You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Political Correctness Gone Mad » Popular | Search
This is a question Political Correctness Gone Mad

Freddy Woo writes: "I once worked on an animation to help highlight the issues homeless people face in winter. The client was happy with the work, then a note came back that the ethnic mix of the characters were wrong. These were cartoon characters. They weren't meant to be ethnically anything, but we were forced to make one of them brown, at the cost of about 10k to the charity. This is how your donations are spent. Wisely as you can see."

How has PC affected you? (Please add your own tales - not five-year-old news stories cut-and-pasted from other websites)

(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 10:20)
Pages: Latest, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, ... 1

This question is now closed.

My Son's Dog.
A couple of years ago I got my son, who was six at the time, a dog. I’d read something about children who get brought up with pets being less prone to allergies and so on as they get older, and also thought it might be good for him to learn about how to treat animals properly and so on. Anyway, I got the dog from a rescue home. They told me it would be perfect as a child’s first pet, as it was a truly gorgeous border collie that was only three years old with a wonderful temperament and had been well kept and looked after by it’s previous owner, an elderly lady who had sadly passed away.

Obviously, my child loved the dog, as did the dog him. He named it, and with me in tow he’d take it for endless walks, which the dog adored, would let it sleep on his bed and rushed to hug it when coming home from school BEFORE he paid any attention to his mother and me. I was a happy man, as I thought my various plans were all working well. Then it all started to go wrong.

This gorgeous, soft, friendly, playful animal I had brought into our home slowly started to turn. It wasn’t particularly noticeable for the first couple of weeks; the dog just wasn’t as friendly and playful as he had used to be. He spent more and more time in front of the fire, not wanting to go for walks and ignoring my child’s attempts to cajole him into rushing around the house, damaging furniture. Over time, his behaviour got steadily worse. He would growl at me and my wife, do his business all over the house, rush around like a lunatic and then collapse in front of the fire and not move for several hours. Interestingly, he was still very affectionate towards my son, didn’t growl or bite at him, which still makes me kind of happy.

Anyway, after a particularly unpleasant episode, in which he gave me several large puncture marks on my forearm, I decided he had to go to the vet. I took him along, waited patiently and was told to leave him in overnight to let the vet do some tests. When I returned the following day, the vet had some bad news: This beautiful animal, which my son adored, had contracted an aggressive form of cancer that had raged through his body, corrupting everything it touched. The cancer had spread to his brain which, the vet said, explained his erratic behaviour, and he would have to be put down. Nothing could be done. I told the vet to do what was necessary, and shed a few tears as his leg was shaved and the needle gently inserted. The gorgeous border collie died with me stroking his head and whispering into his ear.

The vet then asked me if I wished to take the body with me, or if I’d prefer for them to dispose of it at the practice. I obviously chose the former, telling the vet that my son adored the animal and that I felt it would be best to bury the dog in the back garden and explain what had happened. This was the first problem.

The vet explained that I couldn’t bury my dog in my garden, as my local council had passed a law requiring all animals being buried to be placed in a pet cemetery. The vet gave me some leaflets, and I went home.

I looked over the leaflets. The prices for the cemeteries were all rather expensive, and the vet’s treatment had already cost me most of my expendable income. Anyway, my son came home, and I explained to him about his dog, that he had been very sick and not himself any more. There were many tears, and I explained that I thought he would like to bury him in the garden as a last goodbye. Bollocks to the council I thought, no-one will mind.
‘No,’ my son said. ‘I want to give him a funeral like the Lord of the Rings.’ I thought for a minute, and then realised he meant the pyre scene where that bloke who’s alive nearly gets burnt. I was puzzled, by son was adamant. Only cremation was good enough for HIS dog.
So, I built a pyre, placed the cold, dead animal (carefully wrapped in an old sheet) on top, and took my son outside to say one final goodbye.

The pyre caught, and the wood began to burn. The flames licked ever higher, and I held my son tightly as he emitted small sobs. Then, there was a wailing of sirens and lots of shouting. Two men burst through my side door, carrying a large hose. They doused the flames, sending the slightly smoking corpse flying, whilst my son looked on in horror. I was then given an almighty dressing down by the chief fire officer, about the dangers of unsupervised fires in my back garden (apparently me watching it didn’t count) and also about the illegality of cremating animals without a permit. I was lucky, he concluded, that the police hadn’t been called and myself arrested.

Furious, I rang my council and explained the situation to them. I asked them what I could do with the body, as I wanted my son to be able to say goodbye, and explained the various problems I’d had so far. The person on the end of the line explained that the only option available to me that was permitted, seeing as I couldn’t afford the pet cemetery, was to leave the dog out for the binmen. I was staggered, but warned that attempting anything else would almost certainly land me in trouble.
So, it came to pass that myself and my son were stood outside the house and half-six one cold Tuesday morning in November, waiting for the binmen to arrive and give my son’s beloved pet a ‘funeral.’ They arrived, picked up the body, and began to walk with it towards the truck. My son was crying, almost uncontrollably. Sobs shook his small frame. It wasn’t the way he’d imagined his friend and companion going, at the bitter end.
The body was unceremoniously thrown into the crusher and my son began crying even more. It was the saddest sound I’ve ever heard, the pure, undiluted grief of a small boy, totally unused to death, seeing his beloved pet treated in such a callous manner. The crusher began to activate, and the sheet covered corpse began to slide out of view. My son, inbetween his pitiful sobs, managed some simple words:

‘Goodbye, Political Correctness. I wish you hadn’t gone mad and had to go to sleep.’

Why he called the dog that, I’ll never know.
(, Sat 24 Nov 2007, 11:34, 11 replies)
Cultural Identity Worker
I had to fill in a form every year to let some funding body for work know my current status vis a vis address and the like. And there was a new question a few years ago saying, "Please indicate what you believe to be your cultural heritage." No one knew what this meant, so I asked about. My department was a very mixed bag of cultural heritages - some Iraqis, some Persians, lot of different Europeans. Everyone got on with each other famously, we just didn't get what this question was about. Some of the Persian lads (big drinkers) said, "You go out on the piss on St Patrick's - why don't you put down that you're a Celt?" So I did. I wrote "Celt".

Didn't think any more about it.

Until a couple of weeks later, when I got a letter form HR saying I'd been assigned a cultural identity worker as I was within a group that was radically under-represented within the workplace. I had an appointment the following week.

I spent half an hour sitting uncomfortably in the company of a delightful young lady as we talked about my needs as minority group.

"We have a special religious day," I perked up suddenly, "Every year, on the 17th of March, we have to wear a special outfit and commune together in a worshipful act."

St Pat's came. The Persian lads bought me an Ireland shirt and a huge Guinness hat. I had to put them on, and they shoved me out the door. The cultural identity lady stared at me big time. So did my boss.

"Don't you oppress me," I said holding my head up high as I shuffled off to O'Neills to meet some other Celts.

