'Line of Duty' Series 7 (as written by Paddy McAloon in 1984)

"An outlaw stand in a peasant land, in every face see Judas."

Superintendent Hastings is the "stubborn beast", the "whiskey priest" but definately (sic) not 'H'. He's officially retired from AC-12, but because of his financial difficulties still has a "job" at Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories. He's actually still in charge of AC-12, but working undercover. He's hiding from the captains who've made his position at AC-12 HQ impossible to carry out in public view. Who can he trust? Still with the threat of prison for earlier misconduct charges, the Chief Constable has a hold on Hastings. He wants Hastings to carry out one more job: find H's boss, 'GI'. 

"They ask for more than you bargained for and then they ask for more."

Hastings is convinced his new target is being controlled by the Russians. Having made contact with GI, Hastings has set up a meeting at Jodrell Bank, under the pretence of scientific findings (possibly space-related, who knows) being shared. Under his pseudonym 'Robert Fischer', he's already been to Moscow to win GI's trust. Now AC-12 are waiting for Hastings to arrive with GI. 

"When Bobby Fischer's plane touches the ground, he'll take those Russian boys and play them out of town."

Isaac Green, AKA 'Green Isaac', or GI, arrives with Hastings.

How did Hastings work out GI was H's boss? Well, when the dying DI Matthew 'Dot' Cottan was apparently spelling out "H" in morse code, he was simply counting "12345/12345" to suggest there were in fact five bent coppers ranking above Hastings. Hastings worked out that Isaac Green (nicknamed 'Green Isaac' because he bumbled his way through police college), somehow gained promotion to DCI only by selling old rope, and telling bad jokes. Corrupt, in short. 

The interview:

"Isaac Green, why did you defect to the Russians?"

"They're much more beguiling, than children at play. What was I going to say? I have limited talent, but impossible wealth. I had a schoolboy crush on Che Guevara. I had a choice: either face yourself or give it away. Don't start pretending you've feelings of anguish. You'd have done the same in my position."

"I'm no bent copper, sunshine! *fumes* ... GI, we know all about you sharing secrets with the Russians."

"Please stop talking of things you know nothing. The truth well will make you ill. We played you for fools, giving you rubbish in return for gold! So chew on the safest, the blandest of food. And avoid the specifics, that might ruin the mood."

"Isaac Green. 'Green Isaac'. GI: the letters either side of, and controlling 'H'. We've got you bang to rights, son."

"But we've also got you, Hastings. And your friends, your loved ones, your colleagues. Other lives stay neatly curtained, iron curtained you could say. Don't turn tearful, I'm not your seventh son. This star crossed lovers business, astrologeewhizzness. It doesn't scare me."

"You bastard, you leave my friends out of this. This is between you and me!"

"You better ask your wife about that. I like to think of my affair with her, and the subsequent effect on you, as my contribution to urban blues."

*Flashback to Ted and Roisin's last meeting; Hastings' last attempt to win her back.*

"Cruel is the gospel that sets us all free, then takes you away from me. We made vows, Roisin!"

"I became fed up that the days went from perfect to just okay, Ted.'

"So, these stardust memories fail to please? If you confuse this dinner dance with elegance, I'll take comfort from the guessing game aspect, that you are least where I expect. If you need to swan one-to-one, I suppose you don't need the pond. I'm a liberal guy Roisin, but what would I do? Don't call me possessive, but holy mother of God if he's smoochin' with you! The world should be free, but don't you go following suit. Our hearts are aligned, I couldn't be neutral, I couldn't be that way inclined! I'm going to be tougher than tough, and prouder than proud. I'll find him, and I'll put him away."

*Cut back to the interview.*

Hastings, looking down, close to tears: "Did you mean to humble me?'

"Don't expect so much of me, I'm just an also-ran. There's a mile between the way you see me, and the way I am. I couldn't bear to be special."

"So you did it unsuspectingly! Are you telling us you're not the highest ranking bent copper in the police force?!"

DI Arnott breaks his silence; to Hastings: "I'm not looking to disturb you, just a little to unnerve you. After that last unholy row (referring to the spinal injuries suffered in series 4) - I never, ever play basketball now. It joins the list of things I'll miss, like fencing foils and lovely girls I'll never kiss."

Hastings: "Holy Christ on a bike son, will you get to the point?!"

"Sorry, sir. I left this case behind, on an overcrowded desk where the 'IN'-tray is higher than the 'OUT'- will ever be."

Hastings looks at his watch pointedly.

