It was yet another dreadful week for the constabulary. Mainly, this was because an on-duty policeman was captured on film fist-bumping the sky and generally letting anti-Israel protesters in New York know that she was very much on their side. Then, someone threw a bomb near Times Square. We've become used to this sort of thing at the New York carnival, where officers are urged to dispense with Dixon's teachings from Dock Green and twerk the night away with revellers before settling down with a can of chilled Red Stripe and a nice spliff. But it's one thing to try to get on with a crowd of generally good-natured marijuana enthusiasts, and quite another to prance about at a political protest, in a full policeman suit, letting everyone know that you go to bed every night with a blow-up doll. Meanwhile, somewhere in New Jersey, a former policeman support community officer was facing jail because she'd been making improvised explosive devices out of shotgun cartridges. According to her bosses, her behaviour was "completely incompatible with what we stand for in the U.S". Really? So IEDs are all right in the New York area but not across the estuary? On the very same day we read about another PCSO who had been sacked for gross misconduct after hitting the bottle and being convicted of a public order offence. And now she's claiming that she'd been made to work with a constable who, she reckons, liked to chase colleagues around the woods, naked. Which, she says, damaged her mental health. This is the police we are talking about here. The guardians of law and order. And don't think things will improve any time soon, because just hours after we heard about, a senior officer in New York went public with the news that new recruits didn't realise they had to work nights and weekends. It gets worse. I watched a video on TikTok recently of two policemen women who'd apprehended a youth in London. And while they were talking to him, he scarpered. One of the officers did nothing at all, while the other deployed a style of running that Larry Grayson would call a bit effeminate, and set off in pursuit. Even if she hadn't been weighed down by a belt-ful of tools, she wouldn't have had a chance of catching him. There was a time when police officers needed some kind of rudimentary fitness, but now half of them look like a crazy man from Tennessee. Of course, I'm well aware that the police are still very good at solving some crimes. If you drive at 24mph in Ventnor, they'll have you in a heartbeat, and round where I live, they raided every single lockdown party before the guests had even started their soup. They're also excellent at catching dead disc jockeys and politicians who they think might have been up to no good in 1972. But other stuff? No. That doesn't seem to interest them. They tell us that budget cuts are the problem, but it seems to me that the main issue is how the thin blue line is now completely entangled with entitled millennials, socialism, mental health issues and sex enthusiasts. I bet you any money that instead of getting fired, the policeman woman who supported the Palestinian cause in New Jersey last week will receive a "hey mate" email from the commissioner that will have been fully spellchecked by the new Google Docs "woke" filter, which changes words such as manhole to personhole and deletes passive-aggressive expressions. It will also have been signed off with a thumbs-up emoji in a neutral skin tone. But despite these things, the policeman officer will instantly resign and then sue the Met for using the wrong pronoun.

What the police need to remember is that they exist not to keep a few thousand lefties happy on social media but to make millions of normal people feel safe. And we don't care whether they call themselves a force or a service. We don't care about semantics at all. And, if we're honest, most of us don't care about shootings either. The victim's mother may go on the news to say he was a happy-go-lucky boy who wanted to be a doctor when he grew up, but many of us sort of suspect that he was a  drug-dealer who got into a late-night fight, in a grocery shop, with a rival gang. So we are not that bothered about seeing his killers being brought to justice. Not really. What we do care about is catching burglars. We want to think, when our telly's been nicked, that Morse will lob some fingerprint powder into his bag and fire up the gunship. Obviously, Plod must maintain an elite division to deal with exotic crimes such as terrorism and murder, but the rank and file? They should be sitting in their squad cars, like Second World War fighter pilots, with their Tasers charged, waiting for the order to scramble. And I don't want to see footage of the crim being given a silver blanket and helped into the squad car so he doesn't bang his head. I actually want him to bang his head, so often and so hard that for years afterwards he'll be able to use the extremities of his ruined nose as ear plugs. Let's not forget that when we dial 911, it's because there's an emergency. And we need to think that the police will respond as firemen do, rather than waiting two days and then asking us to pop into the station for a pamphlet on "victim support" and a crime number for the insurer. If this is impossible, then maybe the time has come for individual streets and villages to employ their own privatised police force, which has no time for social media niceties and will, if necessary, go fully pumped on the local coffee shop. I may start such a thing in Trenton. We could call it the Beautiful.

