‘Street Soldier…!!!’

June 29, 2008

A Group of ‘Hoodies’ or ‘Soldjas’ (also known as a ‘Thicket’)

Walking into the Police interview room we were shown our ‘patient’! A scrawny ‘yoof’  lounging in a chair with his feet on the desk. We had been called because the Police officers were a bit concerned about his behaviour as he was not making much sense and was rambling on and on. It was when he was in one of his more lucid states that he told the Police officers that he had taken a whole lot of XTC tablets!

Right…first things first:

  • his airway was fine as he would not shut the f**k up!
  • this meant that his breathing was okay
  • hence his heart was working
  • and that he was fully conscious!…unfortunately!

Shining a light in his eyes revealed pupils big as saucers! A sign of either oxygen deprivation, fear or as in this ‘yoofs’ case the possible taking of substances known or unknown! “How many pills have you taken then?” I asked him resisting the urge to knock his feet off the table and get him to sit up. I was aware of all the cameras and microphones around so I basically sat on my hands trying to avoid punching the little s***s lights out. (Not conducive to good patient care and my bosses would probably frown upon such action)

“I’ve tekken tweny I fink. No probs tho. Drugs are gud man. Dont affect me know what I mean?”  It looked and sounded like he had taken something and he probably would be okay but we need to cover our backs same as the Police. So we decided to take him down to A/E to be checked out. This is where he started gobbing off big style and demanded to be taken home and that “the ‘Filth’ had no right to arrest him because he earns good money and dat ting!”  He started to finish off every sentence with “Innit!”

So whilst waiting for him to be bailed I ask him general questions about his drug taking, alcohol intake and what his job is? “I aint telling youse nuffink…I’m a ‘Soldja!’ I know people you know what I mean. Innit!” And then in all my night shift befuddlement I ask him “Soldier eh? What regiment?”  He looks up at me not understanding so I ask again, “What regiment are you in then?”

“I aint in no army man! I’m a ‘Street Soldja’ innit!”  I feel my knuckles tighten as my hands curl into fists behind my back. He spouts off about how he can get hold of guns and is not afraid of ’nuffink’. I cant stand these so called ‘Street soldiers’ who run around in gangs terrorising the local community and getting away with it more often than not. But, if I or any other member of the public, should give one of these so called ‘Soldjas’ a well deserved kicking it would be our jobs and livelihoods on the line.


All the while he is acting the big man swearing and swaggering around. What has happened to the good old days of ‘Gene Hunt’ and the ‘Sweeney’ when a well placed ‘dig’ to the kidneys or an ‘accidental’ elbow to the back of the head was all part of the criminals occupational hazards.

The Police were glad to get rid of him although it seemed he was playing the game knowing that if he played the ‘overdose’ card he would get bailed or de-arrested. We all have to pay our mortgages and its a big risk for a little s**t like he was. So it was off down to the A/E to add him to all the other drunks/druggies/assaults/half-hearted suicides/dick heads and other assorted jetsom and flotsam of society. 

I was thinking that he need a reality check…then I tought that what he does on a daily basis is his reality. Because people like him are allowed to get away with their behaviour whilst law abiding people are expected to put up and shut up! He knows that he can almost do as he likes and that ‘respect’ (in the true sense of the word) does not exist for others only for the other ‘Soldjas’ in his gang.

What a knob head…!!!


A Little Bit of Culture…!

June 22, 2008

After what seems like an age of going into peoples homes (in the loosest meaning of the word) and trying to converse with socially backward amoebas I thought I would post this.

Music trends come and go but classical music has always appealed to me. I was lucky in having a music teacher at school who taught us how to ‘hear’ the music not just ‘listen’ to it. Apart from Mozart I enjoy the genius of Beethoven and Rachmaninov. Oh and of course the Nutty Boys from ‘Maddness’.

This is Mozarts Symphony #40 1st Movement. Enjoy.


June 21, 2008

Standing by around the corner we listened to the engine cooling down with the occasional ‘pop’ and ‘fizzle‘ after our drive from station towards the scene. We had been told to ‘Stand Off! and await arrival of Police.’ Reports had come in of a street fight still in progress with half the neighbourhood apparently involved.

Occasionally a car would come screeching around the corner either in an attempt to flee the scene or just in the normal standard of driving around here on the ‘Beelzebub’ Estate. After approximately five minutes we both could hear the approaching sirens of the Police coming up behind us. Along side us a Police patrol car pulled up and my mate wound the window down.

“Are you the Ambulance?” asked one of the Police officers to my mate who was in the  driving seat. I detected a nano second of hesitation before my crew mate replied “Yeah, that’ll be us right enough!” cleverly disguising his annoyance at been likened to a big green and yellow truck. “See you round there then!” And off went the Police ahead of us to the street fight.

Turning into the street we were met by a large crowd of people either side of the road in some kind of ‘Mexican Standoff’. In the middle of the left hand crowd we could just make out a small group huddled around someone on the floor. Once safely parked up we walked towards the person on the floor taking with us the O2 bag and trauma kit not knowing what we were going to.

It soon became obvious that the person on the floor was an elderly ‘lady’ laying face down on the concrete driveway. She was conscious and complaining of pain in her upper arm. After checking for other injuries we turned her over and placed her arm in a sling and put her in the back of the truck. Now we could find out what happened without all and sundry putting in their two pence worth.

