“Yippee Ki Yay, Ya Wee Fanny” – A Polis Sco’lan Christmas Tale

Ah pure cannae be f**ked wi’ Chrishmas. Brengs back a loadae sh*te memries fae when ah wis a wean.

Wha hod f**kin’ hee haw cuz ma da spent aw tha dole money oan drenk an ma maw took tae tha depresshun an’ couldnae evah be f**ked gettin’ ony shoappen en. Selfish c**ts.

Nae pressunts. Nae turkey. Nae deccarashuns. F**k aw. If ah woke up oan Chrishmas mornen withoot a hard oan ah hod f**k aw tae play wi’.

Onyhoo. Ah yooshally volanteer masel’ tae wurk tha Chrishmas sheft cus it takes mah mind pure aff mah childhood tromma. Beshides, yeez get time an’ a hoff an’ iss a f**kin’ scoosh cuz there’s herdly ony c**t aroond en tha stashun so yeez can get away wi’ daein’ f**k aw fer a hale week. Pure f**kin’ magic.

But ah mind there was wan Chrishmas Eve ah wis oan duty an’ it turned intae a right auld pain in tha erse.

Ah couldnae tell yeez if it hod bin quiet or not durin’ tha day cuz ah’d put the stashun’s phone oan divert tae Maryhill an’ gone fer a wee nap in wan o’ tha cells. Ah woke up pure starven’ so ah decidet tae go oot an treat masel’ tae a ginormous kebab since it wis Chrishmas an aw that pish.

So ah’m walkin’ ootae tha kebab hoose wi’ mah donnah an’ chups an’ mah sixteen ench meat feast pizza when some scrotey wee pished up c**t says tae me: “Haw you, big man. Ah thott yeez polismen jist ate chinkies.”

“Awa’ an bile yer heid ya wee d**k,” ah says tae him. “This is fer tha hale stashun.”

Ah wisnae lyin’ eitha cos ah wis gonnae be tha ainly c**t there.

“Aye right,” he says.

“Tha Sarge is pregnant,” ah says.

“Aye, right,” he says.

Ah wis just thinkin’ aboot taserin’ tha wee c**t in tha baws tae teach him a lesshun when some pr**k sterts slaverin’ pure sh**e oan mah polis radio.

“Ony c**t free tae drag there erse ovah tae tha Tennunt’s Wellpark Brewry builden?,” he says. “Tha’s some alarum goin’ aff an’ iss daein’ a’body’s heids en, apparuntly. Ovah.”

Now, ah’d yooshally egnore pish like that until some otha stupit c**t volanteered themsels but tha wee fanny jist wouldnae wrap his pish.

“Roagah that,” ah says intae tha radio. He’d pure worn me doon. “An by tha way…f**kin’ hell wid yeez jist f**kin’ shut up fer wan meenut ya moany c**t? Ah’m f**kin’ sick o’ hearin’ aboot this alarm pish awready. Ah’ll go roond there tha noo jist tae get yeez tae shut up, ya yappy wee sh**e. Ovah.”

So ah chuck mah kebab an’ pizza en tha back o’ tha polis cer an’ drive up tae tha Tennunt’s builden. Right enuff tha alarum wis f**kin’ blarin’ awa’ an’ there’s some sacuraty guard pure fannyin’ aboot wi’ some buttons inside tha door.

“Haw you,” ah says. “Yeez need tae shut thess racket the f**k up tha noo. Thess is pure ontisoshal bahevya.”

“Ah’m tryen,” he says. “But iss pure f**ked. Iss sumthin tae dae wi’ tha computah or tha intarnet or some pish.”

“Look here, ya c**t, ah’ve goat a donnah an’ chups an’ a pizza goin’ pure cauld oot en that cer,” ah says. “Get it sortet or ah’m gonnae get nott’n but pure grief ovah tha radio aboot this pish while ah’m tryin’ tae eat an thass no fair oan me.”

“Calm yer jets big man,” he says. “Ah’ve already cawed the twenty fower ‘oor helpline nummer an’ some poor c**t’s oan his way oot tae fix the hing. Iss no as if there’s onywan broken en here or nott’n. Jist yeez go oan an’ hov yer denner. Iss no’ a polis matter.”