The question wasn't on the form the following year, and the nice lady now works for the Council.
(, Fri 23 Nov 2007, 22:10, 4 replies)
I’m feeling a bit sensitive - so I’ve had it with you lot...
I’m off to (insert country name here) where I intend to be a minority, yet insist that their whole constitution changes to accommodate ME!. Wherever I go…I want Christmas Lights up and whatever the weather, I want nobody to laugh at me if I wear a Santa costume.

I also demand they build me a church with their taxpayer’s money (whether I decide to go or not). I will be incredibly offended if anybody mentions the religion of their own country in my presence. In fact, as well as the church, I would like a traditional English pub to be built, draped in flags with football on the big screen and government subsidised beer (despite the alcohol laws of the country I choose).

I insist that whatever school my kids go to, they must have at least a weekly portion of fish and chips – regardless of whether their school friends like it. Come to think of it, I want the entire school curriculum be altered to include English Language, English History and English Religious studies.

I will meanwhile walk straight into whichever top-flight job I choose, because I will be the only white, English, 30-something, able-bodied male there…and I’ll pull the ‘Caucasian card’ if I have to. Woe betide anybody who spots my incompetence at my job – they’ll be out of there like shit through a goose.

Whatever country I go to, I will spend my weekends holding placards in the city centre slagging my new home off, and inciting the English to rise up and suicide bomb the shit out of the place.

In order to find the city centre, every road sign has to be taken down and replaced by one that explains directions in the Queen’s English…preferably on the backdrop of the St Georges flag.

Of course, when it comes to policing, the health service and government benefits. I still expect to be first in the queue…in fact, I want my own queue, and with my own public-funded translator…because they don’t speak English where I’m going.

Every single person in my presence must tread on metaphorical eggshells in conversation to me, and shit their pants at the prospect of accidentally calling reference to beer drinking, Yorkshire pudding, Shakespeare, pale skin or Coventry City Football Club (Well I might let the last one pass…they are shit after all)

So that’s not too much to ask is it? Surely it’s the same all over the world as it is here……..isn’t it?

I’ll start packing…
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 15:51, 33 replies)
Intergration
Me I'm a black guy currently living in central Leeds, as black as the ace of spades okay not quite that black but still anyways I digress.
After a long day at work was in the pub one evening having a quick pint pissing about on my psp and generally minding my own business, had to share a table with 3 other people as the pub was quite full.
Some random woman just walks up to me and asks if I'm alright, I reply "Yeah I'm fine". She replies "Oh! because you look left out.". I look at her blankly and carry on gaming in the hope that she'd piss off.
But no, she asks me "If i'd been in the country long?". To which I answer "Yeah, 29 years". Bearing in mind I have a ridiculosly strong London accent having been born and bred there.
She then proceeds to tell me about this racial intergration course been sent on by her company and how it's nice to see people of my sort in the community.
Queue looks of disbelief from the other people
on the table and me trying my hardness not to piss myself with laughter and rip into her. I looked up and told her "Thanks kindly for your concern". She then went off back to her table and proceed to start weeping at which point i couldn't help but laugh.

On another point, I got in trouble at school when questioning why the teacher refered to a blackboard as a chalkboard. It's black it's a board that's what it is. it's a blackboard ffs.

The world has truly gone mad.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 13:15, 12 replies)
PC pron
I was at the diversity drop-in center when I saw her. She was of average appearance and dressed appropriately for the surroundings. Her body was not important because I valued her for her personality.

"Would you like to have sexual relations with me," I asked, "after we have taken a number of months to get to know each other and develop a relationship of mutual trust and respect?" She acquiesced and I underwent a couple of months of celibacy.

Finally the moment came and I asked her which position she would prefer. She replied that she could not consider doggy as that was demeaning; the missionary was a slur on early evangelists; the cowboy variations glorified the slaughter of indigenous peoples; anything with me on top was representative of male domination; and spooning was a mockery of Third World nations without cutlery, So we opted for her sitting on my schlong as we sat on an upright dining chair.

The coitus began when we were both naked, noting each others imperfect forms as a way of neutralising decades of body fascism in the press. We agreed that her arse was fat and had cellulite, and that my gut was distended from too many chocolate bars. (She had a muff like Rasputin's beard, but I didn't say that.) To be fully equal, I wore a condom and she wore a femidom. I didn't feel a thing and neither did she.

We both came and discussed the experience, making a graph to illustrate the high points (me almost blacking out) and the low (me shouting 'Ra Ra Rasptutin' at the moment of climax). It was the most soulless experience of my life.
(, Wed 28 Nov 2007, 16:53, 9 replies)
Typo of doom

A few years ago, when I was about six months into a new job, I was participating in a presentation remotely. We’d been commissioned by a rather large educational company to create a web site that allowed children to play games against each other. This is fairly common these days but at the time it wasn’t so much.

It was early in the development stage, and we’d knocked together a 2D beat-em-up, mortal kombat style game. The kids could simply fight against each other using the arrow keys and space bar to punch etc. It was both graphically and technically simple, but had been a bit of a mare to put it together.

Through the design phase the client had specified that they would prefer one character to be of a ‘Caucasian’ origin and the other of an ‘African American’ origin, in order to appeal to the various minority groups and appear welcoming. The intention was to have a variety of characters upon completion, but if the client wanted it for the prototype; who are we to argue? We settled upon a stocky, punkish sort of fellow with a green Mohawk, and as the other character a tall, black gangster kind of dude.

We’d also inserted a chat screen below the main action, where the two kids fighting could communicate with each other, just for banter etc.

All was going well with the presentation, and my boss, on-site with the client, was talking them through it before allowing one of the big honchos to play a little game against myself, whom was safely nestled back in our office, hundreds of miles away.

We began and I noticed the movements of the client’s character were a bit erratic, and I initially assumed it may have been a lag issue, until I recognized he kept moving away from me. So obviously I figured he was confused which character was his, so I attempted to help using the chat screen, and sending the following helpful message.

“I’m the punk, you’re the bigger guy”.

Except, during the creation of the peripheral device known as the keyboard, some intelligent bigot had decided to place the B key right next to the N key.

My quick follow up of…

*bigger

…convinced no one that I wasn’t a racist. :(

I can only imagine what my boss’s face must have looked like…
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 14:40, Reply)
Compensation and tribunals are not a substitute for common sense...
Why is it that we have to tiptoe around people that think that they have to be offended simply because somebody makes a reference to their colour or handicap?

Just for the record:

I don't care what fucking colour you are. Really, I don't. I hate some white people just as much as I hate some blacks.

I'm not religious. My mum is, and that's fine. I choose not to believe in a God and have therefore already accepted that I won't be going to heaven (or Hull for that matter).

Wheelchair users are a nuisance. It's not their fault, but then again nor is it mine. When I block a supermarket aisle (whilst slapping the kids legs or debating the beans vs spaghetti for tea for example) or a shop door then I expect people to get frustrated - it's normal . The UK is not very big, most of the buildings are many years old (from WAY before the invention of the wheelchair) and are therefore simply not designed for the Chorltons of the population. We're working on it, but bear with us as it's gonna take a while.

