Why become a police officer?

Ever sit at your desk wondering what the f*^k you’re doing at 2.50 on a wet Tuesday afternoon? Ever flick through the paper and feel your head pound and your blood boil as you read about the latest mugging/rape/murder just down the road? I did, for years. When I left university, I knew I didn’t want an office job. After spending my teens gearing up for a career in the RAF, only to be let down by my dodgy hearing (not quite good enough to be a pilot) I considered the police, but put it aside thinking I should do what my peers were doing and chase the money. An exhausting five years on, having slogged my guts out 60 hours a week (yes, really) for a faceless multinational whose annual profits outstrip most developing countries’ GDP, I decided I really wasn’t interested in the money anymore.

I’m not under the illusion that I’ll become a hero, I pay no attention to many portrayals of police work being glamourous. I’m not out to get my own back at the world, but damn it, I certainly do want to see more justice in this country. I know I’ve let myself in for an often unpleasant, frequently thankless twenty-five-year slog. However, it should also be constantly varying, frequently exciting, and most importantly very interesting. If I’ve got to spend the next 25 years working like a bastard for something, it might as well be something truly worthwhile, rather than a never-ending cycle aimed squarely at the bottom line or my bank statement. I’m not an idealist; I’m very pragmatic and just cynical enough to be able to see the advantages and disadvantages of this career.

Call me a mug if you will, but someone’s got to do it, and I think most people don’t have the guts to step up and take the responsibility.