I don't know what the bloody hell was going on the other day, but it wasn't my fault. Couldn't tell a lie to save my life, so I figured it were best to just stay in my office and catch up on some paperwork while the scum of London stayed quiet. If you're going to barge into my kingdom and ask me bloody stupid questions that you really don't want a truthful answer to, then it's your own fault for not liking my response.
Same goes for the idiot plonk who asked if we thought she looked good in her uniform. No, MET uniforms aren't designed for you to look good in them. You're not here to flirt with the scum, you're here to nick them. Don't go crying about it in the bogs and saying I'm picking on you.
The Super can shove his mandatory sensitivity training up his arse!