Indians.. why, oh why, is it that when I offer to work for you and offer my price for my effort, time and materials, is it that you have to alter the price for me? If I wanted to haggle, I would start at a price far higher than all of my competitors and then hope you're interested in playing a nice game of 'beat the quote' rather than going to them. I haven't the time for it, and don't want to risk losing business. Accept my quote, get a few others and then make a choice... not let me start work and then try to change the price!

Jews - I have never had a problem with Jews. You know exactly where you are with them.

Now I hate the term Nigger as much as the next man, but it has its place. I wouldn't call every black man a nigger no matter how dark he was - I feel it's all about the attitude of the individual. There is a difference between a white man and a Chav or Pikey for example. There are grades of men depending on their attitude to others, and as such I believe there should be various words to describe them. Maybe the next QOTW should be to suggest new ones if people are too scared to use t he old ones. As a point of interest, I sometimes call my (white) brother "nigger" when he borrows money and doesn't give it back.

Women - some of you are shit at driving and you are a pain in the arse for one week of every month. Now, I love my wife completely, but I have never sent her out to get tampons, chocolate and beer whilst I sit indoors choosing the nights telly viewing, you know? I know that I'm untidy and can't find the washing basket. I also know that the bath mat gives you verucas and must be avoided at all costs. The empty crisp packets are still on the sofa because I was drunk again last night and needed the food to replenish my energy after masturbating into the dishcloth whilst watching the ten minute freeview with the sound off...I could go on, but we all have things we hate about eachother - we should learn to accept them...

Children need beating. Not to within an inch of their lives, but more to break their spirit early as you would with, say, a puppy. Make them manageable and to let them know who's in charge. My children don't swear, answer back, steal from shops, have to be called to the headmasters office, throw things, insult people, abuse others, break things or anything else that Daily Mail readers are regularly up in arms about. There is a healthy respect in the family and it isn't because they got a therapy session and a cuddle when they fucked something up.

Profoundly deaf people - please, if you go to the toilet for a dump and there are hearing people nearby, bear in mind that just because you can't hear the straining noises that you are making, it does not mean you are not making them. I wouldn't wave my hands over the cubicle door at you if I went for one.

Blue badge holders - Okay, so you're disabled and need assistance - that's absolutely fine. Is it really acceptable, though, to park on the corner of junctions, in bus stops, on blind bends or on the pavement? Does common sense not prevail amongst you all? For our foreign friends (if I have any left after this) the blue badge scheme gives certain disabled people the right to park in areas otherwise deemed illegal or unsuitable. This is fine if, say, the car is parked in a no-parking area, but on a pedestrian crossing? Some people use the badges when there is no-one in the car that is disabled, simply to get a better parking space. Why? It's people like you that are giving disabled people a bad name.

Gays are ace. There isn't a single section of the community that has given birth to so many nicknames, insults or identities and that should be recognised! So, well done to all you queers, bumboys, shirt lifters, turd burglars, friends of dorothy, those good with colours, faggots, homos, dykes, carpet munchers, cock suckers, puffs, pouffs, poofs, oscar wildes, mincers, fairies and poo-pushers. We love you all.

Is anybody still reading this, or has a copy of this been sent to some Government department and I'm about to get my back doors kicked in...?

Alright I've stopped.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 18:11, 13 replies)
Can't think of a story so have a PC song instead
My parent or legal guardian is a domestic refuse technician,
He or She wears a domestic refuse technicians hat*

He or She wears domestic refuse technician's legwear*
And lives in a Local Authority subsidised tenancy*
**


*References to headwear do not discriminate against those with no head or those with multiple heads, conjoined twins will still be considered for this role.

*Legwear is used to denote protective clothing to the lower body, however it does not imply that applicants for the role require use of legs or indeed possess a lower body.

*Tenancy includes Local Authority housing, affordable housing and Housing association owned properties - Private property owners are not excluded from this role.

**French people or men with rats tail mullet hairstyles need not apply.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 13:33, 8 replies)
Raspberry Rippled
Our office - spurred on by a huge-bosomed middle-aged woman used to collect huge wads of money for a well-known handicapped kids' charity.

For a bit of a laugh, the more cynical amongst us invented a decidedly un-PC name for our little group based on the common term of cockney rhyming slang for the youngsters we were helping.

This was all well and good as a bit of a private joke between us, right up to the moment that our chief executive told us he was so impressed with the twelve hundred quid we had raised that he had arranged a grand presentation in front of the local press, TV and a sprinkling of second division footballers.

"What's the name of your club?" asked the girl with the microphone of our silver-haired organiser.

"We're the Raspberry Ripples" she boomed, beaming with pride.

Sadly, the ground completely failed to open and swallow us up, and we were caught - literally in full glare of the spotlight - as the heartless, uncaring cruel bastards that we were.

Only the second division footballer laughed.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 13:21, 3 replies)
Jack and Jill
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after.

Both subsequently died in the ambulance and their Regional Primary Care Trust set up an enquiry, chaired by Simple Simon, which came to the following conclusions:

1. The 50-mile journey to the nearest casualty department was in the couple's "best interests".

2. The fact that there was no local bed in which Jack could mend his head was "unfortunate" but no targets had been breached and he had been offered an "appropriate" choice.

3. The lack of vinegar and brown paper was not "material" to Jack's death as Government's (England only) quango, the National Institute for Clinical Excellence ("NICE"), [otherwise known as Drug-rationing In England ("DIE")] had not yet decided whether such treatment was cheap enough to be used in England (although it is freely available on the Scottish and Welsh National Health Services). In any case both the "brown paper" nurse and the "vinegar" nurse were away on diversity awareness courses and so were rightly unavailable.

4. Doctor Foster, Jack and Jill's GP, was most to blame and should be suspended and referred forthwith to the General Medical Council as he had:

a. Not reported Jack and Jill's lackof water to Social Services;

b. Failed to diagnose that anyone going UP the hill to fetch a pail of water must have "severe learning difficulties".

c. Had not involved the "Falls" Coordinator which resulted in no "Risk Assessment" being done for the risk of Jill tumbling after Jack.Dr Foster'sGMC disciplinary hearing has been convenedin Gloucester; he is setting off for it now and hoping for fine weather!
(, Wed 28 Nov 2007, 17:12, 5 replies)
Anyone remember that 70s TV show?
It was called "There's a Jew in my Shower!" In fact, I have it here and I'll copy the episodes verbatim from the VHS video box:

1) Holy Spear-Chucker - Reg comes home from the pub to find that a negro has moved into the ground floor flat. The dark-hued one is a Zambian bushman called Bonga-Bonga who has come to work at the local bank. He carries a spear everywhere, wears a grass skirt and has a bone through his nose. Hilarity ensues when Bonga-Bonga mistakes Reg's gift of a plane ticket back home as an invitation to have coitus with Reg's teenage daughter Sharon.

