I Wanna Be Christina’s Dog

Last night it rained so hard that my trousers were soaked. My huge, bombproof Gore-Tex Ruralshire Constabulary patrol jacket laughed at the rain, but nothing could stop the rebound off the tarmac. I was soaked from the boots upwards. We all know that feeling. Police trousers are heavyweight wool and they don’t like water.

I was out in Sunshine Park with two Constables who were struggling to control a group of five drunken blokes. Each bloke had a stupid, legless mouthy girlfriend. Sunshine Park is on the outskirts of Rural Town. Formally an industrial estate, it now contains the multiplex cinema, the polish owned national drive-thru takeaway franchises (good luck to them, they work hard) a huge bowling complex and a couple of theme pub restaurants.

The whole complex probably cost a good few million to build but there are no CCTV cameras. Nice.

Just as one fight ended, it kicked off again further down the row of buildings. The problem at Sunshine Park is the dance floor and late licence at the bowling complex. As I stood in the downpour holding on to ‘the male in the striped shirt with blood on his face’ I couldn’t hear my radio due to the immense noise of ‘gene in a bottle’ coming from the complex.

This person is about 19 years old and keeps calling me ‘geezer’ and asking for my opinion on the validity of his actions. He keeps shrugging his shoulders in his deep hoodie and moving around, imitating a prize fighter’s dance on the way to the ring.

I’m thinking about the front cover of a celebrity magazine I saw in the dentist’s waiting room. I can remember a small, white long haired terrier, a kind of fashion accessory in the arms of its owner. I’m thinking about the deep luxury carpet in front of a huge log fire in a mansion in Hollywood. I hear that music again and I wish I was Christina’s dog.