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Mourning London Metropolitan Police

By September 15, 2013June 6th, 2023No Comments

Those were the days. The days when London Metropolitan Police was a studious law-enforcing force that did its honest-to-goodness job as Sir Robert Peel (RIP), its founder, taught it how.

Alas, those days are no more. Now the force bumbles and fumbles; faults and falters; gambles and tumbles; grips and trips. And falls headlong, its victims with it. And so honourable man Andrew Mitchell fell prey to its deceptive ways and the world-acclaimed honourable country of the Great Lakes Region was smeared with its distant mud that, luckily, did not stick.

Andrew John Bower Mitchell, to those uncaring of UK politics, is a British Conservative member of parliament. One time in September 2012, as Cabinet Minister, he wanted to ride his bicycle out of the gates of Number 10 Downing Street but police wouldn’t let him. Understandably, having been used to doing so without a hitch, he did not suffer such indignity kindly and expressed as much. But that irritation was seized upon to heap lie upon lie on him.

See, Metropolitan Police Service – Po-op, in a more appealing acronym! – has become a slave of politics. And so opposition politicians (from the Liberal Party?) called on their slave – Po-op – to disgrace Andrew Mitchel. That’s how it falsely accused him of calling its officers “plebs”, much as they deserved worse by the way I understand it, and the noise from everybody was up that he must resign. To show such a lie was an insult to his honour, sure he did. Even after the accusations were proven false, he never cared to press the case.

And so good friend of Rwanda, who has stuck out his neck to defend a country vilified and threatened with aid cuts for all the wrong reasons, Mitchel has left all the important political positions to solely serve his turf as MP. Good man of Sutton Coldfield, we in Rwanda will always be with you.
But if Po-op stooped to a dirty low in the case of Mitchel, in the case of Rwanda it sank into the mother of all cesspools. When some young fellows that Rwanda knew nothing about faced a denial of asylum from the British government, they got a crack of an idea. Since Po-op was no longer the competent force it used to be, since it had become worse than a “plebby pick-o-street” as you get in some disorganised African countries, why not give it a scare? I love the “creativity” of some run-of-the-mill dudes of Rwanda!

So, an ingenious young man goes to a “pleb station” and cracks up: “Know what, jolly chap? My life’s in danger and you don’t wan’ ta risk a Rwandan dead body on your soil, d’ya now mate?”

And he recounts the cock-and bull story that tiny but militarily formidable Rwanda was sending her dreaded agents to hunt down and kill all opposition politicians and their protectors. Immediately, the siren goes up and the airwaves go red. Every Rwandan in the UK must be on their guard, Rwandan killer agents are at large and beyond the powers of Po-op!

All those who’d failed to secure themselves UK right-o-stay laughed all the way to the Immigration Department! And so today, do you want that formerly inaccessible British visa? All you need is to cough up a few coins in foreign currency for counsel and a visa is yours for the taking. Counsel which, at the risk of killing a lucrative business, I now graciously give you free: walk to any British embassy and mention M23 and viola!
Yes, no joke about it. Today, all you need is to shout in your dream and a visa will be rushed to you, wherever you’ll be having your induced nightmare! You only need to utter these words: “I escaped forced recruitment into M23.”

In fact, I can hear you being quoted on BBC radio even as I write this. On 4th July as you were celebrating the Liberation Day at the national stadium, two army generals lined up a number of you young men, in full view of all in the stadium, and led you to the area in DRC controlled by M23 for training. But before you reached the border, you managed to escape.

Too bad for you, though, thanks to the perennially boo-booing Po-op, your days in the sun are now over. Their death knell was sounded as follows.
A few days ago, Prince Andrew, 3rd-born to Queen Elizabeth II, was having a stroll in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, admiring the afternoon sky. Then a police officer materialised from thin air and pounced on him, gun at the ready and finger on the trigger: “Don’t move a muscle! Another move and I’ll blow your brain to the four corners! Lie down, I say!”

With that typical stiff upper lip of well-bred British gentry, Prince Andrew asked in bewilderment: “I beg your paaarrdon?” And the officer: “Don’t give me the lip! I said lie down!”

That sheepish look on the officer’s face when Prince Andrew explained who he was, will it be enough to rescue the whole Po-op farce of a force?

Methinks, we asylum seekers, our banquet’s vanished!

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