2) Not in My Backyard - Reg returns from the betting shop to discover that a gypsy encampment has been set up in his back garden. The smelly travellers have brought horses with them and they've shat all over Reg's prize tomatoes. Watch the craziness unroll as Reg sandbags his house and buys a high-powered rifle to pick them off one by one at night with a night-vision scope and dum-dum bullets.

3) Achtung Mein Fuhrer - Reg goes to the chiropodist, only to learn that Dr Heimsheim is of the Jewish persuasion. Cue a number of humorous situations as Reg struggles to eat a kosher chip butty, avoid a circumcision, sing "If I was a rich man" - and put his foot in it with inadvertent references to gas chambers and lampshades. Contains the famous scene where Reg loses his toe.

4) Chink Wop Nigger Paki - Reg is invited to the United Nations to speak on behalf of his working men's club in Rotherham. There, he discovers that the place has been overrun with foreigners of different colours, none of whom can speak English properly. Laugh yourself nauseous as Reg lets loose with a torrent of Tourette's-style racism and goes on a murder spree with a 12-bore shotgun until local police sedate him with a horse dart.

6) Reg's Ripped Arse - Reg finds himself in a Turkish prison, where he is befriended by a series of non-English men who use his arse in a homosexual fashion until poor Reg can't walk anymore. Then he's treated by Gupta, the Indian medic who mistakes Reg's gargles of pain for laughter and who therefore doesn't give him any painkillers. By mistake, his arse is sewn up and he has to shit through his ear.

7) Buried Alive - Owing to a mix-up at the cemetery, Reg finds himself in a coffin full of African bees. Laugh yourself epileptic as he is buried alive by a group of offended ethnic folk who urinate on his grave as they burn his house and do native dances. Reg's daughter Sharon gives birth to a brown baby and invites Bonga-Bonga's 234-strong extended family to live in Rotherham.
(, Fri 23 Nov 2007, 16:22, 9 replies)
Monkey
For some reason me and my wife starting calling each other monkey.

I'm a big black guy. She's a petite white Russian girl.

Nothing racial in it, and it wasn't until I mentioned to her once that she probably shouldn't use it in public, and she asked why that I told her it's a racist term.

In the pub, she's forgotten, and says, "My little monkey, can you get me a drink?"

Silly eavesdropping middle-aged yank woman at the table next to us, decides to intervene.

"You shouldn't use that language against that poor man. Just because he is not white, you can't call him a monkey and make him get you drinks!"

My wife, who speaks perfect english (since she's lived in Australia since she was 17, before we got to London), turned up the Russian accents and responded back "I'm sorry, what do you call your niggers here?"

The woman stammered, thought for a second, then said, "We call them African-English".

WTF? If I couldn't stop cracking up at the bar, I would have told her off for that, but it was too funny.
(, Wed 28 Nov 2007, 0:29, 6 replies)
A PC nativity play (almost)
There was a star burning brightly over the cottage as the three monarchs approached. Contrary to myth, they were a Sikh man, a agnostic woman, and a transexual. The latter was in a wheelchair. And black. They were not particularly wise, but of average intelligence - apart from the woman, who was dyslexic. She'd been made a monarch as part of an affirmative action vote.

They approached the cottage and knocked on the door, which was answered by Joseph - a Jew. Mary, his wife, was a Muslim and they were living together in perfect harmony and religious tolerance. Their child, Jeremy, had just been born and was hailed as a generic deific being relevant to all faiths (and to atheists).

"We have brought gifts," said the Sikh monarch. "I have brought a vegan ready meal without wheat or nuts. It's kosher, halal and blessed."

"I have brought a non-violent inspirational toy made of recycled hessian and not treated with any toxic chemicals. It was made by a worker's collective in Benin," said the dyslexic one.

"I have brought a DVD for the child," said the wheelcair-bound black transsexual monarch. "It is a message of hope certified by all religions and philosophies as non-offensive and without any distress. It has a soundtrack by Richard Clayderman."

At that moment, the infant emerged from his crib and stared with amazement at the tat the monarchs had brought him. And, mere babe that he was, he was not impressed. "Fuck that hippy shit!" he said.

He dashed them all to the ground, cracked open a bottle of Newcastle Brown on the edge of the crib, lit up an unfiltered Marlboro and extracted a tatty copy of Club International as the others went into apoplexies of outrage.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 21:10, 3 replies)
Thrown out of McDonald's...
Dear friends, please attend while I regale thee with the most amusing story of how I, one Devil In Tights, managed to be forcibly ejected and subsequently banned from that finest purveyor of cooked meat produce – McDonald’s.

‘Twas a balmy summer’s day in 2002. I was on my way to work (ironically in one of Wakefield’s finer eateries), and as it was due to be a long shift and my employers were notoriously bad for letting their staff grab a quick bite mid-shift, I decided to take my life in to my own hands and eat a Maccy D’s.

So, I entered the restaurant (ha, that’s a laugh in itself), and stood patiently queuing while the burger slaves did their customer’s bidding. Just as I was about to order my food, I was quite literally shoved from my position in the queue by the carer of a woman who was in a wheelchair.

Now, I’m a fairly English kind of guy, and I very rarely speak up, but this really narked me off. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to be polite as possible “but where I come from we queue and wait our turn like civilised people.”

The carer turned to me. I watched as her face turned purple. I would swear on whatever holy book you choose that steam was coming out of her ears. The woman was incandescent with rage.

“She… is… Disabled!” she sputtered, putting all of her anger and poison in to the last word of the sentence, “And as such, she deserves to be served ahead of those of us who still have the use of our legs!”

Well, of course. How stupid of me. I now had to come up with a response that would show how completely and unequivocally sorry that I was that I had committed this gross faux pas. How remorseful I was that it was all my fault that the poor woman in the wheelchair (who, incidentally, looked about the most embarrassed I have ever seen anyone look) was unable to walk, and how of course she has a constitutional right to priority service in a fast food outlet.

“I don’t give a fuck if she’s the Queen,” I said “she has to queue like everyone else.” (Subtle, see?)

People literally died on the spot. People reading the Daily Mail and the Guardian vomited on their shoes. Children started crying. The clouds did render themselves asunder, and God himself reached down from above and smote me from this Earth. Or at least that’s what it felt like. In actuality I got thrown out by the Manager of McDonald’s for behaving in an ‘inappropriate and threatening manner to someone who was unable to defend themselves’; whereas it struck me it wasn’t the person in the wheelchair who needed defending.

OK, so maybe not political correctness gone mad, but certainly a story about how political correctness saved me three quid!
(, Wed 28 Nov 2007, 11:31, 6 replies)
spaz
Once in a supermarket, the young guy on the checkout had what I assume was a form of motor neurone disease. He asked how I was, we made smalltalk, he was steadily keying stuff into the till, and even helped me pack. Although he had trouble opening a couple of carrier bags.

