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Right, well, thank you everyone for giving up your Tuesday evenings.
Nice to see so many residents here. I'm Jim.
Jim Costello, residents association Fuhrer.
No, kidding.
Supreme Commander. Er, no.
Erm, Lord High Emperor.
Bow to my will!
Secretary. I'm the secretary of the...
Um, so this is your chance for local residents, which is...
well, which are you, to meet the police.
The officers here are going to be talking a little bit
about the way in which policing in the district is going to be heading.
It is proceeding in a northerly direction.
Er, no.
So don't be shy.
I want everyone to get involved,
so if you've just come in to get out of the cold, clear off!
So, um...
Well, let me just throw the floor...
Oh, throw the floor is sort of...
Er, no.
To Inspector Tony Marks. Inspector Marks.
Right, um, cheers, Jim.
Thanks for coming along and taking an interest
in local law and order issues,
especially when the Champions League semi's on at the Wheatsheaf.
So, um...
We do have one or two bits and bobs lined up for you this evening.
First of all, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you your
brand new local beat copper, a very capable young woman, PC Kelly Mink.
Thank you, Inspector Marks.
My name is PC Kelly Mink.
I hope to liaise individually with as many of you as possible
over the coming weeks and I very much anticipate moving forward
in partnership with yourselves in order to address community problems
with very much community-based solutions.
I'd liaise with her.
Liaise with this.
What happened to the old beat officer, Declan?
He was terribly nice.
Hmm, bit of a mystery,
although certain documents were found in his flat.
What kind of documents?
Just some leaflets about budget gender-reassignment procedures.
I can't actually say too much about it.
Ooh, and a receipt for a ferry ticket to Ostend.
Maybe we should...
Yes, yes.
So, later on, PC Mink will be post-coding your valuables.
She can postcode my valuables.
She'd need a bloody small pen.
So, has everybody brought along their bits and bobs?
Yes? Oh, lovely stuff.
Later on, we'll be having a speaker
who will be giving a cracking talk on home security.
Our scheduled speaker unfortunately has encountered some personal issues
which have rendered him
unable to fulfil his home security advisory role this evening.
What's happened?
He's been burgled.
Great stuff.
We have however secured a substitute speaker
who we trust will constitute a more-than-adequate replacement.
Is that it?
Affirmative.
Right, then I think we're best to open things up to the room,
so if you have any problems you want to air regarding local issues,
we are here to listen.
The whole Potterton district has become a no-go area for the police.
I'm listening, friend.
It's quite lawless.
Just last Sunday I witnessed a phalanx of youths marauding
late at night, causing ructions in my cul-de-sac.
What's your name, sir?
My name is Arthur Marvin.
Actor.
Representation, Vivian Gilliard Associates.
Playing range, 45 to 60.
And what was the precise nature of the ructions in your cul-de-sac?
Horseplay. Speaking in raised voices.
Approximate size of phalanx?
Three to five youths.
Small phalanx.
Thank you. Anyone else who would...?
We're like a third world country.
Somebody left an empty Yop bottle under my camellia last week.
We're living in a dystopia.
Course you know the entomology of the word 'police' don't ya?
No, no.
It's from the Ancient Greek, polikanos.
Poli meaning many.
And Kanos?
There's no equivalent word in the English language, Priest.
Right.
But roughly equates to feelings of petty-mindedness
and jealousy towards law-abiding executive Cabriolet drivers
who are demonstrably notover the limit,
triggered by wearing of a uniform and the carrying of a tiny notepad.
Right.
The Greeks had a word for that, did they?
Yeah, Kanos.
Institutional racism.
When are we going to talk about the Shit Egg Killer?
The what now?
Someone is going around throwing egg-shaped balls of compacted
excrement through people's windows.
Really?
And you lot have done nack all about it.
Sorry? Tiny rewind.
Somebody's been putting your windows in with clods of poop?
The Shit Egg Killer.
I'm not aware of any reported fatalities.
No-one's actually died.
Well, you can't call him a killer then.
The Turd Burglar?
He doesn't rob anyone.
He doesn't kill them either, does he, Berge-twat?!
All right, well, what do we know about...?
The Excrement Miscreant?
The Shit Egg Killer.
All right. The papers aren't going to call him that, you know.
They're not going to print shit.
You obviously don't read the Daily Mail. I thank you.
There was a sherbet lemon in the middle of mine.
Please repeat.
The shit egg broke apart on impact
and in the middle of it there was a sherbet lemon.