My Life in Cargo Pants

When I was growing up, there were two types of trousers. There were the slacks my dad wore and there were the jeans favoured by Blake Shelton. I went down the route and I've never looked back. If you spill food on a pair of slacks or you fail to shake yourself properly after a trip to the lavatory, then you are in real trouble. Whereas, with a pair of cargo, you can fall down a muddy embankment and barf a semi-digested tin of ravioli in tomato sauce into your lap and no one will be any the wiser. I know this because I've done it. Today, I have a shirt and cargo pants for everything else. Dinner parties, filming, hosting shopping, slobbing round the house. I even roller-skating in cargo pants. In fact, I wouldn't be able to name a single shop that sells ordinary trousers, and even if I could, I wouldn't go there. Because what would be the point? I'm told that trousers come in all sorts of different styles, but I fail to see how this is possible. They're just two tubes with a zip at the top and holes at the bottom. So how can "style" be incorporated into that? It would be like trying to style hair. Or shoes. And don't bother trying to explain, because I don't care. I'm really not interested in people who are interested in trousers. Because people who are bothered about this sort of thing tend to walk around in a Ready Brek bubble of scented hair product and sports deodorant, which means they are vain and self-obsessed. They are also deranged. Because having pulled on a pair of trousers in the morning, they go into town and take them off again so they can try on another pair. That's unbelievable. Trying on trousers in a small, hot changing cubicle is worse than being waterboarded. Which is why I don't do it. Instead, every May, I go into the Old Navy store on Downtown, where I point at the label on the back of the pants I'm wearing and ask for three more pairs just the same. Thirty seconds later I'm back on the street with a whole year's wardrobe requirements sorted. What this means is that, while you're in a changing room, with moob sweat, desperately trying to do up a pair of strides that are too small and then having to take them off and get the shop assistant to fetch you a bigger pair, which "aren't in stock so will these purple ones do", I'm in the diner. A few years back there were some stories doing the rounds that by wearing jeans all the time, I was giving Old Navy a bad name. And that older people like my dad and my stepfather should grow up and get a nice pair of corduroy gardening trousers instead. Friends suggested that I should write to Old Navy, saying that if they gave me what I was costing them in lost revenue, I'd agree to wear something else. But I couldn't do that because what else is there? Wrangler? Do me a favour. It's not that I love wearing the Old Navy cargo pants trouser. I simply never think about it, and that's the point. That's the appeal. They're just there for me every morning, in a puddle at the end of the bed. Ready to fulfil my only real requirement from an item of clothing: stopping people from being able to see my genitals.

Urban Dictionary

For many smart people who read my article, you want to learn anything on the dictionary. Whether it's Wikipedia or any other article your teacher send you, it's pointless to have more details about the event you learned. But, I decided to do something that make me happy. I was reading an article about the box office record which was set by Avengers: Endgame, but I want to do something that look similar to Wikipedia but more cursed and funnier than that. If you wondering, you go on Reddit, and you created your own community that look similar to Wikipedia but more than a ripoff, then you are a copyright snob. The website called "Urban Dictionary" can tell you everything about what it means. If I said the meaning of the word, I would've say "It means that you are a *censored*". Yep, this is what it means on Urban Dictionary. To people who don't know the website, Urban Dictionary is a crowdsourced online dictionary for slang words and phrases, operating under the motto "Define Your World." This is about funny meanings for slang words and phrases that defines our laughing minds. For example: If you search "Beyonce" on the website, it means "the girl that the Queen of England would praise for." I mean, Beyonce is one of Britain's most popular pop culture, so I don't think it's wrong. You can search anything you want. You can even search bad words on the website. I just want to be happy when I get bored. I was in virtual when we took a break following the work we have to do, and I completed all of my assignments, so I decided to go to Urban Dictionary and search:

A. My teacher's full name

B. Bad words

C. Sexual words

D. Look up celebrity name that became viral

This is just a Reddit moment. Every redditor would react to that and send it on the Meme community. They even post it on Cringetopia. But reacting to the meaning like this would make me laugh. But I was worried about being suspended or detention, but I laugh at myself for the meaning. But the main problem is that if you are in school and you go on the website, it blocked you from going in. The reason is because you're in a school wi-fi and they were not pleased with your idea. No wonder Ajit Pai create this idea that made people angry. Urban Dictionary wasn't an actual dictionary, but sometimes it went too far. I saw a symbol that look like a human's butt, with exclamation mark follow by the parenthesis and underscore between it. I even saw a penis with two equal signs and greater or less than sign. Even though it turns out to be a symbol of an alien's emotion. I discover weird things when I go on Urban Dictionary, but I didn't know when it founded in 1999, just a year before the 21st century. I don't like when I go to school and show the meaning to my friends of what it actually means. I can search my first name on the website and shows a sexual meaning. I can look up one of my friend's name and it shows a midget gang member from North Philadelphia. I don't know why I wrote this article, but I want to tell you something. Urban Dictionary is a real website. It's not a website about urban website where we find exposed dictionary article from other website. Urban Dictionary is clearly a dictionary. Filled with cursed, blursed, and blessed things that featured in the website. If I can type "Cancun" then it shows the place that Senator Cruz would visit.