The other day I was hanging out at The Citadel (Piers says I should just call it HQ like everyone else, but I don’t think that has enough gravitas), when Seamus came in looking like Simon had stolen his last krispy kreme.
I asked him what was wrong and it turned out that the old coronavirus hoohah has meant that we’ve been called out even less than usual, and lets face it – once you remove all the stand-downs, wrong numbers, self deployments and fictional searches that’s a pretty low number to start off with.
“But didn’t you tweet that we were busier than the whole of the rest of the UK added together the other day?” I asked.
“I lied, you fool!” He replied, somewhat brusquely. “I only do that to get people to donate money for the New SUV / New Court Case funds. You know as well as I do, we go out about as often as the Olympic blinking Flame.”
“Oh,” I said “That is a shame. I feel like a run out in The Interceptor, like when we used to do those crazy convoys down the M3..” I caressed my soft leather slingback driving gloves as I thought about it and let myself imagine the open road beneath our wheels, when..
“That’s it!” he cried “Sometimes it’s actually worth having you hang around here! Well, almost”. I just stared and tried to process what he meant. “What do you mean?” I just asked in the end.
“What I mean my not-very-nice-but-dim public schoolboy chum is this. We’ll round up the usual suspects – you, James, Tim, that dim ginger one who repeats what I say – all those guys – and we’ll have a road trip! Even better, we’ll say we have to do it to keep the vehicles in blue-light condition and try to screw some money out of the twitter morons!”
“So we’ll just drive around the M25 in a convoy for no reason, put it on social media and ask for money for it?” I asked.
“Got anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon?” he asked, knowing full well I didn’t. At least I’d be able to give The Interceptor a bit of a burn.
And the rest, as they say, is history….