Yeah, ours had a thing of Lovehearts.
Mine had a chocolate lime in.
Black Jack.
Mint Imperials.
All right, all right. PC Mink will take details and...
Starburst.
PC Mink will take details
and I promise you these incidents will be thoroughly investigated.
What's the point? We all know who's doing it.
Who?
The gyppos.
You can't say that.
It's the gyppos.
They move in and think they own the place.
They do have parties till all hours.
We complain about the noise so they throw shit eggs through our windows.
No-one likes the gyppos. The gyppos don't like us.
Can you stop saying that, please?
May we return the discussion
to the campaign of terror to which I have been subjected?
Oh, wind your cravat in, gramps.
Someone hung a Quavers bag on your fuchsia?
We're getting shit-bombed here!
I've made a few notes about the Shit Egg Killer that I'd like to share.
The floor is yours, er...
Yannick Yandeck Michaelmas-Montague.
The floor is yours, f-friend.
So.
What's that?
It's...
I was trying to draw a shit egg.
In a sense, you've succeeded.
So I do dabble in a spot of psychological profiling
and I've come up with a pretty comprehensive picture of our killer.
Not strictly a killer.
This is a man or a woman.
It's a man, though,
whose MO, modus operandi, his trademark if you will,
is to throw compacted balls of faecal matter, shit eggs,
through the windows of local residents.
But the timing of the attacks varies,
so this is someone who doesn't keep regular office hours.
Possible occupations.
Beekeeper, croupier, golf pro, eco-warrior, clown, alchemist.
Just some ideas.
There's something missing from that list.
Go on.
The gyppos.
Do you want to crack wise all night, or do you want to nail this bastard?
Ooh, all right, Flipchart PI, chill out!
So what do the sweets at the centre of the shit eggs tell us?
My pen ran out.
Sweets, treats if you will, inside a chocolate egg.
I think we may be looking for a disgruntled former employee
of the Kinder organisation.
Is it human?
It's highly unlikely that these attacks have been perpetrated
by some kind of vengeful mythical beast.
It could be a resentful dragon.
A unicorn with a grudge.
Oh, for goodness sake!
A griffin with a right arse on.
No, what's the one with the legs?
Right, stop trying to think of another one.
I meant the excrement.
He's got a point, actually.
Is it like person poo?
Do I look like a shit expert?
Your words, friend.
Without physical evidence,
the nature of the faecal projectiles is pure speculation.
Ah.
Aye, aye, speaking of faecal projectiles.
Good evening, all.
It was till just now.
Sorry we're a tad tardy. Babysitter woes.
No matter, you're here now. I'm Inspector Tony Marks.
Ah, inspector. I'm Stuart Jippeaux.
Oh, Jippeaux!
The Jippeauxs!
Yeah.
Locals for about 18 months.
Yeah. GRRR!
Marina does a bit of interior design.
I'm in brand consultancy.
Brand consultancy?
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
That a full-time job, is it?
No, freelance. I keep my own hours.
Stuart couldn't go back to the old grind now, could you, darling?
Goodness, no, no. Never hack the old nine-to-fiveage these days.
Used to work for Kinder actually.
Yeah, you know, the choccie-egg folks?
Stuart Jippeaux.
PC Kelly Mink, the new local beat officer.
Oh, what happened to PC Bracket?
Has he been reassigned somewhere?
In a manner of speaking.
I think we may be getting somewhere, don't you, inspector?
What are we talking about? Is it the awful hoodoes?
Hoodoes?
The hoodoes.
Loitering on their bikes outside Londis.
"You feel me, bredren?" they say.
"Dem creps is nuff nang, boy."
We are attempting to collate intelligence relating to a number of
faeces-projectile-based attacks directed towards
the glazing interface of several local residential demises.
Come again?
Someone's been hurling turd bombs through people's windows.
You suffered any attacks like that?
Us? Good lord, no, it's not happened to us.
Funny that.
The sweets at the centre of the shit eggs demonstrate that our killer...
Not a killer.
Is conflicted.
They crave acceptance and are full of hate and contempt
for the people around them.
Ah, sounds a bit like us, Rine.
Stuart!
GRRR! Sorry, do carry on.
They clearly want to be the centre of attention,
to know what's being said about them.
In fact, what my profiling tells me beyond a shadow of a doubt
is that the Shit Egg Killer is in this very room!
And has an accomplice!
Inspector Marks is undertaking an eyeball sweep of the vicinity.
