Ah feel pure sorry fer that wee Damian Green pr*ck

DH, Going PostalAh wance got wheeked intae the inspectah’s oaffice fer a right f**kin’ hidin’ aboot whit some nosey wee IT c**t foond oan mah wurk computah.

“None o’ yer crime reports are gettin saved intae the system cos yer computah’s run oot o’ memory,” the c**t says tae me.

So ah says that’s got f**k aw tae dae wi’ me cos ah’m a f**kin polisman no some pointy heided c**t worken fer Bill Gates. Whit the f**k dae I ken aboot computahs? Ah’m pure gettin’ the polis federashun rep in here tae raise a grievance against aw a yeez f**kin d**ks.

“So that foldah oan yer desktoap cawed ‘importent pish’ has got f**k aw tae dae wi’ yeez then ya fat pr**k?,” says the inspectah.”The wan wi’ f**kin’ fower hundret gigabytes o’ pee dee eff files o’ takeaway menyoos fae every f**kin toon and city in the f**kin’ British isles oan it?”

Ah minded some pishy course ah’d been oan aboot cybah crime a fortnight ‘afore an’ startet slaverin’ aboot viruses an’ trojan horses an how aw they menus must o’ been snuck on tae mah computah by some wee Russhan p**k fannyin’ aboot fer s**ts an giggles in a intahnet cafe in f**kin Siberiuh.

So the c**t finally shuts his mooth an’ says ah’m free tae go.

“Wan mair hing though,” he says. “Yeez also need tae delete some o’ yer eemales. There’s aboot six thoosand confurmashun messages fae Hungry Hoose cloaggin’ up yer inboax an nae c**t can get in touch wi ya tae report crimes an’ aw that f**kin s**te.”

Ah didnae end up resignin’ though. Ah jist went roond tha cornah an’ bought masel a pie oan a buttered roll an’ a wispa gold.
 

© DH 2017