Vinylrichie’s Weblog

 A mere two weeks after employing me, a practical joke takes place. I’m informed by my increasingly resented manager (now elsewhere to hoodwink a whole new bunch of poor saps) that I’ve been selected, by her, to be trained in the use of a walkie talkie so I can play at being a security guard of sorts. The only problem is that I have the physique of a shrew on amphetamines so am therefore about as threatening as a drinking straw. My protestations at yet another new and (unpaid) extra responsibility are ignored and I’m sent packing, with a couple of others to a local supermarket, where some pretend policemen (Police Community Support Officers or, rather, Cannon Fodder), are to instruct us on how to use these radios to keep our property safe and the rest of the town’s shops and the CCTV operators informed of ne’er do wells in the vicinity.

 There follows a rather excruciating role playing hour of radio cops and robbers as we attempt to learn how we are supposed to describe  people clearly and inoffensively.  We are taught the phonetic alphabet, we forget the phonetic alphabet and then we are fully fledged ‘crimefighters’ after one hour. If we’d stayed another hour we would probably be skilled enough to run the secret service. I have to admit that posturing with the radio did briefly make me feel a bit like Alan Rickman in ‘Die Hard’ or someone out of NCISYCSI Miami or whatever, but very fleetingly. The reality would be that I’d be vaguely skulking behind the sympathy cards watching someone attempt to nick a Dr Pepper whilst trying to remember whether my target is I.C 2 or I.C 4 and what my call sign was in phonetics again.

 The following day I dutifully fetch, turn on and attach one of the radios, purely for cosmetic reasons as I had no intention of acting upon anything other than something urgent (attempted theft of a Hannah Montana pencil case perhaps). Although I was reluctant to play ball, having the radio constantly crackling into life at my hip provided quite a lot of entertainment. I got to hear about every trifling matter that occured throughout the town, from the location of passed out drunks, to the multitudes of chavs that were congregating outside and inside JJB Sports calling everyone ‘bruv’ and seeing how many jets of spittle they can eject from between their nicotine stained rodent teeth. I got to hear the rather remarkable tales of well to do rich ladies that stole from clothing shops just for something to do whilst their lawyer husbands play golf or go for ‘team building’ excercises with just their nubile nineteen year old P.A for company. Probably.

It isn’t mandatory to have a radio once you’ve been trained, but I felt that if I was to look indisposable and like the sort of hard worker that deserves recognition (still waiting), I probably should. So I carried that damn bit of plastic for days on end with it constantly spitting out its incessant blasts of static between broadcasts, usually from the clothes shop up the road that deals clothes to teenagers who wish to look like they’ve been spiked, assaulted and mugged at an american college.  The first person I had to radio in was hardly the most celebrated of crime fighting incidents. A man, who was so incredibly drunk it was a wonder he wasn’t comatose, proceeded to try and convince me that the big pile of books and magazines he was holding had been bought downstairs but he had no bag. Then, upon my not unreasonable request to see his receipt,  he proceeded to drop all of the books and the entire contents of his pockets all over the floor whilst rooting for it. There was a surprising amount of cash on the floor, but he didn’t come up with any proof of purchase. For ten minutes he was swaying from side to side, getting me drunk with his abhorrent boozy stench and insisiting he was legitimate paying customer, as the general public at the other tills looked on with undisguised horror and clutched their precious shopping from Laura Ashley close to their chests. I even got the odd knowing look of sympathy from some of them. Yes, I know, must be the blitz spirit or something.

 I eventually convinced him that he should leave, without taking his ‘purchases’ with him. He teetered off. Then, with such drunk incompetence, and a lack of shame that only drunks carry off with any gravitas, he picked up a huge hardback Ken Follett book and shoved it straight underneath the inside of his jacket.  I stopped him, trying hard not to laugh.

 ’What are you doing with that?’ I asked.

 ’I want to read it,’ he slurred. (I can’t be bothered to try and type slurred, sorry.)

 ’Yes, but we’ve just been through this haven’t we? You need to buy it before you can read it.’ I said.

‘ But I’m a speed reader, it won’t take me long.’

 Class. He had me there, how ever was I to argue with such flawless logic? I only radioed the poor bugger in for his own safety.

 Other than that the radio just caused hassle. Townlink would radio in a description of someone (commonly chav couples with a big pram or buggy to hold the loot), my colleague and I would do our best to blend in with the birthday cards whilst we watched them. They’d leave. The end. Oh, except for my colleague did catch a man that nicked a Tango Fruit Twist once. We had about five coppers in for that one and he was detained under the Misappropriation of Carbonated Fruit Drinks Act 1992. (Not really, he got an eighty quid fine. But we charge £79 for a soft drink anyway, so no harm done.)

 I don’t wear the radio anymore unless loss prevention people from head office come in. But maybe if they asked me to carry a gun….