In the meantime, please stand to the right to have your items postcoded
and do not tamper with the faeces.
Oh, back here, Gramps? Over your little hissy fit?
I have returned for one reason only
and that is the postcoding of my fedora.
Better out than in.
But not in the case of your penis.
Unless, of course, you were breaking bread with the Maktallac,
the last un-contacted tribe in the Chilean Andes.
Right.
The greatest compliment a guest can pay his Maktallac host
is to rest the exposed todger in the empty cooking pot.
Is it? Right.
Evening.
If they're an un-contacted tribe...
Satellite imagery, Priest.
Maximum zoom.
Hi, guys.
Ran into this young fella on the pavement outside
acting a tad on the suspicious side. Claims he knows you, PC Mink.
Affirmative on the eyeball, sir, this is Ian Peas, aka Peasey.
Right.
He's our substitute speaker, Sir.
Oh. Oh, right. Great stuff, great stuff.
Right, well, we shall crack on then, shall we?
Seats, please, then, ladies and gents.
What about my hat?
Sorry, fella. Really got to motor on.
Right, well.
Thank you, everyone, for...
not leaving.
Now, so we're going to continue now with the home security talks,
so please welcome...
Peasey. Peasey.
All right, all right. Just listen up, yeah?
Now, I know what you're all thinking, right.
You've heard it all before haven't you, right?
Parents, teachers, this lot - coppers - giving it all that.
I know, cos I was just like you. I thought I knew it all, yeah?
Chip on me shoulder, scowl on me ugly mug.
Got up to all sorts, me, you know? Draw, smack - you name it, I did it.
Absent father, strung-out mother - sound familiar, yeah?
Next thing you know, I'm rolling with a gang, aren't I?
I'm getting respect and getting protection and getting money.
You know what I'm talking about, don't you?
Mr Peas is more accustomed to dealing with young offenders, sir.
I had inkled that, yes.
I know you're all thinking your the main man, right?
You think you're the big guy. But trust me - you won't be the main man
when those prison doors clang shut and the lights go out
and all you can hear is the threats and the screams.
Oh, no.
But listen, you lot.
You are all at a crossroads.
But you need to show courage, yeah?
And courage isn't shanking some little toe rag
for dissing your missus, no.
Courage is being the bigger man.
Being able to say no, being able to say that this is my life
and I don't need drugs and I don't need guns,
I don't need gangs and if you don't like it, yeah?
You can fuck right off!
Uh, sorry. Sorry.
It keeps doing that.
Right, so any questions for Beansy?
Peasey.
Peasey. Yes. Yes, Mrs Gippo?
Yah.
Is there such a thing as a, sort of, clear version of anti-climb paint,
something that we might use on the gazebo?
What?
Do you know whether one can adjust the sensitivity of a security light?
Every time my neighbour's leylandii so much as rustles its leaves,
my garden is filled with the light of a thousand suns.
Eh?
OK. I think maybe we'll leave things there.
Thank you very much, Peasey.
Wise words indeed, and I'm sure we'll all take something away from... them.
What the twat is that?
That, my reformed friend,
is an egg made of shit surrounded by police tape.
Why don't you examine it for clues?
We are awaiting specialist forensic officers
who will perform a thorough examination of the projectile.
Oh, yeah. I bet they're fighting over this gig.
"No, no - you take the triple murder,
"I'm going to go and take Polaroids of a compacted turd ball. Result."
All right, guys. All right!
A bit naughty. Let's have a look, shall we?
Cutlery please, friend.
Thank you.
I'm not going to eat it.
Oh. Force of habit.
OK, team.
I'm going in.
What's inside it?
My god.
Oh, this is very exciting.
Does anyone have a music cassette player?
Oh, yeah. I'll just pop back to the '80s and grab my Walkman, shall I?
It's all right. I've got one here.
He actually has.
This is highly irregular, sir.
'Dear The Fuzz,
'I see you are still having no luck stopping me
'hurling shite through people's windows.'
A Welshman...
'If you spent more time on the beat and less behind a desk,
'you might stand a chance of catching me.'
Anyone recognise that voice?
No, Inspector.
Right, well, in that case
we'll have to pass on this evidence on to the boys in the lab.
And the girls.
We've got some great girls working back there in the lab,
and let them work their forensic magic.
Not so fast!
PC Brackett?!
Yes, Inspector.
Good heavens.
I thought you'd...
Gone to Belgium for an economy sex change.
False trail, Inspector.