Ah’m jist aboot tae get back intae tha cer when the hale night jist turned tae pure sh**e. There wis this great big f**kin’ bang oan tha cer boannet an’ ah near enuff f**kin’ sh**e masel.

At furst ah thott it wis wan o’ they big seagull hings whit live ootae kebab hoose bins tryin’ tae gettae mah denner. But it wisnae. Some c**t hod goan an’ chucked a deid, pish reekin’ jakey ontae mah polis cer an made a right f**kin’ mess o’ et.

Bafore ah evun hod time tae drive aff, a loadae full Tennunt’s tins stert flyin’ ootae tha brewry windaes an stert hittin’ the cer.

Ah wisnae gonnae risk gettin’ mah heid taken aff wi’ a lagah can for ony c**t so ah get oan tha radio tae get mair polismen tae come.

“This is PC Greggs,” ah says. “I’m at Tennunt’s, ah’m undah heavy fire fae tins o’ lagah. Ah need some f**kin’ backup assistance tha noo! THA NOO,  YA C**TS, THA NOO! Ovah.”

Then every c**t an’ his maw turns up. F**kin’ ermed rasponse. Riot vans. Hellacoaptahs. Tha f**kin’ works.

Then tha Sarge comes oot a cer an merches up tae me wi’ a face like a slapped erse.

“Whit the f**kin’ hell is aw this pish aboot ya fat c**t?,” he says. “Ah’m sappaised tae be hovin’ a quiet fammally Chrishmas aff wi’ mah weans, no dealin’ wi’ this sh**e. A wis hoffway through mah ninth f**kin’ tin o’ Stella when aw this pish kicked aff. It’ll be flat by the time ah get hame.”

Oan an’ f**kin’ oan he went like tha torn faced c**t he is aboot how ah’d pure ruint his Chrishmas wi’ mah deid jakey pish.

Then some scuzzy wee voice comes oan his radio.

“Haw you ya fanny,” it says. “We’re pure a terrarisht organisashun. We’ve goat tha Tennunt’s oafface Chrishmas perty at needle point an nae c**t’s gettin’ oot ’til mah cuzzen Wee Stevie gets raleeshed fae his ten stretch en Bar-L fer attemptet rape.”

“He’ll be oot in three oan a tag onyway, ya roastah,” says tha Sarge. “Iss Chrishmas Eve fer f**k’s sake, ah swear tae god ah cannae be dealin’ wi’ this pish tha noo.”

Then while tha Sarge is nagoshiaten wi’ tha stupit wee bam mah radio sterts up again.

“Psst, big man,” it says. “Lissen, ah’m hidin’ bahind tha’ vendin’ masheen en tha staffrum. Ah’ve already killt wan o’ they c**ts. Ah’m pretty shure ah can take tha rest oan. Soarry aboot yer motah by tha way. Ah wisnae aimen fer it, ah swear doon.”

“Wait a meenut,” ah says. “Ah’m nae expurt, but ah’m pretty shure killin’ some c**t an throwin’ him ootae windae is against tha law.”

“F**k that,” he says. “They basterts pure ruint mah wurk Chrishmas perty. Ah wis this close..this f**kin’ close…tae gettin’ ma hole en tha stashunary cuppard wi’ fat Lynn fae resepshun when aw they c**ts fae tha hameless hoastel came bargin’ in. Ah’ve missed mah train now, so that’s a f**kin’ thirty five poond taxi fare they’ve cost me an aw. Mah plan is tae kill aw they c**ts wan by wan.”

“Who tha f**kin’ hell do you hink yeez are ya radge c**t?” ah says.

“Jist yeez caw me Cooboy,” he says.

Hoanast tae f**k.

Then the stupit c**t sterts gie’in me a blow by blow accoont o’ him sneakin’ aboot the brewry stranglin’ jakeys tae death.

“Ah’m crawlin’ through a f**kin’ pure narrow ventalashun shaft tha noo,” he says. “Now ah know whit a steak bake feels like goin’ thru your gut, ya fat bastert.”

“Where the f**k are yeez c**ts evan gettin they polis radios fae onyhoo?,” ah says.

“Ah goat mine fae tha Barras. Ten poond a poap. F**kin’ magic,” he says.

