Closed Minds.

I loathe racism, sexism, any broad-based discrimination rooted in assumed generalisations. I judge people on who they are, not on some inappropriate and inaccurate reaction based entirely on race or gender.

It was, therefore, no surprise that I found extended exposure to police officers and the ingrained prejudices that characterise so many of their number to be a real eye-opener.

Starting on the first day in a new district. In the first five minutes. I’d been making a general enquiry about information I’d had from a man who had his own reasons for declining the opportunity to accompany me to the police station. He also happened to be a gypsy.

‘Bloody pikeys, more trouble than they’re worth,’ the station DI told me. ‘Can’t believe a word they tell you, either.’ He paused for a moment. ‘All this political correctness crap the bloody do-gooders chuck at us, not even allowed to say gyppo or pikey any more. Might upset their feelings. Bloody ridiculous.’

I wasn’t there to argue the finer points of discrimination, so said nothing. Closed minds, what would be the point?

‘Cant write pikey in a report these days, not even in our notebook. ‘Course there’s always the old shorthand, isn’t there?’ He gave me a conspiratorial wink. I wasn’t a copper, but I worked with them when arrests or serious back-up were required and he knew my track record from the police grapevine.

‘TIB, that’s what we have to put now when referring to pikeys. Thieving Itinerant Bastards.’

This was a, relatively, senior officer in a cosmopolitan area of Merseyside, a high crime area. His attitude was by no means unusual.

When I left I thought about the vagaries of police ‘shorthand,’ much of it being an inventive and fascinating distortion of the English language. Saying one thing, meaning another.

I was working in an area outside the environs of the city itself, not exactly the Outer Hebrides but even so all police officers in that area were termed ‘woolly backs’ by their inner-city brethren. Any further out and the officers were ‘carrot crunchers.’

I’d been told many times that my greater success when ‘undercover’ when related to a UC – Undercover Cop, was because I didn’t look ‘jobby’ – in other words I didn’t look even remotely like a copper. Fair comment.

While occasional drug use, for recreation purposes, was regarded as an ‘ice cream habit,’ but drug addicts, druggies, were ‘zoomers,’ while the mentally ill were invariably termed ‘window lickers.’

I particularly enjoyed the creative minds behind the terms used to describe fellow officers. Any female officer showing the slightest inclination towards sexual activity would be termed ‘the station bike’ or ‘relief bicycle,’ a civilian worker was a ‘strawberry mivvie’ and a ‘shiny arse’ was a deskbound colleague who ran the risk of excessive polishing of his trousers through prolonged exposure to the seated position or as the ‘station cat’ or ‘olympic flame’ – as in ‘never goes out.’

An officer with a poor arrest record would be a ‘Ghurka’ – because Ghurkas don’t take prisoners – a fellow officer regarded as a useless liability is termed a ‘uniform carrier’ or simply ‘FLUB’ – that’s Fat Lazy Useless bastard.

A car containing armed officers is a ‘gunship,’ perhaps en route to a house arrest requiring the assistance of ‘ghosties,’ those officers who specialise in breaking down doors, named after the film Ghostbusters.

I’ve met many policemen who I’ve greatly admired and respected, all ranks, all areas. Sadly, they’re widely derided in society as a whole, little regard given for the job they do and scarcely any for the protection they provide from the state of anarchy which come about without their efforts.

I’ve also met many police officers, uniformed or plain clothes, ‘suits,’ who were unfit for a job that requires constant interaction with the public at large. There’s a system in place that’s been the norm for many years. Outsiders are just that, outsiders. The only rule here is FIFO – Fit In or Fuck Off.