After a night on call and several horrendously timed telephone calls from the Duty Call Centre, I am not feeling my best. I arrive for our monthly crime meeting needing a large coffee and wanting to throw myself off the nearest tall building. I try and pretend that I am listening to the latest ‘team building’ rhetoric but to be honest the boss knows criminal law is fecked, I know it’s fecked, my comrades know it’s fecked, the police definitely know its fecked and the government, well they have fecked it.
I admire the boss’ efforts to motivate us, but eventually gaze out of the window and try to decide in the absence of any hard evidence, how many quills a hedgehog has. It is surprising what pops in your head at times of complete undiluted boredom but the more I consider it, the more it becomes an important dilemma. I try and get this thought out of my head but to no avail. I deflect a question in relation to an amendment to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, whilst I weigh up all hedgehog contributing factors. Size, species, sex – it is a surprisingly tough calculation. I eventually settle on 10,000 quills. A strategic search on google on my iPhone placed strategically under the desk, doesn’t help settle my now urgent query. I whisper discreetly in an effort to ascertain my comrade’s view. He tells me to ‘fuck off’, which I assume to mean he doesn’t really know.
Eventually, I have to engage when informed that I need to ‘sort’ Mr Do Not Give A Shite. His non-consensual visit to the local police cells had been communicated to the firm by a call I had apparently missed during the night. Luckily for Mr Do Not Give A Shite the call was accepted by an unwilling comrade, quite fairly annoyed at having been woken whilst not on call. The said comrade accepts my hollow apology for not manning the phone at 2.10am, but privately I am not sorry after fielding at least ten other calls from deranged clients and police officers across the county.
Partly to show a little willing but mainly because the ‘marketing tools we should be aware of’ now being discussed by our well meaning but gormless office manager is as appealing to me as a dose of the clap, I call the police station. A grumpy custody sergeant eventually answers, insisting I attend immediately as Mr Do Not Give A Shit is ‘causing fucking havoc.’ As diligent as ever, I comply with the sergeant’s wishes and attend, via Costa, Ladbrokes and the local newsagents.
When I eventually arrive, I am greeted by a group of familiar custody staff. Their ability to stand around whilst appearing to do absolutely feck all for substantial periods and without the slightest pang of embarrassment, is strangely commendable but hugely frustrating. When asked ask to find client’s property, locate medication, to phone for urgent medical attention and prevent a potential death – they normally respond with a blanket response of “busy.” A response that appears to be baseless and often proceeds with me fighting the urge to strangle one of them to death. But today they have an unusual urgency. One of the idle feckers, a quiet specimen apparently as happy in her job as I am in mine, ignores my slight attempt at an exchange of pleasantries and instead encourages Mr Do Not Give A Shite from his cell.
“Tiberius, if I get remanded, I’m throwing shit at the magistrates,” Mr Do Not Give A Shite proclaims to start our consultation. I am not generally caught off guard but this unexpected statement leaves me momentarily speechless. Rather than discuss the allegation, a suggestion that Mr Do Not Give A Shite had randomly and seemingly without any motivation or logical reason, smashed eight windscreens on his way home from the pub, I enter into a debate with Mr Do Not Give A Shite as to why the throwing of excrement was not ideal for all parties concerned. The confirmation that the police had managed to locate CCTV evidence seemingly proving Mr Do Not Give A Shite’s guilt, ended the debate – “Yep, I’m shitting myself.”
The subsequent police interview was quick with PC Been Doing The Job A Long Time realising the risk posed by this nut job and the fact my client’s refusal to comment or play any meaningful part in the interview process would continue. I spent the walk back to the office trying to think of reasons why I couldn’t do the magistrates court hearing that afternoon. Luckily, my boss volunteered, not in an effort to take one for the team, but in an effort to avoid the police station clients that would undoubtedly take hours. I gave him a quick run through of the case but avoided all reference to the literal shit storm brewing. I persuaded the three clients I dealt with that afternoon at the police station to make no comment in police interview. Not for any tactical reason, but more so I could get back to the office as soon as possible and wait for my boss. He returned just after 4pm.
“Filthy bastard,” my boss screamed, in a mixed tone of annoyance and distress, as he stood in reception with a bemused grey look on his face. His light grey suit had on close inspection a splattering of poo particles upon it and he smelt, quite unsurprisingly, like shite. I faked genuine concern as I asked him what had happened but he was in no mood for small talk, simply confirming that the announcement of the expected custodial sentence was closely followed by the launching of a baked, yet still slightly moist, shite. It hit the court clerk, causing maximum damage at the point of impact, but poo shrapnel hitting my boss and the prosecutor.
The well meaning receptionist started to spit in pieces of tissue and rubbing the numerous shit spots, but it seemed to make the stains worse, smearing them over a larger area. How I walked back into my office without passing out from laughter, I’ll never know. But I did. I closed my office door and laughed hysterically for at least twenty minutes, before composing myself and then laughing once more. Filthy bastard indeed.
Tiberius James 