Written & Published to raise funds for the UK’s FIRE FIGHTERS’ CHARITY.
‘Who the fucking hell d’you think you are?’ These were the first words my new boss shouted at me, in a state of apoplectic rage, from his allocated parking space at Brigade Headquarters when I realised, to my horror, that he had been the recipient of my verbal abuse after he’d cut me up in his 4×4 at a roundabout just before we’d both turned into HQ’s car park. In fact, I had flicked the Vs at him and yelled out that I thought he was a ‘Jumped up, ponce!’, and, what was worse, this had only happened thirty seconds earlier! ‘Sorry, Boss!’, I muttered, as a means of an apology, ‘I had no idea that it was you!’ He glared back at me, inwardly seething with his beetroot red cheeks signalling that it was only professional courtesy preventing his launching a full-frontal attack! But, then, his enraged gaze, which was penetrating through me the way a laser beam obliterates light, very slightly lowered itself to my midriff where he noticed that I still had my alerter clipped to my belt. ‘And you can fucking well take that thing off, right now!’, he stated with glee, sticking out his index finger and pointing it intrusively, “No fucking alerter needed here, because you aren’t going on any fucking ‘shouts’ – not whilst you’re working for the Chief Fire Officer!”, ‘Is that understood?’ ‘Yes, Boss!’, I answered, obediently, without really absorbing the potential repercussions of what he’d actually said. “Banned from answering ‘shouts’?”, ‘Not allowed to go on fire-calls?’, ‘Bloody Hell! What was he talking about?’, “Going on ‘shouts’ was the only reason I’d joined the Brigade in the first place!”