I paid, and he looked at me sheepishly as he took several attempts to fish the correct change from the till. I grinned and said "you take your time mate".

However, the woman behind me was huffing and puffing and getting impatient, and started taking stuff off the belt and put it back in her basket to go to another checkout.

I tutted, and he called over to her in an exaggerated accent "Is it 'cos I'm a spaz?"

I laughed so hard, my knees buckled and I had to put my shopping down.
(, Sun 25 Nov 2007, 12:54, Reply)
Married to the Anti-Christ
my evil wife (who's black) has a habit of pissing people off in public by deliberately behaving very un-PC - her "sense of humour" includes asking me, when we're in a crowded public space together, favourite lines such as;

"did you just call me a n*gger?"

(one day I hope to travel on a bus in Brixton with her just for the shear adrenaline rush )
(, Fri 23 Nov 2007, 13:41, 7 replies)
I heard the news today, oh boy...
So I‘m now as clued up as I can be on the PC issues of the world…from a BBC perspective anyway (In other words…not very much at all.)

However I also heard the report regarding how it kicked off with the Teddy bear called ‘Mohammed’.

Then I remembered…

One time (not at band camp), I owned a couple of tropical fish – basically because I’m way too lazy and irresponsible to have any kind of ‘proper’ pet. In fact, as it goes, I was even too lazy and irresponsible for fish, but I digress.

Now these fish were big fucking black-with-a-bit-of-gold bulgy eyed bastards (and this isn’t going to go the way you think it is). I’m not quite sure what breed of fish they were but I think it sounded something like ‘Michael Schumacher’. Anyhoo, I bought a lovely tank (that I couldn’t be arsed to clean), those god awful fluorescent pebbles, little castle, the whole shebang. I loved ‘em.

Unfortunately, as no small amount of you have discovered, I am what can be described in non-PC circles as a ‘proper twat’, so I decided to give them names. I called one of them ‘The Intense Humming of Evil’ and the other one ‘Pope John Paul II’ (told you it wasn’t what you thought).

They seemed relatively happy…but not for very long and they started to look a bit ‘limp’. I looked into it and was informed that their tank would require heating. No probs, off I pop to the pet shop and buy one of those long, glass tube efforts that you plug in and stick to the side of the tank. Sorted

The problem was that I didn’t suss that these heaters were controllable…and it was stuck on full, heat-of-the-sun-mega-bastard degrees. I put it in their tank one evening at feeding time, switched it on, gave the buggers a smile, a wink and said ‘You’ll be fine now boys’. Thinking I was up for the ‘fish owner of the year’ award, I went to bed…and the next morning, I went to work…

When I arrived home and went into my lounge…it was rather ‘humid’. I leaned over the tank and lifted the lid, whereupon a huge cloud of steam escaped.

‘Oh scrotes, I’ve boiled the fish!’

Indeed I had…. ‘Evil’ had well and truly ‘bought the farm’. A lifeless (and I think slightly shrunken) globule of goo.

But here’s your Christmas (please feel free to insert your religion here) miracle folks….

‘Pope’ SURVIVED! After a bit of a twitch, he sprang into life and made a full recovery.

This was truly impossible – and a triumph of good over evil. (Crap pun I know, but even that isn’t where this is going).

I decided that because of this, and his relative ‘second coming’, the name ‘Pope John Paul II’ just didn’t do the fella justice. So I decided to rename him…‘promote’ him if you will…and there was pretty much only one way to go…

I called him Jesus Christ.

Now, after realising what I have done, and bearing in mind the Teddy bear ‘Mohammed’ incident, I have decided to ‘own up’ to you all. I consider myself pretty lucky to have gotten away with it for so long to be honest.

So here I am now, sat on my front room floor…with Jesus the fish…hugging my knees, waiting for the Christians with flaming torches and pitchforks to come and tear me a new arse.

There’s been no sign yet…but surely it’s just a matter of time
(, Tue 27 Nov 2007, 9:56, 4 replies)
Americans in Yorkshire
Being a Yorkshireman now married and living in luverly New York, it occasionally fall to me to bring Mrs Evilbert and her Newyorkie relatives to visit the wondrous isle of my birth and upbringing. Naturally, there are some cultural differences (yorkshiremen are now referred to as "british rednecks by wifey's family) but a grand old time is usually had by all.

On one of our trips, my very PC mother-in-law stopped dead in the street in York with a confused and rather angry look on her face. "What the hell is that about?!?!" she demanded, pointing at the sign:



"Yes, mum, we still have slavery here. We've not moved on much from the middle ages, ya know?"

"what?!?!? you're not serious are you?!?"

"mum! calm down! It's an estate agents called "Blacks"!!

Bloody Americans..
(, Sun 25 Nov 2007, 23:11, 3 replies)
How I suggested to my black students that they should be the slaves of the white students
About a year ago, I was giving a lecture on utilitarianism. Utilitarianism is, in a nutshell, the idea that an action is right to the extent that it is good, and that one ought to seek to maximise the general level of welfare in the world. It's fairly commonsense, but there is a couple of objections to the theory, one of which is that nothing is ruled out as just plain wrong as long as the welfare calculations stack up the right way. And this strikes many people - me included - as a flaw with the theory.

I have a couple of good thought experiments to demonstrate the flaw, and was really hitting my stride in this particular lecture. "So," I said, "let's imagine that you guys" - I waved vaguely to the four students sitting on my left - "are to be the slaves of the rest of us" - waving vaguely at the 12 or so students sitting in front or to my right. "There are certain conditions. Slave owners must treat their slaves well, give them occasional days off, not work them too hard, and so on. So although the slaves' lives will be worse than they are now, they won't be intolerable: they'll still be worth living. And because the slave owners get a slave on a rota basis, their lives will be a bit better. And because there's more owners than slaves, that welfare will be multiplied through. Overall, the world will be a slightly better place. So utilitarianism tells us that we ought to make these guys our slaves."

I was really going for it. I was on a roll. But only as I had uttered these words did I notice that the students on my left - the slaves - all happended to be non-white. And, with one exception, all the slave owners were white.

The lecture was being filmed to be put online for future use. I have since watched the film. I think that the faux pas would have gone unnoticed had I not flinched so visibly when I realised what I'd done.

And that is how I suggested to my black students that they should be the slaves of the white students.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 13:31, 2 replies)
OFFICIAL STATEMENT

It has been decided that the name for the ‘English’ days of the week have been based on outdated Anglo-Saxon deities for too long. As a result of this, they no longer properly express the cultural, religious and lifestyle choices of it’s country persons. In order to remedy this, the following government proposal has been put forward:

Monday will be a day to celebrate the achievements of the 'intellectually impaired' and their contribution to society, whilst serving as a reminder for us all to treat them as equals. From now on, Monday will be known as ‘Mong’-day

Tuesday will be changed to accommodate all religions, ancient and modern, in a day of holy union. To highlight freedom of choice, the name of the day itself can differ between cultures. For example, Semites can change Tuesday to ‘Jews’-day, Indians can change Tuesday to ‘Hindu’s-day’. Young ladies who worship at the ‘Church of retail therapy’ can change Tuesday to ‘Buying-New-Shoes-day’.

