Right then, ya bunch o’ fuds.
The sarge has been pure nippin’ ma heid aw f**kin’ day tae put oot wan o they stupit f**kin’ publec safety remindahs aboot keepin’ hidratet en tha heat an’ rubbin’ oan sun loashun an’ aw that pish.
Aye, ah can see iss pure f**kin’ roasten ootside but ah dinnae reely hink thass a mattah fer the polis. Whit the f**k d’yeez expec’ me tae dae aboot et? Arrest the f**kin’ sun? F**k’s sake.
So ah telt the sarge ah dinnae hink iss in mah joab duscripshun tae tell aw yeez c**ts tae drenk water when yeez are thursty. Iss wan step awa’ fae hovin’ tae remind yeez aw tae wipe yer erses efter haein’ a sh*te. Ah’m gettin’ the Sco’ish Polis Fedurashun envolved an aw, cuz aw this iss pure aggenst mah yuman rice.
“Aw fer f**k’s sake wid ye f**kin’ button it, ya fanny,” he says. “Iss cawed cummunotty engagemunt, ya missrabul f**kin’ sh*tebag. We’ve goat tae at least pretend tae gie a sh*t aboot the publec’s wellbein’. It makes us look a wee bit less like a bunchae pure f**kin’ c**ts. Why dae yeez hink we’re a’ways painten oor fingernails fer tronsgendahs an’ hovin’ oor photies taken wi’ pakis?”
Persunly, ah hink thass a loadae pure pish the crabbit c**t’s learnt oaff bi heart fae wan o’ they f**kin’ w**ky trainen semmanars he’s a’ways swannen’ oaff tae ot Tulliallan polis’ coallege.
But thass nae point en erguin’ tha toass wi’ the torn faced bastert, so here’s yer f**kin’ offishul Safe Summah Guidansh fae Polis Sco’lan.
First hing – keep yersels f**kin’ hydratet.
When yeez are fannyin’ aboot ootside en the sunshine iss emportent tae take a boattle o’ water or some sh*te wi’ yeez in case ya stert pishin’ sweat like a beast sittin’ en a soaft play cafe.
But the maist emportent hing is no tae make the same mishtake os wee Kenny the prubashunah done tha utha day there.
Ah’m f**kin’ coanvenced that boy’s ma wis oan mair than jist smack when she wis pregnunt wi’ him, by the way. Sum o’ tha stunts that wee fanny pulls are beayoand f**kin’ bileef, ah tell yeez.
He comes flyin’ intae the stashun lost week wi’ a corrier bag full ae tins an sterts slaverin’ pure sh*te as yooshal.
“Haw fannybaws, Esda’s stertet sellin’ a this pure amazin’ new enargy drenk,” he says. “Draggun Soop. Iss pure f**kin’ magic. Ah’ve bott hunners o’ them tae stoap masel’ getten pure deehidratet an’ keep me f**kin’ buzzin’ while ah’m moanaterin’ twittah fer right weng hatret.”
So tha wee fanny sits there drenken tin efter tin o’ this dragun sh*te aw mornen. Now, looken back ot tha hale hing, he wis talken a loat mair sh*te than yooshal. But maist o’ us jist pure tune oot when tha wee fud sterts up wi’ his pish, so nae c**t noateshed whit wis goin’ oan.
Then ootae naewhere, he stonds up, caws big John Paul’s maw a hoor, sterts greetin’, pishes hissel’ an then collapses en a f**kin’ heap oan the flair.
Then tha sarge comes pure tearin’ throo tae see whit the f**k’s hoppnen.
“Whit the f**k’s goin’ oan in here ya bunch o’ f**kin’ roastahs?,” he says. “How’s that wee prubashunah c**t sleepin’ oan the flair? Yeez er sappaised tae be teachin’ the wee fanny how tae be a proppah polisman no lettin’ him f**kin’ doze aff like a c**t.”
Then he clocks aw the empty tins oan wee Kenny’s desk.
“Who tha f**kin’ hell’s let thot wee laddie sit drenken that Draggun Soop pish aw mornen?,” he’s pure yellin’. “Ah’m forevah coanfescaten that sh*te fae neddy wee weans in Ruchill perk. Iss aboot f**kin’ eight parshent alcahoal. Sends tha wee sh*ts doo-f**kin’-lally. Settin’ fire tae dugs, slappin’ auld wummen aboot, pishin’ thru folks’ lettahboaxshes, tha loat. The boy’s passed oot pished, ya bunch o’ glaikit w**ks. An’ yer lucky he’s no hod a f**kin’ heart ottack an aw.”
Big John Paul said he wantet tae taser the stupit wee c**t cuz he thott it wid wake him up. But the sarge decidet agennst et an’ jist endet up slingin’ him in a cell wi’ a junkie. At least sumwan wis en there wi’ him tae make shure he didnae pure choke oan his ain voamett an’ die.
Onyway, the moaral o’ that pish is drenk plenty o’ water an’ avoid doonen nine tins o’ Draggun Soop afore lunch time if yeez are feelin’ thursty when the sun comes oot an iss pure taps aff weathah.
Right. Secund hing. Sun loashun.
We wance liftet some f**kin’ scabby jakey scrote fer stuffin’ aboot twenteh boattles o’ that poash Pish Bruin sun loashun fae Boots intae his tracky boattems an’ daein’ a runnah.
Tha mad c**t wis hidin’ wi’ et aw behind tha bins en Waterloo Lane an hod manuged tae drenk aboot five o’ them by the time ah’d foond him an’ battert pure f**k oot him wi’ ma ashp.
Ah wis healpin’ Big John Paul put tha rest o’ it en the evadunce cubbard later oan an’ he suddenly pipes up: “Haw big man. D’ya hink ya really get pure aff yer tits fae drenken boattles o’ poash sun loashun?”
A f**kin’ hale week in hoaspital, he wis.
Stummuck pumped, oaperashuns oan his digestuv sisstum, the f**kin’ loat. Tha docatahs said he wis lucky no tae be sh*tin’ intae wan o’ they colostuny bags fer tha rest o’ his life.
Then the pure mental bastert turnt roond an’ blamed me fer no stoappen’ him. The c**t’s aboot six foot sevvun an’ poaps steroids like they’re f**kin’ smarties so how ony f**ker’s sappaised tae stoap Big John Paul fae dae’in onythin’ is f**kin’ beyoand me.
Onyway, sun loashun. Put it oan yer skin so yeez dinnae get cansha an’ aw that sh*te but dinnae f**kin’ drenk it cuz Big John Paul says it’ll no get yeez pished an hallushinatin’ like the eftershave fae poondies does so iss a f**kin waste o’ time an’ munny.
Right. Thass aw that cummunotty engagemunt pish sortet. Thass me awa’ doon tae the paki shoap tae get masel’ a Magnum.
© DH 2018
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