Bithdae Parties in the Stashun

DH, Going PostalAw us polis lads usually jist have oor bithdae parties in the stashun cos we cannae dae f**k aw these days in public withoot some wee c**t filmin’ it aw on some f**kin phone an’ postin’ it aw ovah myspace an aw’ that sortae w**k.

We aw chuck in aboot twenty poond each an get a f**kin’ massive cerry oot, maistly Tennunts an’ aboot a hunnert an’ fifty poonds worth o’ Macdoanalds, Dominos, curry, chinky an’ Greggs. Then we aw jist sit aboot talkin pure sh**e an’ haein’ sword fights wi’ oor batons an aw that pish. F**kin’ magic.

Ah mind when it wis the sarge’s fortieth so we aw’ stuck in an’ extra fiver each tae buy the moany auld c**t a big f**k oaff cake fae Tesco bakery. We’d jist fetched the hing through wi’ aw the cendles lit when some f**kin’ dog rough middle aged burd walks in tae the custody suite wearin’ a f**kin’ polis uniform.

“Ya f**kin’ dancer,” shouts wee Kenny. “There must o’ been enough cash left ovah fae that cake an wan o’ yous f**kin’ pure genius c**ts used the change tae hire a cheap strippah for the sarge’s bithdae.”

So he pushes the sarge intae a chair and wheels the miserable bastert up tae this ropey auld slappah tae get his donce, but she jist f**kin’ stonds there like a lemon.

“Come on then doll,” says wee Kenny. “Whit ya waiten fer? We’re no payin’ yer tae f**kin stond there gawpin’ at the c**t. Dae somthin’ sexy wi’ yer hondcuffs or sumthin. It’s his f**kin’ bithdae ya glaikit auld nyaff.’

Then it all f**kin’ kicks oaff.

“Whit yeez aw hink yer playin ot?,” she says, but in a loat mair poasher voice than me. “Ah’m Deputy Chief Coanstable Rose Fitzpatrick. Ah’m here fer a meetin’ wi’ the inspectah aboot local polisin’ stratageh.”

Then she pure clocks aw the empties an’ maccy’s wrappahs and the hales in the wall where big John Paul wis shootin’ it wi’ his taser fer sh*ts an’ giggles.

“Whits aw’ these empty beer cans daein’ oan the custody coonter?,” she says. “It’s eleven o’ cloak in the mornen.”

We usually stert oor birthday parties pure early oan. Stick the phone on divert tae Dalmarnock an’ let they c**ts deal wi’ aw the jakey sh*te goin oan fer the day.

Onyway, wee Kenny starts tryin’ tae spin the burd some sh**e aboot some mad junkie c**t comin’ in an’ injectin’ us aw wi’ LSD at gunpoint an’ some other pure w**k aboot how he’d honded oot aw the takeaway food tae a big mooslim rights parade in the merchant city an’ he’d brought aw the coantainahs back fer the recyclin’.

But yeez dinnae get tae be deputy chief coanstable by believin’ the sort o’ pure pish that comes oot o’ the mooth o’ schemey f**kin’ scrotes like wee Kenny.

We didnae get sacked though. The inspectah monaged tae smooth the hale hing ovah. Telt her that we aw hod PTSD fae aw the far right hatret we’re exposed tae while we’re moanetorin’ twittah aw day. The daft bint took pure pity oan us an’ sent us up oan an aw’ expenses trip tae Crieff Hydro for a week. A mental wellbein’ retreat or some pish, ah hink she cawed it. Ah didnae boather wi’ ony o’ that massage an’ hot stones pish, mind. Ah mair or less jist sat in the bar eatin’ chups aw week. Done me the f**kin’ wurld o’ guid.
 

© DH 2018