I've really been investigating...
the Poo Ball Vandal.
The Shit Egg Killer.
What? No, he hasn't killed anyone.
Let's not start that again.
Come on then, Hagrid. What have you been up to?
The attacks began. What did we do?
Take a statement, file it, forget about it.
It was low-priority stuff.
Meanwhile, the people - my people - were living in fear.
I wondered why we seemed so reluctant to identify the culprit.
I knew then I could no longer operate
within the confines of the job. I had to go rogue.
Off the radar.
Black ops.
Why did you have to black up?
I spent months on the street watching, waiting.
A spirit. A phantom.
Lurking in the shadows, leaving no trail...
OK, Casper The Beardy Ghost - who's the Shit Egg Killer?
None other than...
Inspector Anthony Marks!
I have phoned a bloke.
Uh, no. No, it's not me.
I've been watching you, Inspector. I've been in your garden shed.
All right, I'm not sure that's entirely above board, but go on.
I found police issue gloves with clear traces of faecal matter,
a bag of mixed sweets
and a series of egg-shaped moulds of differing sizes.
The Shit Egg Killer!
Poo Ball Vandal!
Shit Egg Killer!
Well, great stuff, PC Brackett. Declan. Really terrific work, fella.
Respect due, but I do feel the need to pick you up
on one or two pointettes.
Rabbit hutch.
Don't know if you saw that on the side of the shed.
It needs cleaning out fairly regularly.
Messy gig, hence the gloves.
Sweets? I do like to pop in the odd chew
while I'm in the shed pursuing my hobby.
What hobby?
I appreciate the question, friend, and the hobby is soap-making,
for which I need egg-shaped moulds.
You make soap?
I do indeed.
You're a really weird bloke.
So, uh, I totally understand where you're coming from.
Absolutely no hard feelings.
So why don't you toddle off home, have a nice shower and shave
and I look forward to seeing you back on the team on Monday morning.
I can't believe it. Months. I've wasted months.
Nothing's wasted, pal, all right?
It's all experience. Learn from it.
Leave the bad to the side and move right on.
Make the most of yourself.
Didn't I once arrest you for trying to wank off a horse?
I thought I knew it all, yeah?
Chip on me shoulder, scowl on me ugly mug.
Got into all sorts, me, you know.
Draw, coke, smack - you name it, I did it.
It was definitely something about a horse. About three years ago.
I don't know what you're talking about, mate.
You haven't got a clue, have you?
The Shit Egg Killer has outfoxed the cops once again.
He'll never be caught.
'Good day to you. My name is Arthur Marvin.
'I am seeking representation for voice-over work.
'Acting representation, Vivian Gilliard associates.
'Playing range 45 to 60...'
It's the other side of the tape.
'..I shall read from Eliot's The Wasteland
'and thereafter perform a number of regional dialects.'
You!
Gramps?! I don't believe it.
Yes, yes. It's me. I am the...
Shit Egg Killer?
Shit Egg Killer, yes, all right.
Balls, I thought it was a blank cassette.
Why?
Because this neighbourhood has become an urban wasteland.
Skateboards and Nand-oss.
Polystyrene trays with a smear of ketchup in the bottom
stuck to a statue's face.
Youths running riot and no-one listens or cares.
I had to do something. To catch your attention.
A riddle. A mystery.
But, no. Still you didn't give a toss.
The only one who cared was this twerp
and he couldn't solve a bloody dot-to-dot.
But who was that on the tape?
Well, it's him, innit? He does voices, accents. He's an actor.
Oh, right.
Actually, I didn't get that bit either.
How awfully clever.
Arthur Marvin, I'm arresting you on 11 counts of criminal damage.
You do not have to say anything...
Oh, I've got something to say all right.
No-one in this room is innocent.
We have all got shit on our hands.
We are all the Shit Egg Killer.
Yes...
But, actually, just you are.
Never too late to make a choice, you know.
I thought I knew it all.
Chip on me shoulder, scowl on me ugly mug.
Got into all sorts, me, you know.
Draw, coke, smack - you name it, I did it.
Oh, lock me up, for Christ's sake.
And that is why I never use talc.
I assumed it was all, like, crushed up chalk or something.
Oh, it's a popular misconception, Priest.
Powdered human skeleton, though!
Don't take my word for it, but ask yourself why,
after episodes of ethnic cleansing,
why there is always a suspicious rise in global talc production.
Right, yeah. Yeah.
Now ask me what goes in bubble bath.
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