Tell the Police…

There are many hundreds of calls every twenty four hours, every one is investigated –  The Police don’t mind how many calls they get – Tell the Police.

See how it used to be ?

See how easy it was to get a policeman to come and investigate when two strangers knocked on your neighbours door and you thought they were away ?

See how easy it was for a well dressed middle-aged bank manager to steal an unlocked car, if it wasn’t for that window-shopping lady of course, darn her busy-body ways, he’d have got clean away if she hadn’t just seen this TV Advert the night before, “It was a blue car” she will have told the police, “and he seemed like such a nice man too” and a policeman on a motorcycle would have been dispatched immediately to stop every blue car being driven by nice men in the district until they caught the villian.

And yet somewhere there exists an England that is still like this, a small town where women do not sell their labour to businesses but stay home, tend to their houses and get their husbands tea ready for him when he comes home from his work at the bank – and catch the occasional car thief while window shopping in the High Street, a High Street without a McDonalds or a Primark but lots of little individual shops where she browses for a nice piece of fish for her husbands tea and maybe a cream trumpet if she’s got some change left in her purse.

Its called “Daily Mail Ville” and it exists just outside the perimeter of the M25 in the area still known quaintly as “The Home Counties”, an area where women know their place and only well dressed bank managers steal cars.

I’d like to live there too.


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