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The office of filth trading

Your credit record can tell us a lot about you

A pretentious cunt responds:

Friendly veneers to mask the
rampant fears: they could do to me
what they did before — disposed
and melted, face to floor.

Something stirs in the dark;
every time lurking and vanishing,
like the malevolent spark of
the metallurgist’s prescient arch.

A farming frenzy best describes
my assimilation.

But that’s in my past now.

From here on in it’s a slow bow
to the neutrality of nil.


Sergeant Jerome Septum of the Metropolitan Police Force invites you into the psyche of the modern-day bobby

Relax. Everything is under control. We’ve got it covered. We can’t be everywhere at once, but we can video-tape everyone at once. Then actions can be assessed in the cold light of day; for any possible motive, cause and effect, the sort of chain of events that are so difficult to fathom when you’re out there amongst it and them. Sorry, you.

I honestly trust the judgement and ability of those in the force — who all left school at fifteen, and joined the police because the army is ‘too much fetching and carrying’ — to establish the perpetrators and victims in an incident that we cannot hear, smell or feel. I really do trust these people with your liberty.

Prejudicial attitudes toward the police help no one. You should be grateful we don’t steam into those of you who parade the wacky-baccy in front of us every six months or so. It would be too easy. Otherwise, Chief Inspectors would be prompting minions to conduct implicit acts of short-term encouragement among pot-heads, so that we could create a truly visually effective spectacle for the ministers in the home counties.

And before you ask, lisping uber-chef-lad can refer to the munchies under the gaze of the Cuban flag because he’s endorsing Sainsbury’s. OK? Oh, you weren’t even thinking of him. Still, the point remains, get the codified balance right and you’re doing our job for us. Create the impression of rebellion whilst promoting corporate assimilation. Branding is the step-child of iconography and it won’t let you forget it. Big Brother blood is on all your hands and any attempt to intervene will leave fingerprints. OK? Even if you didn’t watch it, eventually you’ll be beguiled by the vicarious pleasure of watching us watching you, whatever you think of the minor celebrity doing the voice-over.

All this political correctness is ridiculous and irrelevant. The final truth is the camera, it cannot record what isn’t or wasn’t there. It never lies, whether you’re a bloke, a bird, a coon or a paki, or any of these new ethnic types flooding the country. All this argument stops us from doing our job — locking up enough people a week to keep the Chief happy. There’s nothing to be scared of if you’re law-abiding and watching television is your second job.

Well, my new friends, another shift approaches from yonder, er…, horizon? (fucking education. It’s only designed to make you look stupid). I’m looking forward to tonight’s installment. Friday’s are the best. You can really see how stupid people are and how much attention they need from doing potential harm to themselves and others. Trawling through their faces you can practically pick who should be arrested. You love your intoxicated escapism don’t you? Everybody’s a troublemaker once they get into a group. That’s what’s so good about CCTV, you can select your victims — ahem, arrest targets — with the minimum of physical fuss. Sometimes, I don’t want to go home: there are so many people to keep an eye on and I don’t trust the bloke who comes on after me.

I repeat: there’s nothing to be scared of. Just be careful. We can, at last, be everywhere at once, to record your every move you make outside your front door and replay it to you when you get indoors. Everybody’s committed a crime, or is going to, so my advice to you is to keep it indoors, for now.

Live in isolation or don’t ‘live’ at all. The risk to your personal safety is too great. All outdoor lives are criminal.

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