My members simply cannot be expected to put up with this, grunted constable and right worshipful master, Dave Gob, of the Police Federation.
Speaking on BBC Newsnight, Constable Gob, holder of the Queen's Medal for Leadswinging, said It's simply not good enough, a policeman's lot is not a happy one, day after day my members are skiving off, fencing stolen goods, fiddling their overtime, dealing drugs and framing people up and this is all the thanks we get.......
Yes, Kirsty, thanks. I mean, fifty nine of my members were there, tooled-up and psyched-up, ready willing and able to kill members of the public and what happened......????
Well, what did happen?
I'll tell you what happened, Kirsty, only seven of them even got a shot off, and of them, only three managed to kill the guy, only three. Out of fifty-nine. Fifty nine armed officers and only three of them got a bullet into the offender's head, heart or liver. That's fifty-six of my members who''ll be scarred for life, carrying this around until their dying day - that when the chance came to empty their magazines into the body of some poor, drunk, fucked-up clown they were denied the opportunity they'd trained for and will probably just have to go back to crushing people's testicles in the back of the panda car or slapping women around the station for, well, for being women. I mean, who needs 'em, women. Not my members, certainly. Your documents in order, Kirsty? You sure?
I heard the so-called trained negotiator, talking to Mark Saunders, sounded like someone from an EastEnders story, her boss, muttering in her ear, obviously a graduate in management-speak bullshit, an Ian Blair type, sorry, Sir Ian, or is it Lord Ian, just as long as we're paying him a huge pension, that's the main thing; Sonia, I think her name was, best thing would be to teach her to speak English, before enhancing her negotiating skills, having her gabbling on the phone would remove the will to live from the most contented of people.
There were, apparently, fifty-nine armed officers and over a hundred weapons on the scene in question. Fifty-nine armed officers, to deal with one drunk, wildly blasting away with a twelve bore.
The police blogs, as well as rejoicing in the fact that Saunders was a Chelsea divorce lawyer, express the view, predictably enough, that their hard-pressed colleagues should've shot him on sight, probably all fifty-nine of them. It's what they're for, innit, protecting the public. Just not from them.
It does appear that all of these confrontations must end with an overwhelmimg, disproportionate number of police killing the subject, patting each other on the back and lying to the coroner - although in this latest, expensive police failure one of the firearms officers said there was no need to fire; wouldn't want to be in his career shoes, God bless him, surrounded by thin blue liners.
There is, of course, a redneck argument that if you draw a weapon in public, much less discharge it, you deserve anything you get but being wound up over your wife and your drinking is probably the one thing about which we might expect Old Bill to display a bit of understanding. People do behave weirdly, crazily; it needs specialists, sensitives, to calm them down, not a regiment of overtiming, moron federales, replaying the last scene of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. We pay these fuckers billions to recruit and train the right people, why is it that all they want to do is fire things at people? Tasers, gas, bullets. Saunders hadn't killed or seriously injured anyone; that any stupid, gobby, tuppence-halfpenny psyched-up copper feels able to execute him with impunity and that his colleagues support him is as much their loss as it is the Saunderses, and ours. Great British Bobby my arse.
The police blogs are often in masturbatory fervour over the Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco Agents' mass murders in Waco Texas; it's what they wanna do, kill us all, take us down, poor, crazy, excitable wankers, take us out.