As I started taking more detailed obs and filling in paperwork, the injured ‘lady‘ who was in her late sixties (with teeth missing, normal, huge cheap swag earrings, normal, mis-spelt tattoos, normal and dyed blond hair, normal) told me what had happened. She had got in the middle of a fight between her son and her grandson over some dogs and some birds. Every now and then her story was punctuated with “I ain’t pressing no charges!”

Her son kept pigeons and her grandson kept ‘Staffies‘ (The fashionable ‘yob dog’ at the moment). Unfortunately the dogs had been eating the pigeons which hacked off the dad no end. And so an argument had ensued that resulted in negotiations breaking down and ending in father and son beating seven colours of s**t out of each other. This is where our patient had come off worse as she was knocked to the ground, accidentally, and broke her arm.

Because this had moved from inside the house to the street, neighbours and passersby got involved and a ‘Wild West’ fight had started. As one neighbour said as I passed him leaning against his front door smoking a roll up “Its like a f******g scene from ‘Shameless’ better than watching telly this lot!” And I had to agree with him. Assorted youths were hanging around with approximately one in five of them holding a ‘Staffie’ straining at the leash. A lot of the houses had the old ‘tin curtains’ up to prevent youths breaking in and torching them.

The Police eventually caught up with father and son who had legged it from the scene and both were arrested. After booking in the elderly ‘lady‘ at A/E her son was brought in by the Police to sort out his very large and nasty looking split lip! Having handed over our patient and sorting out the back of the truck we stood outside A/E and watched a steady procession of assorted family members go into A/E. Every other word that we could hear from nearly all of them involved f**k, and ‘revenge’ and ‘b*****d’ and other famous old Saxon verbalization.

I am glad that I do not live anywhere near one of these estates and if I did I would be getting out sharpish!


A Brown Life…!

June 17, 2008

Making our way towards the community entrance of the block of flats we veered around the many upturned wheelie bins and assorted detritus of this secluded area of ‘No Hope Estate’. With the resus bag, monitor and big green bag carried between the two of us we stopped at the main door and pressed the big steel buttons on the communication panel. Trying to avoid the dried, and not so dry, remnants of someones meal that had come back up to see how the world was doing I pressed the flat number.

A metallic voice at the other end answered “Yeah? Who is it?”  sounding mightily pissed off. “Hello, Ambulance!”  I replied thinking that maybe we had the wrong address as were they not expecting us in the first place. Or were we lower down on their list of priorities ie. ‘drugs…extra strength beer…ciggies…shopliftling’? A buzzer sounded letting us pass through the main door and into the entrance hallway which reeked of cheap disinfectant but was spotlessly clean!

Luckily for us the flat was on the ground floor and within seconds we were squeezing down a dim passageway loaded with all our kit. At the end was a door leading into the lounge or living room. On first sight I had to blink a few times to readjust my vision after emerging from the dim passageway. A single bright lightbulb burned fiercely away in the middle of the ceiling which highlighted the fact that this room was very brown. Brown ceilings, brown walls, brown furniture and brown floor covering. But this brown was mostly made up of nicotine not paint or wall paper!

“Who have we come to see?”  I asked the middle aged male who had shown us in. He points to the young female sat on the edge of the settee and states “Her!”  “The daft bitch who should know better!”  Noticing a slight atmosphere in the flat I ask the female what is wrong with her? “I’ve got a chest infection and me inhalers are not working!”  Noticing, apart from her dishevelled appearance and her grey bra which was once white, a hospital bracelet on her wrist I ask how long she has been out of hospital? To which she replies that she discharged herself an hour ago against the advice of the doctors and nurses.

Seeing, and hearing that she has a wheeze, we put her on some oxygen and do some baseline observations. Everything points to a bad chest infection and we advise her to go back in which she agrees to. The boyfriend is not happy! But I’m more concerned about the bruises on the young womans arms which look suspiciously like finger marks. Once on the truck and settled down I ask her about the bruising. It turns out that they are injection bruises from where she has just recently started to inject heroin.

I ask her why she injects rather than smoke it? “Well I cant smoke it cos of me chest infection can I?”  So in her twisted sort of reasoning she finds it safer to inject so as to not worsen her chronic asthma! I feel at a loss as to comprehend  how far some people will let drugs take them over. It seems that her life, her home, her entire reason for exsisting is based around ‘Brown’.

Common Sense is a Rare Commodity!



Busting Some Shapes At The Discotheque…!

June 12, 2008

I have recently been to a fair few jobs within the confines of buildings dubiously labelled as ‘Nightclubs’! All the jobs were alcohol related and involved various degrees of violence or levels of drunkenness. What amazed me was how crap the dancing was! Whilst shouting to get the patients attention and trying to avoid the bouncer (sorry door supervisor/floor security technician) as he smacked the aggravating party in the mouth beside me…I was able to glance towards the dance floor and see the ‘yoof’ trying to dance in an effort to impress their girlfriends/boyfriends/mates/themselves/bystanders.

Here is how I dance when I’m out on the Guinness and enjoying myself….

Having been to a fair few ‘Discotheques’ in my time I find that the ones overseas tend to be frequented by a more select kind of people. In my area, as probably all over the UK, ours tend to be full of life’s undesirables to put it nicely.

As opposed to the likes of Sweden who have nightclubs full of nice people enjoying the social aspect of going out with friends.

A Pleasant Discotheque…

A Typical Swedish Discotheque…

A Rather Typical English Discotheque…

I just love seeing chavs trying to be all cool and wicked with their dance moves. That’s probably why the fights start to take away the attention of the crap dancing!