– That Scargill was a trouble-maker, Inglis snorts, – but Tony Blair though, gie him his due, he’s got rid of that unions and socialism nonsense in the Labour Party now.
As usual Lennox says fuck all. The best way I suppose. – Right enough, same rules apply. Anyway, I say, – enough boring politics! It’s Christmas! What’s the story with the Christmas do? You were organising that Amanda.
With great restraint I stop myself from adding, That’s aw yir fuckin well good for.
– Yes, well, we’ve booked The Burning Ruby Tandoori House in Cockburn Street for the meal, she says with distaste. Her and Fulton wanted to go to Pierre Victoire’s, but no way would the lads have that. I wasn’t into any sick frog poofs lisping around me while I was trying tae eat. I’m surprised Inglis didn’t want that, mind you.
– There is just one problem though Bruce, Ray says.
– Aye?
– Well, Ralphy Considine’s been on the team, and I suppose he counts as one of us. We’ve yet to decide whether or not he should be invited for the curry.
No way is a uniformed spastic one of us, but then again, I know that Drummond’s against Considine coming on the Christmas session.
– Of course Ralphy Considine has to be asked, I tell them. – I’m getting a little bit sick of this division between uniformed and non-uniformed officers. We’re all on the same team and should reap the same benefits.
I’m thinking about these scouse spaswits that did me over in Amsterdam. One of them had that t-shirt on. A red one. Commemorating Shankly, I think.
– Very laudable sentiments Bruce, Drummond says, – and I think everyone sitting here would endorse them. But surely there are other issues to consider.
I raise my eyebrows noncommittally and let Drummond launch into one about however we may personally feel about it, we have to acknowledge that the force is a hierarchical organisation and if we try to fly in the face of the organisation’s culture we will set up opposition, division and disillusionment in what are, after all, sensitive times with the reorganisation pending.
– That’s an interesting point Amanda. I think I’m reluctantly coming round to your view. Maybe it does seem a wee bit selfindulgent to make personal statements of our liberalism at a time when the organisation needs continuity of practice.
There’s a few nods around the table, all except Inglis who doesnae look happy. He’s an irrelevance. No votes for queers in this section. So Drummond has her way and we decide that it’s expedient not to invite a uniformed spastic to our Christmas do.
Result!
Of course, if I had said, No way a uniformed spastic gets invited to a plain-clothes do, then Drummond would have been the first to shoot me down in flames. But the last thing I want is to be sitting in my brown (the new black) leather jacket, checked shirt and fawn flannels in the curry hoose beside Considine decked out in a white shirt, black polis troos and shoes.
After this little meeting I get restless, and I feel a chug coming on. I head downstairs with the paper.
I do a bit of graffiti in the bogs:
PETER INGUS IS A FUCKIN HIV SPREADER
and: INGUS = SICK, DISEASED QUEER
I’m sitting there looking at it for a while. I start chuckling and my sides ache. Then a depressed feeling digs in, followed by a steady outrage. It was wrong to do this to a brother officer. The force can’t have this going on. I’m the fuckin Fed rep here. To describe a brother officer in this manner . . . I’m psyching myself up, getting into role.
I pull the chain and flush away my shit. There’s some traces of worm, but no sign of the head. I’ll get the bastard though, sure as fuck I’ll get him.
I’ll get him alright.
I go upstairs and stride purposefully over to Peter, tapping his wrist and steering him over into a corner.
– Peter, have you seen the graffiti in the toilet? I ask, in a low concerned voice.
– Ach, thir’s always something thair. Ah nivir take any notice, he shrugs.
– Maybe ye should, I tell him, letting my anger rise. – I’m getting a bit fuckin well fed up of this shite. As fuckin Fed rep ah’m no having people’s character defamed in this way. I’m gaun up tae see Total now. I raise my voice and look over the room, – Some cunt’s playin silly fuckers here. Just hope ah dinnae find oot whae it is!
I storm out of the room, leaving them looking bemused. I’m charging up the stairs to Toal’s office and I’m in without knocking. – Gaffer, a wee word.
– Bruce, I’m a bit busy right now, Toal says, shuffling through some papers. He looks so fucking low.
– I want you to come and see something, some graffiti in the toilet.
– I don’t have time for . . .
– As Fed rep, I don’t have time to see brother officers being slandered by other members of the service!
– What’s this?
I explain the graffiti to Toal and he’s following me down to the bogs. The others have come along, their faces like the ghouls when that Colin Sim guy died. They are looking at Inglis for a reaction and he looks crestfallen. – It’s jist a load ay bloody nonsense, he’s saying over and over again, torn between trying to make light of it, and being genuinely staggered.
How did it make you feel?
I head back up the stairs with Toal, who beckons me into his office and closes the door. – Listen Robbo, he says, – Inglis isn’t, well, you know, is he?
– What? I ask. I’m starting to enjoy this.
– Like the graffiti says, Brother Robertson, Toal snaps.
Toal must be upset to resort to playing the craft card so nakedly. – Whether he is or isn’t is irrelevant surely, I say, planting the seed, – Peter’s sexuality is his business. He’s being harassed and we operate a non-discrimination policy on the grounds of sexual orientation.
– But he can’t be being sexually harassed if he’s not a . . . well, gay, I think the fashionable term is these days.
– Well, you can call it sexual harassment or just plain harassment Bob, but the way I see it, is that this is the unacceptable face of canteen culture . . .
– Whoa Bruce, whoa, I’m on your side . . . this has to be stamped out. It just came as a bit of shock to me . . . I mean, Peter’s a craft stalwart . . .
– Peter’s a lonely guy Bob. What he gets up to is his own business, and I don’t profess to know much about him, but I’m not having a brother officer harassed in this way.
– Exactly. I’ll make sure this is dealt with.
I walk out as high as a kite. The concepts ‘Inglis’ and ‘poofery’ are now indelibly associated. The concepts ‘Inglis’ and ‘promotion’ not so. Ah, the games, the games.
You should keep moving when you’re on a roll and I decide to call on Estelle at the flower shop. I’d like tae fuckin gie that wee shag one. She’s probably feart of Gorman and Setterington. What she needs is protection from those monsters. Someone she can trust in her life. An older, more mature man who can respond to her needs. If there are damsels in distress need saving, then I can think of no better knight in shining armour than Detective Inspector Elect Bruce Robertson.
That old familiar lump in the flannels starts rising as I think about Estelle and a combination of positions and girlie sex noises. A threesome with her and wee Claire, the hoor fae Maisie’s. Just what the doctor ordered. That’ll sort ma fuckin rash oot Rossi!
When I get to the shop, the only person there is the disapproving auld boot, who tells me that Estelle is off sick with the cold.
– A lot of it going about, I cheerfully say.
– Aye, sure, the auld cow mumbles. She doesnae like Estelle at all, that’s as sure as another trophyless season in Gorgie.
– Does she get many callers?
– Too bloody many, the wifie says, then crinkles her nose and commences hostilities, – What’s it tae you?
Looks like the auld cunt just woke up and smelt the bacon. The Scottish working class and respect for the polis go together like Mother Theresa and Playboy centrefolds.