Social Services
Sir.—As a long-time devotee of The Spectator, I read your leader with great interest. As a horny-handed ex-cop (last case, murder on the high seas, penultimate one a E30,000 smuggling run) and Practising Christian with a son a priest, I was disappointed.
The ultimate sanction in the war again3t cruelty to Homo sapiens and animals alike by terrified holders of diplomas in social science is a seasoned policeman's size ten in the doorway plus a battle-scarred face that has sunk a thousand frigates. This settles the mind wonderfully, as Sam Johnson remarked of the knowledge that one is to be hanged at daybreak. The alternative is a spate of impeccable reports recounting Miss Pussyfoot's fourteen consecutive failures to see the child before its death. Is it possible that your erudite selves don't know this? The Force today is a thin blue line stretched to breaking-point. It is the job that nobody wants in our sick and bloated society. In numbers alone, to say nothing of quality, it is 15,000 men short of establishment: i.e., seven million head of population are without adequate protection. Every great city in the UK has its 'no-go' areas; not because of the gendarmerie's timidity but because they are few. But it once took me three years to get short-listed for 'the finest job in England' (sic); and thereafter another three years to flannel my way into the CID. It seemed a good idea at the time, for — by Crippen!— it was a proud regiment, albeit a bit like the Foreign Legion. Simultaneously, two young contemporaries were drummed out pour encourager. By 1942, one was a brigadier in the Grenadiers: the other, a superb athlete, captained the British Empire Cricket XI. Ah, memories ...
Please, please throw your weight into the struggle for more Fascist beasts in blue on the streets of the land we love. And how delightful for the missus to be able to post a letter after dusk with impunity.
Ralph Jones Glenroy House, Little Waltham, Essex
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