Wednesday will be a day to embrace homosexual preferences of all kinds and will henceforth be known as ‘Benders’-day…we are currently in discussion regarding changing the ‘day’ part of the new name to ‘gay’, making Benders-gay, to fully accentuate the statement. All men will make a special effort on this day to dress well, listen to show-tunes and be better with colours.

Thursday is a day to raise awareness to sexual equality and express it’s relevance in employment and social integration. Dedicating a day to women is the least our previously sexism-rife, male-dominated society can do considering the centuries of downtrodden abuse the ladies have so bravely endured. The day will be devoted to things like scented candles, shopping, and comfortable pants – From now on, Thursday is ‘Hers’-day

Friday will celebrate the cultural diversity that ranges through our collective culinary experiences. From now on, Friday will be know as ‘Fried-rice’-day

Saturday will be a time of a nationwide reflection on race and colour – we remember how our society has been enriched by cultural influences. On this day we will put on our finest ‘bling’, get ‘jiggy’, and ‘bust some moves’ – Indeed, Saturday will now be ‘Blacker-day’

Finally, for Sunday we can all get together, shake hands, go out for a beer and decide PC is quite literally a load of bollocks.

Oh yes, that will be a ‘Fun’-day.
(, Tue 27 Nov 2007, 14:00, 5 replies)
I'm a Christian.
Apparently this offends people. Without even knowing me, people can hear that phrase about me and immediately decide I'm objectionable, yet for some reason this doesn't count in their heads as prejudice or discrimination.

Just mentioning that I'm one of yer actual born-again happy-clappy God-botherers, who goes to church on (some) Sundays and does that praying thing sometimes, is enough to set most people off.


Yes, some of my lot believe in 7-day creation a few thousand years ago*.

Yes, some of my lot don't believe in sex before marriage**.

Yes, some of my lot don't believe in sex with people the same sex***.

Yes, there are a lunatic few who get the placards out at Jerry Springer The Opera, abortion clinics, section 28, Harry Potter book launches (wtf?) and God knows where else you find a few militant fools.


But the point is, none of that matters. The clue's in the name. It's not about any of that lot. The thing that makes me (or any of my lot) a Christian is that Christ business. Believing that that Jesus bloke, that a bunch of historians wrote of about 200 years ago, was more than a "nice man" or a "good teacher" or a "troublemaker" or "political activist" or whatever who upset a few people and got nailed to a cross, how sad; believing that he actually meant what he said. The rest is all cultural.

It's not about trying to be nice or that ridiculously patronising phrase "christian values" - don't get me started on all that - if you're not going to acknowledge there was a bloke who professed to be the Christ behind it all, don't think that just trying to be nice to people is "christian" any more than it's "ghandian", "guevarian" or "Jimmy Saville-ian".

It's not about Christmas or Easter (particularly). Jesus wasn't born in the middle of winter, nor is it possible he got nailed to a cross on the first full moon after the vernal equinox. Most of my lot wouldn't care if you swapped them round, changed the dates or just combined the two and called them Santa's Winterval Excess of Rampant Consumerism.

But don't patronise me. If you haven't studied it, if you haven't thought a bit about it, don't assume you know more about it than me. Any more than I'd presume to say to a Muslim, "oh yeah, but that Muhammad bloke, right, he wasn't really all that, he lived in a cave and slept with his aunt, didn't he? I read that in the Ramadan Special in the Mail..."

I don't care what you say about my beliefs. Because they're my beliefs. I don't think you should care and I don't think I've got any right to be offended by what you think.

I don't think you should be forced to believe the same thing any more than I should be forced not to believe them. I've had a bit of a think about it, I still question everything, I like to debate it and I know what I believe. Don't lump me in with a whole load of people with no muscles in their arms who wear sandals, grow beards and ring bells. It's not about them and it's not about me. As I said, the clue's in the name.



Length? Might have ranted there a bit...



...and if you don't click on "I like this" it means you're a politically correct bigot. ;)


EDIT: forgot to add the stars, sorry -

* I'm not convinced either way. Both poles of the argument seem to rely on a bit of a leap of faith of some sort, and I don't think in the end it matters too much.

** Like I said, the rest is cultural. Look at a bunch of repressed twenty-somethings trying not to acknowledge that they have genitals or feelings about them and compare them with a bunch of twenty somethings sticking their genitals in or around anything that moves, and I reckon you'll find something silly about both of them. Said Jesus bloke didn't say "wait until you get married to have sex," so I didn't.

*** I don't think the accumulated cultural prejudices of generations of church-goers should have any influence here. For the record, I don't much fancy the cock. Some of my male friends do. Said Jesus bloke said nothing on the matter, and it certainly doesn't bother me. Or them.
(, Sat 24 Nov 2007, 9:24, 26 replies)
What's In A Word?
So there's me (gayer) and my uncle (non-gayer, over 60, love him to death) and we're sitting around having a few beers and catching up. The current talk of their upper class, semi-inbred, golfing, wine club, operatics soctiety clique is that a gay couple has joined. Lovely fellas apparently, one owns a garden centre dontcherknow. Anyway, my Uncle's telling his usual hilarious stories, I'm laughing like a loon and inevitably one of the gay couple crops up in the story and my Uncle tries to jog my memory of who he is, despite describing him to me only moments before as 'one of those homosexuals'. So he starts his sentence with "So, this Barry....he's....he's....." and then he stops dead.

His mouth hangs open and his eyes flit around the room as he suddenly remembers he's talking to one of their sort and has to come up with an acceptable term. The silence becomes embarrassing, he's been errrming now for a good 15 seconds, which doesn't sound much but drop it into the middle of a conversation and see how long it seems. I'm desperate to help him but don't want to embarrass him so I just wait it out, clenching my fists and willing him on. Eventually his eyes light up and he bursts into a grin. With the relief at finally grasping the word that was eluding him he says it with a little more force than either of us expected.





"BENT!" He screamed happily. "HE'S A BENDER!" And then he sat back for a moment and looked please with himself. When I burst out laughing and patted his arm in understanding the look of disappointment on his face only made me laugh harder.
(, Fri 23 Nov 2007, 12:05, 3 replies)
Working at a nursery once upon a time.
I encountered some odd rules. The strangest, and possibly most dangerous, was this one.

The sproglets are outside playing in the nursery garden, scampering about, having fun, under the watchful eye of myself and the trained carer. Myself, not being trained, was limited in what I could do. I couldn't change nappies, for instance, or ever be left alone with any of the children without a trained carer in the room. Sensible precautions, really, and not the strange rule this story is about.

The trained carer asked me to fetch something from inside, then stopped herself.

