The Tunic Conspiracy

Sentenced to two years.

It’s almost laughable, yet it’s the widely held belief that this is normal. After many pay days of hard work, this is the result. All that blood, sweat and tears; not to mention the stress. I blame the government. They have their Dark Forces at work.

Occasionally, I read about someone who got their just desserts. In the ever helpful Human Resources Notices under ‘Deaths of Retired Officers’. There seems to be an unwritten rule that they have to have retired at least ten years prior to their death before they get their names in print. The Dark Forces’ spin doctors won’t let the true picture be shown.

Like internet virus warnings and broccoli, no-one knows the origins of this ‘well known fact’. It just is, okay? At my final binge drinking session after serving my fellow Throbbers for 30 years I know I’ll be getting pitying looks. There’ll probably even be a sweep. If I get the God job the smart money will be on ‘eternity’.

The government agents start their mission early. To become an officer these days you have to prove that you aren’t morbidly obese, you can nearly read and write, you aren’t about to drop dead and you can break into a slow trot without passing out. They like to know you can last until retirement age. Then they can start their evil toil.

It all begins with the secret agents at Hendon. They call themselves uniform fitters, but we all know their true role. Otherwise, how can you explain the tunic fitting? Unlike the rest of our uniforms these are designed to last for a whole career. We only wear them at important courts, interviews and when we are receiving open and honest feedback. They usually smell musty. Or sweaty. Depending on how good you are at answering questions.

You are never issued with a tunic that actually fits. It is measured to allow for a certain amount of give. This way you can tell how close someone is to retirement. If an officer looks like they are wearing a hand-me-down from Brian Blessed’s big brother, then you know they have a long way to go. If, on the other hand, the buttons look like they could be imminently launched into the next street, then they’re not far off the big three-oh.

You see, the uniform fitters have allies in the Throbbing canteen staff. It is their secret aim to turn us from a service of slow trotters into one of Fat Camp rejects. If only Jamie Oliver knew what we were being fed. He’d be round with his planned menus faster than you can say ‘Potentially lucrative TV series where the opportunity for a large amount of exposure and the chance to poke fun at porky coppers is assured’.

He would be met by looks of horror if he even tried to suggest ‘drizzling’ when it comes to using anything fat based. We much prefer ‘drowning’ or ‘dunking’. If he mentioned equally strange words like ‘vegetable’ or perhaps even ‘healthy’ he may get kicked out of the building.

A Throbbing vegetable comes in the form of the pea you try to find among the forest of deep fried food. You may get lucky if you ordered a salad. Although, most people can’t face eating something that a starving rabbit turned his nose up at. I suppose the vegetarian option could be the way to go. That would be scampi (deep fried), chips (next to the scampi), a random pea (tinned and fried to taste) and a slice of lemon then.

Perhaps we could bring a packed lunch in. It’s a thought. Not a very good one. But, at least it’s a thought.

I’ll have a think about it.

While I sew some buttons on a bit tighter.