"Before the tea rooms fill with flirting couples..."

*everyone in the room looks around the Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories canteen, commandeered for the interview*

"Remember to call."

"Remember to call" is code for "URGENT EXIT REQUIRED". DI Arnott is in cahoots with GI, and there now follows a gunfight between seemingly allied "policemen" and Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories "tea ladies". There's claret everywhere. Luckily for Hastings, DI Kate Fleming is disguised as one such "tea lady", and she's shit hot at shooting bent coppers. It was impossible to see through her disguise because a) she had let her hair grow down to her ankles (despite the fire risk) and b) she was in vertical stripes.

"Her husband works at Jodrell Bank, he's home late in the morning. Had he been a lawyer, he wouldn't work for pennies."

Roisin sits by Hastings' hospital bed. He might make it, but it's going to be a long, long road to recovery. She remembers their first days together... 

*Montage: Her parents tried but it's not much use. Her boyfriend left home, it was late summertime, life was good, they were young, but glory is purblind. She knows, and still loves the Superintendent of this hysterical town, he worked his way up from the dirt on the ground. Now everyone asks him questions, they consider they've a right to be told. People naturally wonder what it's all leading to...*

"Ted, can you hear me?"

Doctor: "It's way, way to early to talk to him. You can't call this heartbeat a man. But don't cry too soon, you might as well fall in love with the moon. For now, the anguish of love is long range."

"Are you telling me Death is neatly spruced for his honeymoon?"

"Find an answer while I leave the room. Perhaps I should learn to shut my mouth."

A year later...

Hastings to GI: "In the morning I go walking, it helps the hurting soften. I've seen a lot of places, 'cos I miss her very often. So long ago I buried something I should know... 

When they interviewed me about you GI, verse and chapter they unfurled. I used every technique, so their eyes don't fill with wonder when I speak. I loathe the stilted way they made me speak. Without recourse to lying, distortion or "cheating", they were making such a fool of me. Now, I worship the silence that sings like a bird, I long for the Moon as it looks from the Earth. Take one step, Green Isaac; one step away. The light is fading, it's making such a fool of thee, when you'd love to be someone."

*GI is led away*

Disclaimer: I haven't seen series 6, so if they all die in a freak gardening accident, I'm sorry.

I thought of putting all the lyrics from 'swoon' (yes, it's lower case on the sleeve) in italics, but it looked weird. If you don't know 'swoon' this might not make much sense. Buy 'swoon'.

PUBS (pubs)

Hello! I'm 55!

(That's how I started the last blog post, and I'm going with it again.)

This time, the fact that I'm 55 has had me thinking about pubs, and cricket. Cricket and pubs, if you'd prefer. Why I'm specifically thinking about pubs now is a) there's a vague rumour that they'll be opening again soon; b) I just got to the end of Mortimer & Whitehouse's 'Gone Fishing' book (which accompanies their lovely tv series), where they start talking about pubs, and c) the cricket season is nearly upon us, and pubs play a BIG part in that.

In 'Gone Fishing', Bob Mortimer recalls how he and Paul Whitehouse both start to think about "The Pub" around five o'clock. They've been fishing for hours and hours by now, and the promise of a few pints and a pie are looming large. Here's the rub though: get in the pub at five o'clock and all might not go well. They may not be serving pies yet. You fancy-dans in your London gastropubs might expect food "all day", but out in the sticks this is not always economically viable. No, best to wait until 7-7:30. By then the kitchen will be on full alert. Also, atmosphere. A country pub (I'm judging this by Norfolk standards, having lived there for a decade or so) will have a very specific clientele at five o'clock: the guy who was in at 11 and intends to stay all night, the guy who was in at 11 and can't remember his name, and the local postman. You need more than these guys for atmosphere, just ask Russ Abbot. 

(Aside: the local postman lives "The Best Life". Sure he has to get up early, but he's finished by 11:30, which coincides nicely with opening time. He can drink and pie himself stupid, safe in the knowledge that he'll be asleep by 8. Be more postie.)

So Bob & Paul kid themselves they're trying really hard to catch one more tench (insert fish of your own choice here; I didn't read the book to learn about fish or fishing, so it could be Flipper the friendly dolphin for all I know), but they're really thinking about that first pint. (Aside: Paul prefers wine, which kinda ruins everything.)

Which brings us on to cricket. 

