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.
Although 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 there 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 scriptwriters, tooth and claw.'
Then 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
Then 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 poxy 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.
Although 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, the 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
That 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.
We've 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.