“Ah wance tasered a bairn,” ah says, pure changin’ the subject. “He wis aboot thurteen years old. He hod this f**kin’ toy ray gun hing. Looked real enuff tae me. Ya know, when you’re a prubashunah, they can teach yeez everythin’ about bein’ a polisman except how how f**kin’ pure hilarious taserin’ some c**t is. Anyway, I just couldnae stoap laughin’ at the wee fanny twitchin’ oan the groond but then tha parunts complaint an’ ah goat a dissaplinurry. C**ts.”

“Whit tha f**k’s that got tae dae wi’ onythin’?,” he says.

“Thass nae need tae be such a c**t,” ah says tae him. “Ah’m jist makin’ coanvasashun. Ah’ve hod tae stond oot here freezin’ ma baws aff lissenin’ tae your pish fer tha last fower oors an’ ah didnae complain wance.”

“Shhh,” he says. “Ah’ve foond that jakey yer Sarge is tryin’ tae nagoshiate wi’. Ah’m gonnae pure sneak up on the c**t.”

The Sarge wis still slaverin’ awa’ intae his radio.

“Lissen here ya scuzzy wee toerag,” he wis sayin’. “All ah hov tae dae is wait until ya need ya methadone. You’ll be f**kin’ rattlin’ before sunrise. Then whit, ya wee junkie sh**ebag?”

Then tha wee c**t comes flyin’ ootae tap flair windae an’ londs oan toap o’ tha otha deid scrote oan mah cer boannet.

“Doon in a sec boys,” says anotha face in the windae. “Soarry again aboot yer motah again big man. Ah wis aimin’ fer that armoured cer next tae yeez.”

Then aboot a meenut latah that Cooboy c**t comes waltzin’ oot the front door. Turns oot he’s jist this wee glaikit lookin’ skinny c**t wi’ a can o’ lagah in wan hond an’ a lit cigarette in tha otha.

“Right, since ah killed aw they jakeys fer yeez can wan o’ yeez c**ts geez a lift hame tae Wishaw?,” he says.

Bafore onywan cuid say f**k aw, some f**kin’ zoambie lookin’ smackheid comes staggerin’ up ahind him wi’ a saringe in his hond.

So ah tasered the bastert square in tha c**t.

“See, ya f**kin’ w**k,” ah says tae Cooboy while tha c**t’s hovin’ pure convulshuns oan tha steps. “Ah telt yeez it wis f**kin’ hilarious. Look at his erm twitchin’.”

Onyway, that Cooboy c**t turned oot tae jist be some wee fanny cawed Tam who wurks en tha Tennunt’s payroll dapartmunt. F**k ainly knows whit tha f**k wis goin oan there wi’ him suddnly killin’ aw they alkies. Apporantly he jist went intae wurk oftah tha Chrishmas holadies an’ cerried oan like f**k aw hod hoppend.

Tha Sarge said we should probably arrest tha shifty wee c**t but tha Inspectah jist looks at the hale squadron o’ polismen an says “F**kin’ seriously …can ony o’ yeez be ersed wi’ that kindae pepahwurk ovah Chrishmas? Iss a f**kin’ victamless crime.

“Jist get aw the CCTV ootae there, lock tha place up an’ act surprised when tha Tennunts c**ts phone up screamin’ aboot a bunchae deid doon an’ oots oan tha shoap flair in the mornen. An tell aw they c**ts who were at the perty no tae say a f**kin’ wurd or we’ll pin aw the murdahs oan them. An’ if thass no enuff there’ll be kiddy porn oan their herd drives an aw.”

By then mah donnah an chups an’ pizza hod goan f**kin’ stone cold. Ah tried mah best wi’ tha micrawave at tha stashun but it jist wisnae tha same. Dried it aw oot an it tastet like pure pish so it went in tha bin. Broke mah f**kin’ hert so it did.

Tha ainly place open at that time oan Chrishmas mornen wis a f**kin’ Shell garage so ah hod tae make do wi’ a couple o’ Ginster’s peppah’d steak slices, a blockae cheddah cheese an’ a coupleae they Frijj milkshake hings. It wis pure sh**e.

As ah say, ah pure cannae be f**ked wi’ Chrishmas.
 

© DH 2018
 

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