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Wasting Police Time: The Crazy World of the War on Crime
 
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Wasting Police Time: The Crazy World of the War on Crime [Kindle Edition]

PC David Copperfield
4.2 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (226 customer reviews)

Print List Price: £8.99
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Product Description

Product Description

The No1 best-seller about law and order that the government lied about... Wasting Police Time is the hilarious and shocking truth about Britain's criminal justice system.

Ever wondered why you can't find a policeman when you want one?

PC David Copperfield has the answer: they're all inside the station, writing reports, photocopying, stapling and filing (when they're not getting caught up in the squabbles of Kaycee, Dwayne, her ex's ex, his sister's boyfriend's mum and that slag who sent them all a nasty message on Facebook).

Wasting Police Time is PC Copperfield's insider’s diary of life as a modern British bobby.

It's the first book to spill the beans about the way senior police officers waste our money while they fiddle the crime figures and scramble to meet bogus Home Office targets.

Copperfield is drily sarcastic and biting about his bosses, the criminals he deals with and the judges and politicians who have allowed our streets to collapse into chaos while they live in fortified houses and are driven around by armed police.

The book is so close to the mark that police minister Tony McNulty denounced it in the House of Commons as ‘more of a fiction than Dickens’ (and then had to admit he was wrong about this on the BBC’s Panorama).

'Graphic, entertaining and sobering' - The Observer
'A huge hit... will make you laugh out loud' - The Daily Mail
'Very revealing' - The Daily Telegraph
'One of the three political books of the moment' - Nick Cohen, The Observer
'Hilarious... should be compulsory reading for our political masters' - The Mail on Sunday
'Passionate, important, interesting and genuinely revealing... riveting' - The Sunday Times
'A sensation' - The Sun

From the Publisher

If you like the sound of WASTING POLICE TIME, check out 'IT'S YOUR TIME YOU'RE WASTING, a teacher's tales of classroom hell' by FRANK CHALK (published September 06 by Monday Books).

