mirthlessly. As his smile faded, mine grew.
“Despite agreeing with the sentiment sir, your tee shirt is displaying an offensive word.” I knew I’d pissed him off, because he called me sir; my job was half done.
“Actually it doesn’t,” I informed him, “unfuck isn’t even a real word.”
“Yes,” he quipped back at me, “but it contains a real word within it, an offensive one.”
“So does Scunthorpe,” I pointed out, “what you gonna do, nick everyone in a Scunthorpe United shirt?” At this point he was called to the checkout but I could see him figuring it out, saw the moment of realisation dawn on his face.
so, i’m down this back alley
pukin’ up me chips,
when this geezer comes along
and feels up me tits.
“‘ow about a quickie luv?”
‘e asks me all polite.
“meh, whatever,” i says to ‘im,
“do what yer fuckin’ like.”
so, i’m down this back alley,
suckin’ on ‘is dick,
when the old bill come along
and drag us down the nick.
so, i’m down the station,
with a copper up me arse,
‘e makes me keep the cuffs on,
’cause ‘e knows that i’ve got class.