We’re the Sweeney and we haven’t had any diversity training!

SCOTLAND YARD is offering civilians the chance to become detectives without the formality of ever having to pound the beat in uniform. They will be fast-tracked into the CID and could be investigating crimes such as burglaries, muggings and even rapes after just six months’ training.

Within two years, they will be eligible to take part in murder inquiries and join the anti-terrorism squad. The direct entry scheme is designed to tackle a serious manpower shortage and will be open to anyone educated to degree level who has lived in London for at least three of the past six years.

Successful applicants will spend 18 weeks in the classroom and work alongside retired detectives to hone their skills.

This column was invited to sit on one of the first induction courses, conducted by a seasoned senior officer . . . SHUT IT! My name is Jack Regan, and I was formerly an Inspector in the Flying Squad, also known as the Sweeney. You can call me ‘sir’, ‘guv’, ‘guvnor’ or ‘Inspector’.

This is my lovely assistant, retired Detective Sergeant George Carter, to be addressed as ‘sarge’, ‘skip’ or ‘skipper’. Give us a fag, George.

I’ve only got one left, guv. I only want one. you don’t half take some liberties.

That’s because I’m an Inspector and you’re not, George. And stop bleating like a constipated fishwife and fetch me a drink. I feel like a rabid wombat has crawled up my digestive tract and died. There’s a bottle of Glennhoddle in Haskins’ top drawer, left over from Hyphen-Howe’s retirement bash. Right, guv.

If you’re sitting comfortably, children, then we’ll begin. Yes, love. What is it? You thought the Yard was a what — a smoke-free environment? Well, you thought wrong, sweetheart. If you can’t stand the smoke, you’d be better off in uniform helping old ladies across the road. Do I make myself crystal?

Now then, ladies and gentlemen, before we go on, a word in your shell-likes. We’re the Sweeney and we haven’t had any dinner.

The pubs open in half an hour, so pay attention.

Lesson one: an efficient detective squad runs on its stomach. So, here’s your starter for ten.

You’re chosen as a driver for the Sweeney. What’s your number one responsibility?

No, not making sure the tank’s full and the tyres are pumped up, though obviously that goes without saying. Unless, of course, you want to run out of petrol or have a blow-out when you’re doing 90 on your way to nick a gang of villains in a shed down at Heathrow.

If you’re driving me, I want the glove compartment filled with Mars bars, Wine Gums and Jelly Babies. And ham sandwiches — the sort that come in Cellophane packets. And sausage rolls. But no potato crisps. They interfere with transmission. Got it?

OK, let’s get a few things straight. I don’t approve of taking people straight from Civvy Street and sticking them in the Sweeney. This isn’t the Girl Guides.

If the top floor hadn’t wasted so much time kicking in the front doors of journalists who were only doing their job, and chasing superannuated disc jockeys for having naughties with a go-go dancer 40-odd years ago, we might not be in this mess.

It’s anarchy out there, but all the Hyphen-Howes of this world were bothered about was fitting up former politicians for fictitious sex crimes. If you think you’re joining the Met to round up octogenarian nonces or nick some spotty youth who’s written something nasty on the internet, then you’re on the wrong course.

Nor have I interrupted a well- earned retirement on the Costa del Boy to teach you how to investigate computer crime. Neither has George. He doesn’t even know what a cursor is.

yes, I do, guv. It’s someone we nick for using foul and abusive language.

Shut it, sergeant. And pour me another Scotch. Yes, love. What is it now? Transgender toilets? What’s a trangendered toilet when it’s at home? I see. And why are you asking me? Guvnor. a word? What is it, George? Careful. I think that’s the

yard’s first non-binary recruit. Eh? Neither fish nor fowl, guv. Didn’t you read the briefing notes? When have I ever read the briefing notes, George?

well, if you had, you’d know that this bird isn’t a bird. well, not all bird, anyway.

What are you talking about, George? Is it a bird, is it a plane . . ?

It’s a transwossname, guv. Half man, half biscuit, or something. Doesn’t answer to ‘he’ or ‘she’, just ‘they’. They? You mean there’s two of them? Nah, guv. Just the one. What’s he, she — sorry, them — doing here, then? Official Met policy. They

especially want to hire transwossnames, what are underrepresented in the ranks. Why? Beats me, guv.

Remember that time we nicked Warren Mitchell for trying to make a getaway in his bird’s dressing gown and high heels?

How could I forget it, guv? His Doris didn’t half have some lunch on her.

True, but that’s not the point. He could barely walk in those shoes. What good’s a copper in Jimmy Choos if chummy is having it away on his toes?

Fair point, Jack. But look on the bright side. Next time we want to search some blagger’s missus, we won’t have to wait for a wPC, you can ask DC aC/DC here to slip into a frock and Bob’s your uncle. Or, rather, your auntie. Precisely, guv.

OK, ladies and gentlemen and, er, they. Now we come to arrest procedures. What is the correct mode of address when apprehending a suspect who has just gone over the cobbles with a sawn-off Purdey?

No, young man, it isn’t: ‘You have the right to remain silent, blah, blah, blah.’ The correct approach is to slam him up against the wall and shout in his boat race: ‘ Put your trousers on, you’re bleedin’ nicked.’

Or in the case of transwossnames: ‘Put on your best dress, baby, you’re bleedin’ nicked.’ Nice one, guv. Good to see you embracing diversity.

No choice, George. The whole Job’s gone diddle-o. They’ve even got a female commissioner now. Name of Dick. Dick of Dock Green?

I wouldn’t let her hear you say that, George, or she’ll come down on you so hard you’ll have to reach up to tie your shoelaces.

As for me, these days I wouldn’t last five minutes in the Sweeney. I’d be stuck out at Elstree, directing traffic and wearing a tall hat. Instead, I’m reduced to this.

Sod it, I’ve given the best years of my life to this job, got 18 commendations, and I end up playing Miss Jean Brodie to a bunch of fast track, wet-behindthe- ears civilians who think police work is about ticking boxes and investigating non-existent, so-called hate crimes on the interweb.

If I didn’t need the money, I’d tell them where to stick it. Don’t do it, guv, it’s not worth it. anyway, it’s your round. Shut it!