It snowed today. Every cricketer will tell you they played in snow. The poor sods who actually do it for a living may well have been out there today. Mine was Central Park, Dagenham, Craven CC (dissolved after their treasurer ran off with the float), won by nine wickets, ran out my cousin Dave, I finished 54 not out. Craven weren't much cop then. Anyway, we went to Hornchurch to find a pub suitable for humans to interact afterwards. Let's not get too bogged down with where is and where is not a good place to drink after a cricket match (Dagenham, for a fucking start) (or Hornchurch, if you're being picky), but like Bob & Paul, it's definitely part of the day.

I started playing grown-up cricket at 17. I'd never been in a pub. Never ordered a pint. After my first game I was pissed after two pints, and went into the ladies for a pee because my cousin Dave pointed at the door and I was too pissed to read the sign on it. Fiona was in there; Fiona is Scottish, she simply said "och Edward, you'll be in the wrong toilet." We're still friends to this day. 

In fact, apart from all the ones who've died (and there's a depressingly large number of those), we're all still friends. We're still friends despite the dropped catches off my cousin Dave's bowling, despite taking my cousin Dave off after four overs because he keeps bowling bouncers when the ball is swinging like a top and we've got three slips and a gully, despite telling my cousin Dave he can't bat at three because he bowled 21 overs and it really is time to give someone else a chance... We really, really loved playing cricket together. And by and large, the pubs and clubhouses we went to afterwards were absolutely brilliant.

And that's why even at 55, knowing my eyes are shot, knowing my knees are shot, knowing I couldn't bat in a helmet because I never did, I'd love to have another go.

Memories of the post-match pub/clubhouse;

Gary. Gary would often be late for matches. Trouble with Gary was that he had no sense of time. Not just hours and minutes, but weeks and months. Gary turned up for a holiday a month early, only to be told his tickets weren't valid for another month. He had to break it to his wife that she had to go back to work and book the time off again a month later. Then he had to do the same himself. Gary loved the tea part of cricket the most. I remember Gary eating a gherkin from one hand and Mars bar from the other, after going through the usual sandwich/cake/tea cycle. He was the urban fox of teas. One week Gary went to the wrong ground. Thankfully the ground he went to was at least in the same county as the one we were playing at. He finally arrived at (yes, you've guessed it) tea time. And we'd already fielded. So Gary (honestly if you met him you'd love him, wish he was right here now, I'd hug the tardy bastard) managed a head start on the tea, didn't have to field at point (he was always wandering behind square, looking at the clouds, the trees ("GARY, IN FRONT OF SQUARE FFS!!"), and could waltz in at 4 or 5 to tonk the winning runs. Oh, and there's what Gary used to wear. Gary used to forget his spikes. Gary was convinced he should bowl regularly, but he had what even his dear old mum would describe as a "dodgy" action. He was quick, but if we chucked it we'd all be quick. Anyway, he only wore bowling boots, in the hope (against hope) that he'd be called upon. Every now and then, if we were playing teams who knew Gary since he was yay high, he'd get a bowl. Luckily, no one died. When he forgot his spikes (often), he'd wear his proper Sunday Best shoes to play cricket. Advantages: the ability to slide across the turf. Disadvantages: to Gary? None, actually. The best thing about Gary though, and the thing that will mark him down in the annals of cricketing history, is that before him no batsman had ever shouted "there's two there, his trousers have fallen down."

Okay, most of my memories of post-match pubs and clubhouses involve Gary. If I can remember anymore, I'll add them. 

'Retirement, as a thing'

Hello! I'm 55!

Don't worry, you haven't missed my birthday. You have missed when it was, but you won't have missed it. I could've piped up on Twitter and told everyone when it was, in the hope that ALL my followers would wish me well. But then I'd have to thank them all, and before that I'd realise no one on Twitter gives much of a toss about when my birthday is, which is worse. Anyway, I got loads of birthday notifications on Facebook, which I ignored because I don't do Facebook anymore.

Let's not get too bogged down in who's birthday it is, when it is, or if anyone cares. This "piece" (and it is a piece) is about retirement. 

I can remember when things were all Thatcher, and working people seriously thought about retiring at 55. This was before Robert Maxwell screwed everyone over, and several recessions coshed the idea on the head. I think it's safe to say that many of us think of the retirement age to be "in your 60s" or "Christ-know's-when". But, because I can remember those days, and I'm 55, the thought of retirement has popped into my head, rent-free.

At school it took me ages to get the hang of being at school. I pretty much hated the whole thing, until just before it was time to leave. Then (and only then) did I realise the next step was work. Perhaps I was lazy (aside: I was lazy), perhaps I was not that bright, but it hadn't crossed my mind that I could ever hold down a job. I had no idea what I could actually do, and the thought of trying things (only to find out I was rubbish at them) meant the whole plan was out of the question.

