Or

Sun Hill Blues

There was tension at the station

For the word had got around

That soon their harsh grey world would turn to soap.

Could be Rinso, Lux or Omo

It was difficult to say

But industrial strength with perfume was the hope.

“I’ve been busy nabbing villains

For twenty years or more,”

Said June to colleague Debbie with a frown.

“If they think I’m going to prance around in flimsy negligees

They should realise that I will turn them down.

It’s not that I’ve got stretch marks

Though there might be one or two

Or even that my boobs are not still pert.

But I’ve been trained to tackle toe-rags, toms and pimps and narks 

Not to simper, smile and sob and flounce and flirt.”

“It’s not all bad,” said Reggie,

Slicking back his hair

With Brylcream which was past its use-by-date.

“If romance is on the menu their leading man is here.

I’ll willingly surrender to my fate.”

“It’s not you they’d choose,” said Chandler

“I’m sure that’s not the deal.

I’ve got charm. I’ve got charisma. I’ll advance.

Though some might think me ruthless

I’ve got loads of sex appeal.

I’ll be first to get inside the ladies’ pants”.

But the rest were not so cocky.

Des and Jim and Dave

All muttered to each other over beer.

While Cass and June and Polly

Did more than rant and rave -

They made plans when no one else was near to hear.

Polly was most strident,

Though usually slow to rile

She said she couldn’t take it any more.

“I’ve worked night shift, I’ve worked day shift, even double shifts on Sundies

And now the bleedin’ scumbags  want to show me in me undies.

I’ll fight these new script-writers tooth and claw.”

Cassie nodded sagely

When June said with  a smile

“They think they’re smart but we’re much smarter still.

If we three stick together we’ll sail through stormy weather

We’re wily we three women of Sun Hill.

The writers think we’re dopey,

That we’ll let them turn us soapy,

But we’ll soon prove that all of them are duds.

We’ll not let some faceless hacks

Rewrite our world behind our backs

There’s no way they’re going to drown our souls in suds.

We  fight crime for them all day

They’ve got no right to watch us play

So we’ll nip their grotesque plot-lines in the bud.”

 “If they want to send me clubbing

Those writers need a drubbing,”

Said Cass, “I don’t want things to change.

Though some might think it boring, I spend most evenings snoring

Or wash my hair. Most viewers do the same.

My professional life’s so crushing, always dashing always rushing,

Do they think  I only treat it as a game?”

“I heard they’ve got some lurk of me finding love at work”,

Said June. “It really is a joke.

There’s something badly missing if they think they’ll get me kissing

Jim, Reg or Matt  or any other bloke

Who works here at the station. We must use imagination

And make damn sure their poxxy scheme goes broke”.

So while the men were getting pissed

The women made a list

Of crimes and crims and scams and cons they’d known.

Of successful schemes and failures, axe murderers and blackmailers.

Of people they could contact on the phone.

Though some were doing gravy or had even joined the navy

They worked all night  until their list had grown.

“While the blokes are at the pub

We’ll appropriate some bugs

From CID,” said Poll as dawn drew near.

“While those writer hacks are eating

At tomorrow’s lunch–time meeting

Everything they talk about we’ll hear.”

So while the writers munched on sangers

Drafting outlines for cliff-hangers

The coppers listened closely to each word.

They learned the writers’ names –

Geoffrey, Claire and James –

And shuddered as the plots got more absurd.

“Let’s go,” said June. “We’ll tail them

And after that we’ll nail them.

We’ll stitch them up then make them come undone.

If they’ve secrets we’ll detect it and when they least it expect it

We’ll make these scabby scribblers turn and run”.

Now Geoffrey’s case was easy

For his private life was sleazy

And next time that he was whipped by Madam Lash

He didn’t know that June was waiting

Taking photos through a grating

Until he got a call from Poll and Cass.

“You’ve been a naughty fella

We know you’ve got a wife. We’ll tell her

What you’ve done unless you meet all our demands.

We’ll circulate the photos of your escapades in Soho

Unless you put the plot back in our hands.”

Poor Geoff responded quickly

He was feeling rather sickly

He didn’t want his peccadillos known.

And a photo of his botty perched upon a potty

Was not the kind of picture to be shown.

Not even to his mother. “But what about the others?”

He asked. “The scripts aren’t mine alone.”

“We’ll be dealing with them later,”

Said Cass handing him a gaiter

Which he’d left behind at brothel number two.

“You’d better heed our warning

 Or we’ll come around some morning

With a full transcript of everything you do”.

Claire Higgins lived in Surrey and was busy cooking curry

With her lover Raj when June and Cass dropped in.

She spilt the coriander when in from the verandah

Barged Polly with a face which looked like sin.

“How can you have the gumption to write about corruption

And try to make my mates behave like jerks?

We’re sick of all your japes, your fantasies and rapes.

We’re honest cops who don’t get many perks

Who have come here to inform you,

To caution you and warn you

That all intrusions to our private lives must cease.

You  must treat us like professionals

Not sinners in confessionals

Or we swear we’ll never give you any peace.”

Even Raj looked frightened.

His tanned complexion whitened

While Claire shook as if she’d surely seen a ghost.

You can’t help feeling tension when three of your inventions

Invade your house and give your scripts a roast.

The last of the trifecta was James the script director

Whom they visited at home near Putney Grange.

“Unless you want retirement you’ll adhere to our requirements

Or you could end up slowly rotting in a drain.

Remember Frankie Miller, the suspected serial killer?

He’s still at large and sharpening up his skills.

He’s agreed to chop and slice you so if this thought does not entice you

We suggest you hacks  stop treating us like dills.”

But James got quite indignant

And asked “How can any figments

Of my imagination think they’re real?”

At which our coppers laughed

They said “Look out on the path,

Here comes Frankie so you’d better cut a deal.”

In  a mood of high elation they drove back to the station

Jubilant because  they ‘d made each writer swear

That they’d be rostered nine to five now,

They could enjoy their private lives now,

And the nation would not see their underwear.

 

So remember when you’re writing that there’s little point in fighting

Any characters who leap up large as  life.

Don’t treat them with derision.

Though your plots might need revision,

Heed what they say and you’ll avoid much strife.