"No wait, I'll have to do it," she said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because the Muslim girl's inside on her own and you're a man. You can't be alone with her."

I gave my WTF face. "Huh? That doesn't make any sense. I'm gay!"

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Sorry."

She then went to fetch whatever it was, leaving me, the untrained young man alone with a garden full of toddlers.

I killed and ate six of them before she returned.
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 17:27, 3 replies)
Non-racial 'attack' ends in marriage and unemployment.
A few years ago my best friend (who I will call 'Donald', even though his name is Simon) got an office job in England after returning from a year in Japan. Upon starting work, he found that the next desk belonged to a cute Japanese girl named Naoko. He quite liked this girl, and after a few days of indecision, finally decided to try and impress her with a little bit of Japanese.

"Konichiwa," he said. "Hajimemashita, Donald des." This means: "Hello. Pleased to meet you. I'm Donald."

Naoko was clearly quite taken by this, and things looked good. That was until he was called to his manager's office later that day and summarily fired for a 'racial attack'. It seemed one of the other workers in the office had assumed he was taking the piss and made a formal complaint. As Donald was on his three month probationary evaluation period, he could be fired in this way with no negative effect on the company, and the company was not interested in the pitiful defense attempts of a racist.

Quite pissed off, Donald packed up his things and left, pausing to say goodbye (but NOT sayonara) to Naoko.

Eight months later they got married and are still together, all happy, the bastards. Donald also got a much better job almost immediately, for more pay and less work. I don't think anybody at that office ever mentioned this to Naoko, probably worried the same would happen to them.

Still, not a bad outcome to a 'racial attack', eh?

Apologies for my considerable length, and for the fact you've been staring at it for the last minute or so.
(, Fri 23 Nov 2007, 13:48, 2 replies)
Pollitically Correctness
The bane of my working life. This will be a long one as I'm going to fit in several instances at once. First, Don.

I've mentioned him before - my PFY at a large insurance company. Young, black and a thoroughly nice chap - even if he couldn't handle his drink. (Look up Don the Pigsticker story.)

So this one day, we're in the canteen when my pager went off. A server had gone tits-up in another site across town. No biggy as we running clusters but needed a kick.

"Don - can you go across town and reboot LD02" I said.

"Why me? Is it 'cos I is black?" says Don, hamming up a black accent.

"Yes it's 'cos you is black - now move your arse" and off he toddled.


20 minutes later security arrives at my desk and asks me to clear my desk. Someone had overheard our exchange downstairs and had reported me to the HR Harpies and they'd let loose the attack dogs.

So, as I'm packing my stuff, Don arrives and asks what’s going on.

"Been sacked mate. For calling you black. Racist apparently"

Don went mental.

"Don't move. Don't you fucking move until I get back" and he went haring off into HR. Once there he went apeshit with HR insisting that he was the one who would decide if someone had been racist towards him not some busybody in the fucking canteen. Result, an apology from HR and forget about firing me.

Episode 2 was the time I was dragged in front of HR for saying that someone, an admin girl, had the technical ability of a biscuit. She did. She couldn't even use e-mail but wanted a job with my team as a sys-admin. As she was an admin assistant, she thought that she had the skills. Me saying she had the technical ability of a biscuit was, apparently, racist.

Episode 3 was my fault. I was drunk. After a long evening drinking in the company bar on the top floor of the building, I defaced all the posters I could find. They used to say:

ARE YOU BEING SEXUALLY HARRASSED AT WORK. IF SO, CALL xxxxxxxxxx

They now read:

ARE YOU BEING SEXUALLY HARRASED AT WORK, IF NOT, WHY NOT - YOU UGLY?

Cheers
(, Fri 23 Nov 2007, 1:40, 1 reply)
Our House...
Apparently Suggs has rewritten all his songs to remove any ethnic/gender/ability reference.

It's Madness gone politically correct I tell you!
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 15:15, 2 replies)
I have recently been subject to a suspension over allegations of 'racial conduct'
I worked with the woman for a month and a half after the alleged incident, no problems between us, nothing mentioned, then for another month after the allegation was made, frosty attitude but still no mention of a problem from her (and I decided it was best not to bring it up at work and muddy the investigation with more accusations against me).
Then out of the blue I was yanked into the office at 7am rather than going for my shift and told that the incident was now 'officially' being investigated and because racist conduct is gross misconduct I was automatically suspended until it was resolved.
I was out of the workplace officially to protect me, but in reality it's basically keeping me away from the other person so they don't have to deal with any grief from me and so I can't gossip (I was also banned from talking to any of my colleagues whilst suspended, a fair few of which are friends!)...which is a little odd given the two and a half months I've already worked with her since the incident, and the fact that I've never uttered a peep about the goings on because I was trying to be fair, yet all the gossip I was hearing filtering back from her. Still, rules are rules and that's how it was done.

In the end I was off for over 7 weeks whilst people were interviewed, I was grilled, more people were interviewed, I was all but called a liar because I'd said that I got on with the woman fine as far as I knew and she obviously had disagreed, reports were sent off, reports were sent back and I was asked to 'clarify' stuff I'd already answered twice...and all about events that were about 3 months in the past and hadn't struck me as particularly memorable even at the time!

Eventually I was cleared and told I could return to work because they had found absolutely no evidence that I had acted in a racist manner, but it was still presented to me as if it was all a learning curve so I could learn from my mistakes.

What did I do? I didn't buy her a drink at a party. When she had purposefully sat herself away from the group and out of line of sight. Oh, and she's African.
No. Seriously. I realise you're going to be assuming there must be more to it than that, but there wasn't, she said that the only person who didn't get a drink was African.

It's now been about two and a half months since I've been back at work and she's still never mentioned it to me. I was promised a meeting with her to sort it out, and in the mean time I decided to just be professional and be polite when I had to be around her, but I recently found out that the company now sees the issue as resolved, and my manager has no intention of getting us to meet in the forseeable future as 'it would be too emotive'. He knows that she gets defensive and shouts lots, and it's a fair point because that's not very productive...but where are the warning signs there?
I got suspended for 7 weeks, suffered with uncertainty emotionally and for my career, was cleared but recieved no(and apparently aren't entitled to an)apology, all because this woman never communicates her problems until it's at bursting stage at which point she over reacts and no-one can deal with her...yet she's never been asked to deal with that or the fact that everytime she's angry at someone outside her clique the racism card gets thrown (this is just the first time it's been taken to disciplinary).

Racism is a fucking sick thing, and I'd be (and often are) the first to point it out as unacceptable, but it's also a political buzzword at the minute.
I suffer racism every day at work but because I'm white it's acceptable. I do my job and refuse to treat anyone differently, I think positive discrimination can be just as harmful, and for my troubles I now face the daily fear that it's only a matter of time before that kind of wild accusation gets held up and I can never work in the care industry again.