So I went to art college for four years and ended up being a very successful kitchen porter.

Now to the present day, and the transition from 'Working Me' to 'Retired Me' is similar to the transition from 'School Me' to 'Earning Me': I have no idea what I need to be able to retire, I don't know if I want to, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to. 

First of all, what is retirement? One problem here is that retirement can mean different things to different people...

1) You work for a firm for a long time, and when your time comes (55, 60, 65 etc.) you (in the words of Alan Partridge) get given a big picture of a Spitfire and "off you go!"

2) You give up the 9 to 5 (or 10 to 5 if you're Mark E Smith), but "keep your hand in". (I remember Jeremy Vine having a phone-in on retirement, pensions and the then-current recession. This architect rang in basically to boast that despite retiring, he still earned shit-loads of cash by doing a few hours work a week. JV told him his call had little relevance to the discussion, because he wanted views from people affected by the recession, but the guy didn't seem bothered. The bastard.)

3) You use your new-found spare time to try selling those pottery ashtrays you like making, or cakes, or thimbles, whatever.

4) Like that ballet dancer in the government ad, you retrain in cyber. For whatever reason.

I've been told my current job (I'm a dog walker) kind of doesn't count as a job, because I enjoy it. In the words of Bertie Wooster, there's "something in that". In fact, what I do seems the sort of thing someone might do if they'd retired from doing a proper job. We' could be talking somewhere between 2) and 3) on the above scale. So why would I want to retire? The lovely idea of working somewhere you hate for 40 years, then on your retirement day turning up late, shouting "SO LONG, SUCKERS!" and kicking the photocopier on the way out is not available, sadly. I don't hate any of the dogs, or their owners, and none of them have photocopiers. To me, retirement (in its purest form) means "I have enough money to not have to walk the dogs, or I'm too knackered to walk dogs anymore." More likely the latter. 

All well and good, but it's not just about me (although it has mostly been about me). 

Thoughts on retirement, as a thing: Lord Sir Alan Sugar OBE MBE Whatever has billions, BILLIONS of pounds. He's proud of it, and not shy of telling people about it. Why doesn't he retire? How much more can he need? "But Ed," pipes-up Sir Al, "it's the need to carry on making money which keeps me going. If I'd ever settled for what I had, I might've still made millions, but it's that drive for more that turns it into billions. And I want a solid gold horse, and a fleet of aircraft carriers for my planes, and truffle sandwiches every half-hour..." You get his drift *twirls index finger around temple*.

Less extreme example: that guy who rang Jeremy Vine. Yeah, he was hateful.  

Some people won't stop working because they're afraid of what retirement might do to them. Afraid of boredom. Afraid of stagnating. Etc. Or there's my dad, he couldn't wait to retire. He'd worked for the same people for ever, and knew there were decades of prospective television to enjoy. I remember being that arsehole son who questioned the path he'd chosen, but thankfully a good friend put me right: "Don't be an arsehole Ed, he's earned the right to do exactly what he wants." 

Some won't stop working because they can't. I worked with a chef who was planning to do a "my dad" at 55, but was scammed out of his retirement pot, and couldn't see retiring before 65 (or later) as a result. Big Sir Al Shuggs could find enough down the back of his sofa to help out, but his drive to make mo' money would stop him doing so. There's no sentiment in business, and so on. Seriously Al, get a grip.

Another friend retired when he reached 60. He had little or no money left after some bad luck (and bad decisions), but he started getting his pension and that was enough for him. Despite getting into financial difficulties (caused by living as if still earning his working wage), he refused to consider employment again. "I'm retired!" was the answer to any advice on how to get back on financial track. It didn't end well.

I think retirement could be an abstract concept. There, I said it. Could the chef announce at 55, "I am retired" despite having to carry on working? That architect pill was still "employed" despite being retired, so it definitely works the other way. Perhaps retirement is a philosophy. Yes, I said that as well. Imagine starting your first job and announcing "I'm retired" on the first day. "Then kicking the photocopier on the way out?" No silly, just going through your adult life as if retired.

Hopefully we're all at least semi-retired: not afraid of simply existing without purpose, nor doffing our caps to some dreadful boss. Whatever your lot, I hope you're happy with it.

