So, police are too stupid to catch criminals according to our top boffins. Not so, say I! I believe it is not that the police are too stupid – rather criminals have become too smart to evade capture. If only clever police are recruited, the numbers will be to thin. So a new solution is required. But what? And how?
Well. I’ll tell you. I’ll fill you in. Drop you clues. Get you with the program. With the agenda. Up the chips. Shuffle the potatoes. Eat the craps. Mind the business.
The solution is this:
If the police have reached their maximum for intellectual thinkery, then I say we find a new sort of professional to fight crime. The police people can go back to being ordinary police people of yore, instead of the variety of police who prevent crime we know today. Instead we must look to the boffinhood of our society. Clearly, we need a class of crime fighter with a bit of nouse. And I know just the sort.
That’s right. Only Nobel prize winners could possibly have the intellogical knowhow needed to catch the ingenious felons of today – what with their high-tech boy racer-mobiles and newfangled spray cans. With people like Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett, Winston Churchill, and their Nobel holding comrades tackling minor crimes then we can be assured that vandalism, teenage binge drinking, lighting fireworks after eleven hours post meridian and the illegal use of drugs in public places will be a thing of the past. I urge the thinky dinkers of government and the civil service bureaucrats and dogs to deeply consider my proposal. It will work. It has to work. It must work.
And I’ll take a Nobel prize for that slice of advice, thank you your righteous Maj. Good ole Lizzy 2, I always say. She knows which side her doner kebab’s buttered on and no mistake!
So, total power invested in me by my people. Sounds good, yes? But, oy, the responsibility. When you’re not oppressing the Jews into building pyramids, you’re trying desperately to get a coherent agricultural policy off the ground. Irrigation, as my mother once said, is the key. Of course, she was on about her colon, but I thought, hey, why not give it a try on the Nile, and what do you know? It works!
That’s great, I think to my regal self, I’ve got a long term agricultural policy that, in turn, will develop my economy, allowing more money to be invested into oppressing the Jews and beating the rest of the world to building amazing architectural wonders. Until the Romans show up.
God damn Romans, they spoil everything with their broken bloody noses and their straight roads everywhere. And poor defenceless Egypt gets invaded. As if they have any right! So I rush to the Carthaginians, don’t I? But this guy, Hannibal, he don’t want to know. So I goes crying, cap in hand, to the Byzantines, and what do you know, this Byzantine broad’s on the Romans side. By Anubis, this woman’s a pain! So what do I do?
I tell you what I do! I get every man, woman and child a weapon and go over there and smash their damn countries into dust, and engulf their sorry borders into Egyptian rule.
Then it’s off to bed, only to get woken in the night by a downright social revolution. Turns out, the leading courtiers all want a piece of the Egyptian action. What’s a pharaoh to do, I ask myself, but let the people have what the people want? So I give them all a nice feudal society, and have all the first born children massacred. Easy peasy – I’m still in charge and everyone’s got more or less what they wanted. Back to bed for a lie in until eleven, then off to work, to teach those Carthaginian bastards that when Egypt asks for some help you God damn give it to ‘em!
It took some time but I finally escaped from Evad’s house. Rather than find critically needed food or water after so many days in captivity, I decided to get to the nearest internet café and update my diary.
Yeah, turns out Evad’s a casual killer, so I was lucky to get out. I’m going to develop the pictures I took for evidence as and when I can and I’ll post them here.
This new revelation about Evad’s extremely dangerous masculinity is very intriguing. I may have to go and sit outside his house for a bit and think about that.
I came across Evad today. He didn’t see me, because I was concealed behind a wall and he was in his house. He was having breakfast and it was toast with marmalade. I think he may like marmalade a tad too much, verging on a marmalade obsession. At the moment this is conjecture. I will have to investigate his love for marmalade further before I make any firm judgements.
After sitting outside his house behind the wall for about three hours, I made my way into town for an appointment with doctor Munk (pictured).
Doctor Munk said that he thought I was becoming worse in my condition and needed heavier medication. I told Doctor Munk that I had suffered another nightmare about him in which he killed me with a barometer. Doctor Munk sighed when I told him this and proceeded to stroke my inner thigh. I don’t understand why he does that. After the appointment I followed Doctor Munk to his home, though he did not see me because I was disguised as a pantomime camel. When I got to his house I took another picture of him without him noticing and went home to develop them in the attic.
Dr Munk’s private parts look very small in the photograph I took at his house, but then he was in a bath of ice. He has a lot of welts on his back and legs.
I returned to Evad’s house and sat behind the wall. Evad was covered in paint again. Presumably he is painting his whole house red. While he was in a back room I crept up towards the front of the house and took note of the layout of drainpipes and upstairs windows in readiness for my plan on Monday (5th September), when I know he will be out for a meeting. I must remember to buy some new film for my camera before Monday.
Yes, it’s the title of an album but apart from that it is irrelevant to this post.
Don’t let that put you off. I’m quite mad.
So, I go to this rehearsal for this show the other day that is held at a church hall. I get there. It’s raining. Everyone else gets there. It’s still raining. Nobody has a key. That, in my mind, spells trouble.
So, telephone calls are made and it turns out that the guy who normally has the key is away on holiday, but he’s left it with this woman. This woman’s nowhere to be found. That’s because she’s in Ireland. That’s right. And we are in the UK with the church hall. That, in my mind, spells trouble.
So, we try phoning someone who might know all the answers about the man, the woman, Ireland and the key. They tell us that the vicar will have the key. A vicar they call ‘Al’. So, a brief, wet jaunt to the vicarage and nobody’s home. Nobody at all. It is still raining, ominously. That, in my mind, spells trouble.
So they come ‘galumphing back’ from the vicarage and, as they pass the actual church, they see a sign. A real sign, you understand, not an epiphany. And on the sign, on the door of the church, it reads
‘There will be a mass for Al tomorrow. Everyone welcome.’
I’ve been getting very angry recently with all these Al-Qaeda scum that have been living in the woodwork here in the UK. It makes me mad when they use our democratic principles as a defence against the justice they deserve.
Take, for example, the case of one extremist who has recently closed his anti-Western, anti-democratic website. He has been whinging that Britain is an oppressive country that is thwarting his human right to freedom of speech by threatening to deport him for his views. Excuse me? Oppressive? Is that why he came here in the first place? Is that why he is so desperate to replace democracy with a monarchic system based on fundamentalist claptrap? Because democracy is SO oppressive? Well, he has now said that he will find a country where he can share his views on the overthrow of human rights without being persecuted. Good riddance.
All this hypocrisy does just make me want to throw my guts up. For all the mistakes the Labour party have made recently (like top-up fees) that are, by and large, anti-Socialist rather than in-keeping with the tenets of the Labour movement, I do feel that harsh rules on deportation are a good thing. I for one am a Socialist but clearly what we need in the prevention of terrorism is some good old-fashioned real politik. If that means kicking out a bunch of psychotic people who will happily blow up their own kind and preach to impressionable teenage muslims –who have their whole lives ahead of them – to do the blowing up then so be it.
That’s the funny thing though, isn’t it? The clerics are the ones preaching jihad, that every good muslim should give his life, yet when it comes to the crunch, they’re the ones who leg it before the going gets tough. Cowards.
Dominic was born in Stafford on the 2nd of November, 1986.
He is an artistic director of Belt Up Theatre and a co-founder of The Boycott Deathtrap.
Dominic is actor, writer, dramatist and raconteur. Available for birthdays, weddings and funerals.
He currently lives in York with a seven foot tall statue of a man masturbating.