retorts.
– Precisely. Conversely, the fact that we are not out there investigating the murder of a young man shows that that does not have priority.
– Hear hear! shouts Dougie Gillman. Nasty piece of work Dougie, but a brilliant interrogator. One of the few cunts on the force who would make a formidable opponent. Just as well he’s not thrown his hat into the ring for the inspector’s post. He respects the craft hierarchy.
– And so say all of us, Gus barks.
These spastics are not fucking well getting it their own way the day, that’s as sure as the shite on your shoe. By the end of the day they look as bedraggled as a couple of hoors off the backshift, I kid you not.
At the end of the course I note that Ray Lennox is enjoying a bit of banter with Gus. These cunts seem as right as fuck. That’ll be sorted right out though.
I’m thinking again about the promo stakes on my way downstairs. It’s not a fucking particularly strong field.
GUS BAIN
Too auld and stupid.
KEN ARNOTT
From B division. A straight-down-the-line dull nae-mates-outside-the-force-and-craft polisman. A serious threat if he had half a brain.
PETER INGLIS
No wonder he’s crawling up my arse when he’s had the audacity to put in for this post. A loser. Something fucking queer aboot that sad loner.
I get to my desk and there’s a message saying that a woman was trying to get me, she didn’t leave her name. It’ll be Carole, nothing surer. Seeing the error of her ways. Getting a bit weepy on her own with Christmas approaching. That is her problem. I have to head off and see the quack. I’ve an appointment.
I drive out across the city. These cunts have changed the one-way system tae confuse you even further. Trying tae drive from one side of the toon tae the other with aw this Denis Law lying is a fucking joke. If it was up tae me I’d ban all these buses and chop off most of these silly gairdins and get a few fucking new lanes doon Princes Street.
At Dr Rossi’s surgery I’m kept waiting for twelve minutes. I am here at 5.25 for my 5.30 appointment, but it is 5.42 by the time I get seen, probably thanks to some dopey auld cow who smells stale and just wants to waste stamp-payers’ money by talking all day to a doctor, the only person who will come near her on account of the whiff coming fae the cunt.
It’s okay you fuckin mingin auld bastard, it’s only a fuckin murder investigation I’m on. Carry on, carry on, don’t mind me.
When I get in, Rossi makes no apology for keeping me late. Instead he asks me to drop my keks.
– Well Mr Robertson, Rossi says, inspecting my testicles and my inner thighs, – this looks like eczema.
– Eczema! But here . . . I mean, people get eczema on their back, or arms or face . . . but no there . . .
Rossi’s eyes widen balefully, and a flicker of distaste is evident in them. – Eczema can occur anywhere. There’s no evidence to suggest that you might have something additional, certainly it’s not an STD.
There’s me fucking well disintegrating here and this cunt’s just passing it off like it was nowt . . .– I’ve never had this before. Even when I . . . I mean, I’ve just never had this before.
– Were your parents prone to it? It can be hereditary.
– No . . .
Parents fuck off parents fuck off
– It’s some aggravated skin disorder, probably a form of eczema. I can’t emphasise strongly enough that you should keep that area clean. I’m going to prescribe a cream.
I take a deep breath and let the sterile air of Rossi’s surgery fill my lungs. I try to remain focused on Rossi without making eye contact. Look at the brows, that’s an old con’s trick: focus on the polisman’s eyebrows rather than his pupils. Haul in a Fyfe a Begbie a McPhee a Wylie or a Doyle and those criminal cunts always adopt the same approach. Eye contact without eye contact. Always fucks the baby polis up, that one. Just formulating a strategy, getting back into the notion of the games feels
– Precisely. Conversely, the fact that we are not out there investigating the murder of a young man shows that that does not have priority.
– Hear hear! shouts Dougie Gillman. Nasty piece of work Dougie, but a brilliant interrogator. One of the few cunts on the force who would make a formidable opponent. Just as well he’s not thrown his hat into the ring for the inspector’s post. He respects the craft hierarchy.
– And so say all of us, Gus barks.
These spastics are not fucking well getting it their own way the day, that’s as sure as the shite on your shoe. By the end of the day they look as bedraggled as a couple of hoors off the backshift, I kid you not.
At the end of the course I note that Ray Lennox is enjoying a bit of banter with Gus. These cunts seem as right as fuck. That’ll be sorted right out though.
I’m thinking again about the promo stakes on my way downstairs. It’s not a fucking particularly strong field.
GUS BAIN
Too auld and stupid.
KEN ARNOTT
From B division. A straight-down-the-line dull nae-mates-outside-the-force-and-craft polisman. A serious threat if he had half a brain.
PETER INGLIS
No wonder he’s crawling up my arse when he’s had the audacity to put in for this post. A loser. Something fucking queer aboot that sad loner.
I get to my desk and there’s a message saying that a woman was trying to get me, she didn’t leave her name. It’ll be Carole, nothing surer. Seeing the error of her ways. Getting a bit weepy on her own with Christmas approaching. That is her problem. I have to head off and see the quack. I’ve an appointment.
I drive out across the city. These cunts have changed the one-way system tae confuse you even further. Trying tae drive from one side of the toon tae the other with aw this Denis Law lying is a fucking joke. If it was up tae me I’d ban all these buses and chop off most of these silly gairdins and get a few fucking new lanes doon Princes Street.
At Dr Rossi’s surgery I’m kept waiting for twelve minutes. I am here at 5.25 for my 5.30 appointment, but it is 5.42 by the time I get seen, probably thanks to some dopey auld cow who smells stale and just wants to waste stamp-payers’ money by talking all day to a doctor, the only person who will come near her on account of the whiff coming fae the cunt.
It’s okay you fuckin mingin auld bastard, it’s only a fuckin murder investigation I’m on. Carry on, carry on, don’t mind me.
When I get in, Rossi makes no apology for keeping me late. Instead he asks me to drop my keks.
– Well Mr Robertson, Rossi says, inspecting my testicles and my inner thighs, – this looks like eczema.
– Eczema! But here . . . I mean, people get eczema on their back, or arms or face . . . but no there . . .
Rossi’s eyes widen balefully, and a flicker of distaste is evident in them. – Eczema can occur anywhere. There’s no evidence to suggest that you might have something additional, certainly it’s not an STD.
There’s me fucking well disintegrating here and this cunt’s just passing it off like it was nowt . . .– I’ve never had this before. Even when I . . . I mean, I’ve just never had this before.
– Were your parents prone to it? It can be hereditary.
– No . . .
Parents fuck off parents fuck off
– It’s some aggravated skin disorder, probably a form of eczema. I can’t emphasise strongly enough that you should keep that area clean. I’m going to prescribe a cream.
I take a deep breath and let the sterile air of Rossi’s surgery fill my lungs. I try to remain focused on Rossi without making eye contact. Look at the brows, that’s an old con’s trick: focus on the polisman’s eyebrows rather than his pupils. Haul in a Fyfe a Begbie a McPhee a Wylie or a Doyle and those criminal cunts always adopt the same approach. Eye contact without eye contact. Always fucks the baby polis up, that one. Just formulating a strategy, getting back into the notion of the games feels
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