I fully support ASDA in their efforts to thwart underage drinkers. I applaud their challenge 21 policy, whereby anyone under 21, or who appears to be under 21, has to provide proof of their identity and age. And I know that I've been working out more recently and eating more healthily. But because I'm a real man in the Gene Hunt mould I refuse to moisturise, and rarely use "grooming products." A splash of aftershave and a smear of Brylcream is all I've ever needed, and to be honest, with a number 2 crewcut the Brylcream is only necessary because my hair goes very dry and fluffy otherwise, giving me the appearance of a velcro tennis ball. I do not subscribe to the Cliff Richard Fountain of Youth by abstaining from lifes pleaures, and I'd be the first to agree that I have the perfect face for Radio.
So, how I wonder did the checkout operator conclude that I was under 21? I'm 42 for Christ (or God(s) of your choice) sake. I can pass the requirement twice over. Talk about should have gone to specsavers!
I haven't been asked for ID in over twenty years. I don't really carry ID. I mean I had my police warrant card with me, but that isn't acceptable because it doesn't have your date of birth on it. You have to be 18 1/2 to join the force, but that doesn't prove you can buy a bottle of wine. Rummaging through my wallet I had all sorts of things that give away my age - a Library ticket, Institute of Advanced Motorists membership card and Caravan Club member card - but none show my date of birth. It was only when my son, 8 year old Thomas, asked "what's the problem Dad?" that the operator relented. Obviously she'd done a little mental arithmatic and figured that I must be at least 24 to have an 8 year old son in tow.
So here's a top tip for all you council house chavs out there - take your kid brother shopping with you when you buy your Stella. - hang on, no scratch that, you probably DO have an eight year old son but are still under age to buy alcohol right?
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Boys and their toys
One day I will have to get a proper job. I am resigned to this. After all, I am rapidly approaching compulsory retirement age for police officers, and I can't thin of any other job that will be as much fun. Because being a copper isn;t a job at all. It's a continuation of the game of cops and robbers I used to play as a kid. It's a real life X box and Ninetendo. We get to carry guns and drive fast cars. We are James Bond, The A Team and The Saint all rolled into one. It's one rollercoaster ride of fun fun fun. Well, okay it's not all fun, there is death and danger to deal with, but it's not real. Well, actually yes it is real, but as a defence mechanism to cope with that you pretend it's not.
But just occasionally something comes along that helps you suspend reality and reinforce that James Bond feeling. This happened today when a new Skoda Octavia VRS arrived at the department. Forget the jokes about Skodas, they are now seriously cool cars, and the VRS is a rocket propelled roller skate with the grip of a go kart and handling liek a thing that handles really really well. (I'll come back and edit that bit when I can think of what it is that it handles like, but for now just take it as read that it is bloody good) now our old Skoda has all the buttons for the blue lights and sirens hidden in the flap that would normally conceal the ash tray just ahead of the gear stick in the centre console. How cool is that? Very James Bond Thank Q.
Well not as cool as the new one, which has them all in the centre roof console, all little illuminated square push buttons and toggle switches, so it's like an aircraft. Now as a basic flat foot, a kid from a council house estate with an O level in Maths and another in Art I am ideally qualified to do Painting by numbers, but could never aspire to flying anything other than a paper dart. So this opens up a whole new world of play for me. The M62 becomes a runway, and with the phonetic alphabet already in use I only have to adopt my best Roger moore voice and I'm there in my private jet with pussy galore. All i need now are the revolving number plates and some machine guns.
But just occasionally something comes along that helps you suspend reality and reinforce that James Bond feeling. This happened today when a new Skoda Octavia VRS arrived at the department. Forget the jokes about Skodas, they are now seriously cool cars, and the VRS is a rocket propelled roller skate with the grip of a go kart and handling liek a thing that handles really really well. (I'll come back and edit that bit when I can think of what it is that it handles like, but for now just take it as read that it is bloody good) now our old Skoda has all the buttons for the blue lights and sirens hidden in the flap that would normally conceal the ash tray just ahead of the gear stick in the centre console. How cool is that? Very James Bond Thank Q.
Well not as cool as the new one, which has them all in the centre roof console, all little illuminated square push buttons and toggle switches, so it's like an aircraft. Now as a basic flat foot, a kid from a council house estate with an O level in Maths and another in Art I am ideally qualified to do Painting by numbers, but could never aspire to flying anything other than a paper dart. So this opens up a whole new world of play for me. The M62 becomes a runway, and with the phonetic alphabet already in use I only have to adopt my best Roger moore voice and I'm there in my private jet with pussy galore. All i need now are the revolving number plates and some machine guns.