What Is This All About, You Nonce?


Good late afternoon/early evening, constituents, and if you’re a dog owner whose dog prefers to defecate in a little plastic bag, invariably black, that you tie in a cute bowed knot (like the one that kept Dick Whittington’s hanky attached to a brown stick on his way to becoming London Mayor, and designer of the world’s first rucksack), and then dump on the pavement like a tiny refuse sack full of wormy turd, for some imaginary dog shit fairy to haul over her shoulder and fly away home with, like a stinky and probably blind Tinkerbell, then read on. Because you’re in this candidate’s firing line.

So, remember the other morning, when I was at the Fauvist, Gauguin-esque, shrine that is Brighton’s Job Centre for the unemployed, well afterwards, with my new admin team assembled, I met for a copuccino! TM with Brighton crime writer and campaign supporter/sponsor (still awaiting cash) Peter James, while his police inspector-cum-chauffeur-driven, five-door-saloon, pimped and liveried Hyundai Getz waited with its limited engine revving outside.

What’s this all about then, you nonce? Peter shouted blowing some of his cocoa-powdered froth towards me, and leaving a little brown line on his top lip.

If you murdered someone, or dropped some litter, would the police let you get away with it? I asked. Seeing as you’ve got your own sponsored police car? I mean isn’t it at all weird, that the police drive a car around Brighton with your name on it, exactly like an advert, even though at any time you could kill someone or be arrested for paedophilia? How did you get away with it? I asked, as though he wasn’t there at all but I was writing the thoughts I’d always had when I’d seen the eponymous wagon being used to fight crime or just parked at random, highly populated locations for long periods around Brighton and Hove, much like a golf sign, or restaurant notice, or a billboard.

Leave it, said Peter. Just fucking leave it. I’ve sold 18 million books. Now what is this all about, you nonce?

He turned round and winked at the blonde-haired female inspector in his personalised cop kart who was applying some glittery pink lipstick beyond the confines of her lips. She stopped and wound the fleshy-looking tip down before dropping it in her little black handbag, which she clipped shut and threw somewhere behind her, past her sleeping Alsatian.

I took off my left brown Hush Puppy and pushed it towards Peter’s face, until he gagged.

I want to name and shame dog owners and their dogs across the city to stop this fucking mess from ever happening again. I need your help. I know about you and top Brighton drag queen Dave Lynn, I said, shooting in the dark.

OK, said Peter James through the black leather glove he had clasped over his coffee-stained mouths. I’ll do it, he submitted. What do you need?

And so as a result of our successful meeting, very soon, once Cathy sorts out the designs and paperwork, you will see many of Brighton’s police cars, and buses, emblazoned with pictures of dog owners and their dogs suspected of conspiracy to shit into small, black plastic bags tied and then left on the city’s pathways, grassy knolls and verges, for me and, others like me, to burst like mad surprise balloons at a Stephen King kids’ party.

It’s a pleasure to be your Peter James-sponsored candidate, funds depending.


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