Ruralshire is a county in England, not too far from Metrocity. A house in one of the leafy villages that surround Ruraltown costs about the same as the Gross Domestic Product of a small country. We have some quaint local customs, like driving our children to expensive independent schools in huge all-terrain vehicles.
Ruralshire is quaint and attractive. Even the sheep walk in rows.
The human population of Ruralshire is divided into three distinct groups. First are the locals. I am from a local family. We spend most of our lives in a permanent state of surprise and slight nervousness about the brash and expensive habits of our new neighbours from Metrocity. Second are our new neighbours from Metrocity. They moved to Ruralshire to avoid being gunned down in the street. This has been a successful strategy. No one was gunned down in the streets in Ruralshire last year. Or any year. Except by the police.
A Ruralshire Constabulary patrol vehicle. It’s empty because we have run out of police officers – they are all in the police station filling out forms.
The third group are the local underclass. They live in the estates around Ruraltown.
They do things like text ‘death threats’ to each other, have lots of children by different and unknown fathers, binge drink huge amounts of alcohol get into violent disputes and then shout “I want him done innit” at police officers.
They have neither the brains or the cash to buy a gun or form a street-gang. Forming a street-gang might mean having to leave the plasma telly and x-box for a few hours, and they would never do that.
Ruralshire Constabulary is a fine old institution, now completely ruined by crazy, Orwellian instructions sent down from the Home Office. We spend most of our time training for ‘Diversity’, despite the fact that we have never had any problems. One day, a huge diverse population may descend upon us, if they have all become millionaires that is. If they do, we will be ready.
