The Filth
The 70s is a rotten time to be a copper. When I’m not breathing on a grass, smacking some bird about or taking my sarge Geoff out for a razz in the Granada, I’m getting ulcers from a diet of Top Deck shandy, Chipsticks and Embassy Regals.
Maybe it’s ‘cos of all the fondue and vivid fabrics, but villains seem to be more fragile in the 70s. You only have to tap a face and he turns on the waterworks. A sharp crack on the knuckles with a Kay’s catalogue and he’s on the floor hollering for his brief. I dunno.
The fuzz is a mug’s game, but the nonces and the cat men and the tearaway rubbish won’t catch themselves. I tell you what, though: running in the 70s is lethal. All this polyester? Static builds up, one small spark and poof! You go up like an acrylic inferno. I’ve lost too many good men to spontaneous nylon combustion.
But when all’s said and done, I wouldn’t swap being a copper for anything in the world. Not even a tumble on the shagpile with Wendy Richard. Corr. I would. Wouldn’t you? Yeah.
Suck-cessMe