Laws of Physics, Schmaws of Schmysics

Tonight Matthew, we're going to talk about trees, fences (specifically iron ones) and walls. How come when a tree grows near a wall/fence/combination of the two, it can deform the structure? The answer must lie in the laws of physics; otherwise ghosts exist, and Mercury Retrograde is a thing to be scared of. 

The last time I was sent out of class was in 1984. It was physics with Mr Taylor, and Mr Taylor's teaching method was thus:

"Read pages 67-72 of your text book, and write out what you think it all means. I'll be watching the girls play hockey out of the window."

Okay, he didn't actually say the last bit, but it's what happened every lesson. There were 25-30 budding scientists in that "lab" my friends, and who knows how many of them would've turned out the finished genius if the "lab" hadn't looked out onto the girl's hockey pitch (or Operation Yewtree had been about).

Anyway, one bit in the text book said that if you lean against a wall, then according to Newton's Third Law (which states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction), the wall is pushing you back with equal force. This, of course, is bollocks. 

Yes, blah blah blah Newton, indeed blah blah blah Third Law, but the wall is just a structure. It's there, it was built, it's been left, it doesn't fight back.

I argued this with Mr Taylor, but the girls must have been playing a particularly vigorous game of hockey that afternoon, so he was in no mood to argue and sent me out. If he'd at any point said that the laws of physics are unarguable I might've shut up, but he just pointed at the bit in the book saying the wall was pushing me back as hard as I was pushing it. Which, of course, was bollocks.

On my walks around the streets of cinema's own London town, there are a few examples of trees that have, over their hundred or so years of growth, deformed walls and fences that once contained them. When I see this I think: "wow that's weird, a plant made of living and dead cells is able to knock a wall down." But I also think: "that seems about right, a plant made of living and dead cells is able to knock a wall down." I don't have a problem with it happening, but I'm not sure if Newton's Third Law can explain why it happens.

First, some other things that happen with trees and walls (which are more explainable):

Sometimes trees fall onto walls. I've seen the aftermath of this, and it's pretty one-sided. A mature London Plane tree is too heavy for just about any wall to resist. Where's the equal and opposite reaction here? I'm guessing the answer is that if the wall was of equal size/weight/strength to the tree, it would be able to push back said tree. The speed of the tree falling must also multiply its weight, I assume. But this still assumes the wall wants to push back the tree. 

Back to a tree slowly growing towards a wall...

The tree is made up of living cells in its middle, dead cells on the outside, and can grow roughly an inch wider every year. When the tree reaches the wall, why doesn't nature 'tell' it the wall is too hard to grow through? Every year another inch of live cells have been produced inside the tree, but these cells are not tougher than a brick wall. Neither are the dead cells on the outside. It's possible to remove bark from the outside of trees with your hands, for instance. Yet together, this minute movement of living and dead cells is somehow able to completely destroy a wall over time.

My one attempt at an explanation: imagine a tube of toothpaste (it isn't hard to do). When the tube is full the toothpaste comes out with force, but with minimal effort from you. When the tube is half full, the toothpaste comes out less forcibly, or you have to put more effort in. However, if you curl up the bottom of the tube to half-way, you can recreate the original force of a full tube, because it's "full' where the toothpaste comes out. Imagine a tree is a tube of toothpaste (it isn't hard to do). The live cells are constantly growing, and adding "toothpaste" to the tube, but there's no cap to remove and let the toothpaste out. So the tube gets bigger, is always full, and is always at full strength. Strong enough to knock down a wall, anyway.

I asked Robin Ince of 'The Infinite Monkey Cage' if he or science dreamboat Brian Cox could help shed some light on this. Perhaps there is a sub-law of physics that explains this phenomenon. Perhaps no explanation is needed. Perhaps it's all down to ghosts. 

He 'liked' my tweet, but no reply has come. I put this down to the following possible reasons:

It's a stupid question; if I'm sensible and adapt the laws of physics properly, it can easily be explained.

He asked big Bri C the question, and because Coxy couldn't come up with an answer, they've fallen out and BC has joined a religious cult.

He couldn't be arsed.

Listen and read Proff C prove ghosts don't exist here:

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/science/ghosts-brian-cox-large-hadron-collider-cern-real-truth-standard-model-physics-a7598026.html

Captains log, star date: supplementary... 

We have an answer: THE WIND. The tree gets close enough to the fence for its movement in the wind to act on the fence. Tall buildings move in the wind, which is a bit scary but happens nonetheless, and so do trees once they're tall enough. So it's as if the tree has fallen onto the fence, but very slowly. 

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