It's madness, and I'm not going to be there much longer :)

/take it all
(, Thu 22 Nov 2007, 13:46, 10 replies)
Augusta Country Club, Georgia
The home of the Masters competition (golf) over here. They dont allow female members. So a bunch of women folk decide that its time to protest and during the craziness of the Masters tournament, these women all truck down to Georgia and make the pilgrimage to the US golf mecca to protest Hootie (no, not the guy from the Blowfish) the President of the club and his refusal to allow women members.

Cue this guy: Quite possibly one of the bravest men alive. You asked "Who is da man?" Well, my vote goes to this crazy bastard:



Now thats what I call Political Correctness Corrected. :) Sorry ladies, I am just kidding...kind of. :P
(, Tue 27 Nov 2007, 22:24, 9 replies)
I have just been sent the following e-mail
which I've copied and pasted below. Probably an urban legend but it's still funny because of its un-PC-ness.

Standard length-based disclaimer applies. Here goes:



A Sarcastic Email Sent To Police To Complain About Young Yobs Has Become A Massive Hit On The Internet. But Now Its Author Fears That Its Success Could Put Him And His Family At Risk

THE EMAIL was never meant to be seen in public.

But its outpouring of frustration to police has struck a chord with thousands after it fell into the hands of someone who posted it on the internet.

The letter, which refers to local youths in Leith, Edinburgh, as "walking abortions" and "failed medical experiments", has proved a sensation.

But the partner of the note's author now says they fear they may be identified and the targets of his sarcasm may take revenge.

The email is understood to have been sent to Lothian and Borders Police HQ by the man after he tried unsuccessfully to report the youths in his street over the phone.

Police responded within 24 hours with an email from the local community beat officer offering to meet the resident.

However this brought another sarcastic note criticising the 16-hour delay.

The second note again refers to local youths in derogatory terms and accuses police of being concerned with "far more serious crimes such as smoking in a public place or being Muslim without due care and attention".

Yesterday the partner of the author said he was shocked to discover the correspondence had become public entertainment.

The woman said: "We never sent it to anyone but the station so the leak has come from the police.

"These are local kids and we are worried they will identify us."

Lothian and Borders Police refused to comment on the source of the leak, saying the author had not complained to them about it.

A spokesman said: "A complaint regarding youths playing football in a street in north Leith was received.

"The community beat officer has met with the resident and outlined the police response to this issue."

1.. THE COMPLAINT

Dear Sir/madam/ automated telephone answering service

Having spent the past twenty minutes waiting for someone at Leith police station to pick up a telephone I have decided to abandon the idea and try emailing you instead. Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this on to your colleagues in Leith by means of smoke signal, carrier pigeon or ouija board.

As I'm writing this e-mail there are eleven failed medical experiments (I think you call them youths) in West Cromwell Street which is just off Commercial Street in Leith. Six of them seem happy enough to play a game which involves kicking a football against an iron gate with the force of a meteorite. This causes an earth shattering CLANG! which rings throughout the entire building. This game is now in its third week and as I am unsure how the scoring sytem works, I have no idea if it will end any time soon.

The remaining five walking abortions are happily rummaging through several bags of rubbish and items of furniture that someone has so thoughtfully dumped beside the wheelie bins.

One of them has found a saw and is setting about a discarded chair like a beaver on speed. I fear that it's only a matter of time before they turn their limited attention to the bottle of calor gas between the two bins.

If they could be relied on to only blow their own arms and legs off then I would happily leave them to it. I would even go so far as to lend them the matches. Unfortunately they are far more likely to blow up half the street with them and I've just finished decorating the kitchen.

What I suggest is this. After replying to this email with worthless assurances that the matter is being looked into and will be dealt with, why not leave it until the one night of the year (probably bath night) when there are no mutants around then drive up the street in a panda car before doing a three-point turn and disappearing again. This will of course serve no other purpose than to remind us what policemen actually look like.

I trust that when I take a clawhammer to the skull of one of these throwbacks you'll do me the same courtesy of giving me a four-month head start before coming to arrest me.

I remain sir, your obedient servant, Mr X

2.. THE REPLY

Dear Mr X,

I have read your email and understand your frustration at the problems caused by youth playing in the area and the problems you encountered in trying to contact the police.

As the Community Beat Officer for your street I would like to extend an offer of discussing the matter fully with you.

Should you wish to discuss the matter, please provide contact details (address/telephone number) and when may be suitable.

Regards, PC Y Community Beat Officer

3.. THE REACTION

Dear PC Y

First of all I would like to thank you for the speedy response to my original email. 16 hours and 38 minutes must be a personal record for Leith Police station and rest assured that I will forward these details to Norris McWhirter for inclusion in his next book.

Secondly I was delighted to hear that our street has its own communitybeat officer. May I be the first to congratulate you on your covert skills. In the five or so years I have lived in West Cromwell Street, I have never seen you. Do you hide up a tree or have you gone deep undercover and infiltrated the gang itself?

Are you the one with the acne and the moustache on his forehead or the one with achin like a wash hand basin?

It's surely only a matter of time before you are headhunted by MI5. Whilst I realise that there may be far more serious crimes taking place in Leith such as smoking in a public place or being Muslim without due care and attention, is it too much to ask for a policeman to explain (using words of no more than two syllables at a time) to these t***s that they might want to play their strange football game elsewhere.

The pitch behind the Citadel or the one at DKs are both within spitting distance as is the bottom of the Albert Dock.

Should you wish to discuss these you should feel free to contact me. If after 25 minutes I have still failed to answer, I'll buy you a large one in the Compass Bar.

Regards Mr X

P.S If you think that this is sarcasm, think yourself lucky that you don't work for the cleansing department.
(, Tue 27 Nov 2007, 14:59, 7 replies)
Knee-Jerk
Not exactly about PC, more about prejudices.

I was heading up the stairs in Kings Cross to catch my train. Just ahead of me were 4 black guys, in hoodies, chattering away to themselves. At the top of the stairs was a woman from East Europe who had a baby in her arms, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and she was shoving this in the faces commuters obviously begging for money. It used to be a fairly common sight in London.

As the black guys cleared the top of the stairs, the woman shoved the baby into their faces and..... A black guy snatched it from her, threw it into the air and then wellied it so it spun across the floor.

I was shocked - for a split second I couldn't breath and then the red mist descended and I charged up the stairs ready to do battle. Those bastards! And they were fucking laughing! (the central scrutiniser part of my brain was going "oh shit - we're gonna die"). Then, just as I was about to launch my suicidal attack I noticed something odd. The baby's head had come off when the guy kicked it.

And then the penny dropped. It was a fucking doll. It was a bloody scam. And the black guys had spotted this and I hadn't.

It's odd how the prejudices that I claim not have can take over the higher brain functions. A part of me didn't even question what I thought I saw. A bunch of black thugs attacking a defenceless woman with a baby.

So I went to the bar and drank whiskey until I stopped shaking. Adrenaline does that to me.

Cheers
(, Sat 24 Nov 2007, 3:46, 7 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, ... 1