Right, this a story for my english coursework....is it ok, and is it funny in anyway recongisable way?
Gavin was a policeman. Just started. Been in the job all but an hour, and already he had a murder case on his hands. Was this rural policing? He hoped not.
This fine, cold morning, Gavin had dragged himself from the park bench that he was so partial to, and set off to find a job. His mother had always told him to “take inspiration from those around you, and people you know wellâ€Â. Well, he knew the local peelers well enough, the cells of Tinsley police station weren’t just a second home to him, but first, third and fourth homes too. Gavin was not a tramp however, far from it. He was a traveller. There’s a difference apparently.
Banished from the once mighty gypsy house of Sprat for declaring, rather publicly, his unconditional hatred of caravanning, in a curious incident involving a loudspeaker and a lot of Semtex, Gavin had found solace in the gambling houses of Laffan Jones, a small village in the Welsh mountains. Being a hopeless gambler, and an even more luckless drunk, as many people unfortunately named Gavin Sprat are, so he had found himself on many a Friday night urinating up the village hall, whereby he would once again discover himself in the warm, cosy four walls of Tinsley’s premier bed and breakfast. The food was certainly far better, and they even removed his door handle for you, to save you the trouble of doing it yourself.
Anyway, Gavin had decided, now was time to Take Charge of himself, or whatever that meant. And so, perfectly logically, he had become a copper. It’s not like the police force were picky any more in rural Wales, they took what came with thanks. Hence the rapid promotion of Lance Corporal Phyllis, a Jacob sheep.
He had rolled into the reception area of the stoned-walled building, so often his port of call on a weekend, minding his head on the low beam as he entered, straightened and nodded at the custody sergeant busying himself in the corner. He spoke softly, slightly abashedly to the civilian helper on the main desk, and, blushing, with his back hunched and eyes searching around in embarrassment, knelt down to fill in a large booklet of forms, stapled together with a stapler which he himself had bought the station last Christmas. On completion, he mooched, hands in jacket pockets, to a small door by the side, and emerged, half an hour later, with a tight navy blue uniform, blue peaked cap and flat shiny boots, with accompanying whistle connected to his wheezy chest by a silver chain, glinting in the single lamp bulb hanging dejectedly from the ceiling.
“Well, Constable Sprat, you do scrub up well, I always said you could.â€Â
There were stifled snorts of laughter from the charge room, which sharply turned to a flurry of rapid coughs, and much frantic scribbling, extinguishing the gentle hub of conversation previously emerging from the door.
“Shut it, you yellow-livered, do-gooding PCSOs, I don’t look as much of a prat as you lot do.â€Â
“Baa†agreed Phyllis.
*
And so Gavin had found himself wandering the streets of Laffan Jones with Phyllis, his superior, in charge of showing him the ropes, trotting along aimlessly behind. He received a fair few bemused stares on his first beat, which seemed to increase in both bemused-ness and regularity as the word got around.
Laffan Jones had employed the most useless piece of human sponge in the district, and they’d dressed him up as a nineteenth century Peeler. Whatever next, They said. They then looked down at the Lance Corporal trotting along beside him, and thought that the longer that question was left unanswered, the better.
It wasn’t that they had anything against sheep. It was Wales after all. However, it was the radio, handcuffs and CS spray knitted into her wool, steadily bouncing up and down like a pogo-stick on speed that spread a certain amount of doubt towards the competency of the local police force.
She did, on the other hand, have some advantages. Contrary to popular - if not Welsh - belief, sheep harbour the strongest smell of any animal with a brain so small. They were the sniffer-dogs of Snowdonia, but a bit more docile and vegetarian. It was this anciently-developed power that was employed just as Gavin was reaching his breaking point (with people suddenly swapping their broad Welsh accents for Cockney drawls and calls of “Alright Gov’ner!â€Â). The sheep ceased its - sorry, her - preamble, and, prior to giving Gavin a notable nudge in the knee, jogged as only a sheep can jog down the street, black furry nose to the pavement, with Gavin bringing up the rear, like a trainee road sweeper on his first day.
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