From the Author

WHAT do you think the police actually do? If you watch a lot of telly (as most of my ‘clients’ do), you probably think we spend all day roaring about in our souped-up cars, kicking down doors and shooting people. Or perhaps we’re all devilishly clever detectives unravelling murder mysteries while listening to classical music and swanning round in old Jags? I’ll let you in on a secret: it’s not actually quite that glamorous. Don’t get me wrong, I do like my job - especially the occasional moments where I get to chase after thieves and arrest them. I love nicking proper crims - after all, that’s why I joined. The problem is, I hardly ever get to do that. Instead, I spend most of my life filling in forms and responding to initiatives, and it really gets on my nerves. Before you ask, I am a real copper, at the sharp end, and this is a diary of my working life over the last year or so. Some of it (actually, most of it) isn’t all that dramatic (though I hope it will amuse you, all the same). That’s kind of the point: being a policeman in modern England is not like appearing in an episode of The Sweeney, Inspector Morse or even The Bill, sadly. No, it’s like standing banging your head against a wall, carrying a couple of hundredweight of paperwork on your shoulders, while the house around you burns to the ground. I hope this book will give you an idea of the depths of sheer incompetence our police are plumbing, and the downright scandalous ways in which your money is wasted while the crime books are cooked in ways that would make Nick Leeson proud. PC DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Today was a good day. It always is when I’m conducting house-to-house enquiries in the area of a crime.
There’d been a domestic burglary and, after nosing around and chatting with the victims, I knocked on next door. It opened to a reveal a man who goggled at me as though I were an alien. It’s funny, but the unannounced presence of a uniformed copper on your doorstep seems to do this to some people.
‘Hello there, sir,’ I said, all cheery-like. ‘There was a burglary next door and I wondered if you knew about it.’
‘I wasn’t here.’
‘When weren’t you here?’
‘When the burglary was.’
‘When was the burglary?’
‘I don’t know, but I wasn’t here, so I don’t know when the burglary was.’
‘Fair enough. What if I tell you when the burglary was, and you tell me where you were at that time?’
‘But I didn’t do it.’
‘I’m not saying you did, I’m just asking if you may have heard anything or seen anything suspicious.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘But how do you know if I haven’t told you when it happened?’
‘We’re always having problems with kids round here.’
I took a deep breath, looked around and bludgeoned him to death. I went inside, wrapped his body in Clingfilm and stored it in the bath. I’ll be returning every day to collect a piece of it, which I will place in the property store at the Police Station, knowing that, once booked in, it will never be noticed again.
The other problem I’m often faced with is that we all look the same in uniform.
I went back to Mrs Smith’s today; now there’s an armchair in the front garden, too.
‘Hello, Mrs Smith. I gather you’ve been having some nasty telephone calls?’
‘Have you found the people who smashed my Tracey’s window in yet?’
‘No.’
‘It’s been over a week now.’
‘Well, the wheels of justice do grind exceedin’ slow Mrs Smith.’
‘Eh?’
‘These things take time.’
‘Time?’
‘Hmm. Anyway, that’s not one of my cases, I’m afraid, I’m here about…’
‘It was you that went round there.’
‘Mrs Smith, it really wasn’t, it must have been a colleague of mine.’
‘No, it was you.’
‘Look, I don’t know anything about your daughter, or her window. I don’t know who she is, where she lives or what she looks like. I don’t know about her window being smashed, which window was smashed or who did it. The first I knew about it was when you told me just now.’
‘You definitely came round her house last week.’
‘I was in Scotland last week.’
‘Well, it must have been your friend, he had black hair.’
‘Don’t tell me Mrs Smith. Did he arrive in a white car with ‘Police’ written on the side?’
‘Errr…anyway, I’ve been getting these phone calls.’
On the way back to the nick, I happened across a lad called Wayne.
Wayne was parked up in his K-registered Rover 214, playing gangsta rap very loudly.
I have lately acquainted myself with this music. It’s a genre imported from America where it is, I’m told, created by rich black people for consumption by middle class white youngsters. Most gangsta rap seems to revolve around killing policemen, being in jail and having penetrative sex with ‘hose’. I’m therefore unfamiliar with most of the concepts, and the method of its delivery (shouting defiantly over an insistent drum beat) serves only to make it more indecipherable. Quite what idle youths in our council estates have in common with the homies of south central LA (apart from their idleness) is a mystery to me – I’ve been there, and to other ghettoes, and they’re quite, quite different from our little town - but it is becoming increasingly common for me to have to conduct stop-searches to the tune of ‘Die, motherfucker, die.’
As well as being offensive to policemen, it irritates non-gangsta listeners. Wayne’s Rover was parked outside the corner shop, and not everyone was enjoying the racket he was producing, especially those people living nearby who were trying to get their toddlers and young children to sleep.
Pulling up alongside him, I suggested that the ladies in the area might not appreciate hearing the controversial views of the artist on subjects such as domestic violence, drive-bys and ‘bitches’.
I might as well have been talking in Chinese.
"Eh?" said Wayne. "Whayouonabout?"
"I’m not sure everyone wants to hear that music, certainly not that loudly," I explained.
"Yerwah?" he said, eyes glazed with the effort of trying to understand.
"Turn that bloody racket off," I said. "Now."
Grumbling, he turned it down.
"Off!"
He turned it off. "Why you always be hasslin’ de yoot like dis?" he said, though he isn’t Jamaican and, in fact, grew up in a rural English village a few miles out of town. "Man, it’s like a fuckin’ police state."
"More than you know, Wayne," I replied. I have long-since given up lecturing the young about the errors of their ways but that never seems to stop them lecturing me about the hardships of living in the ‘ghetto’, where life is made so hard for them because of the constant interruptions of ‘the man’.
"But be that as it may, if you swear again I’m going to have to lock you up."
I drove away. I knew he’d turn it on again as soon as I was out of sight, so I did a u-turn 250 yards away.
Sure enough, when I returned, Wayne had the racket up to full blast again.
I warned him under Section 5 of the Public Order Act and sent him on his way.
Sho nuff whupped him upside the ass.
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