Clyping

When I was at school, the behaviour most despised by peers and adults alike was 'clyping'. A clype is a tell-tale, a sneak... you know, the type of kid that runs to the nearest authority figure and gleefully reports the real (or fantasised) misdemeanours of his mates. Clyping was not encouraged back in those days. Today, things are very different it seems. While driving down St Machar Drive this morning, I spotted a large advertising billboard, ominously tricked out in waspish black and yellow, encouraging folk to lift the phone to report their neighbours who have neglected to pay their road tax. It's a Freephone number (so the clype can shop his pals at no financial cost), and the sign helpfully sports a couple of stylised images of telephones (presumably for the benefit of those who lack basic literacy skills). It gave me the shivers. Not because (I hasten to add) my car isn't taxed, but it repels me to think that today's Britain positively lauds the clype. I have visions of officious citizens with nothing better to do of a morning, creeping round their streets, peering at the windscreens of every car, and punching the air with joy if they find a tax disc that ran out at the end of last month and hastily rushing home to phone.

I suppose these people could turn clyping into a full-time job: I picture them in the afternoons twitching their net curtains to watch Sandra fae doon the road heading out for her 2 hour shift at the corner shoppie, "Ah, the coorse bitch is workin, and she's still claimin fae the social!", and later in the evening, lurking across the street from the pub hoping to spot some mannie leavin with car keys in hand and more than a couple of units in him. I remember when it was announced that a responsible citizen who successfully shopped a drink-driver would earn a reward of £500. You had to be very vigilant when you nipped into the local for a swift Irn Bru. You'd come back from the lavvies and find your acquaintances looking very shifty, with pound signs glittering in their eyes, and (if you were astute enough) you'd realise they'd chucked a triple vodka in your drink and were champing at the bit to get on the phone to claim their dirty money (after you'd given them a lift home, naturally).

Anyway... I find it disturbing that clyping on others is no longer viewed with disapproval. It seems that the state wishes to foster a climate of self-righteousness among its citizens - promoting and rewarding busybodies who love to bolster their own sense of superiority by informing on and castigating others. It's giving the interfering curtain-twitchers in our communities a pat on the back for their smugness. Whatever happened to working class solidarity, eh?

I must admit that I myself clyped this week, but only after a period of indecisive agonising over whether I should or not. I hate to interfere. While driving home on Monday evening, the traffic was suddenly brought to an abrupt halt by a wee mannie stotting about in the middle of the road. We assumed his risky weaving about was due to inebriation, but when he righted himself and rushed to the other side of the dual carriageway, a second man, younger and bigger, shot from the pavement and gave chase, caught up with the first man, knocked him to the ground and starting throwing punches and generally putting the boot in. My instinct was to fish my phone from my pocket and call the police, but I stopped myself. Meanwhile, the car behind me, clearly being driven by a lady with more sense of civic duty than weaselly old me, pulled over to the kerb. I assumed she was making the emergency call. So, I drove on, feeling guilty and anxious, and eventually when I got home, phoned Grumpyin Polis to let them know what I'd seen. It had already been reported right enough, but when the boys in blue had arrived at the scene, both the assailant and victim had vanished. However, later in the evening, I had a call back asking for descriptions etc. and informing me that I might need to make an official statement. Unless the pursued mannie makes a complaint, I should be spared that though.

My difficulty in deciding to phone was only partly down to my early social conditioning not to be a clype. I'm ashamed to say that another factor was my hopelessness when it comes to remembering visual details, and my embarrassment at my inability to even recollect precisely where on Great Northern Road the assault occurred. I know I'd be a useless witness. (In addition, knowing my luck, as soon as I got the mobile to my ear, some busybody clype would spot the illegal use of the phone while driving, and I'd end up with a hefty fine). More depressingly, the incident reminded me of my last miserable encounter with crime. I know only too well the cost of doing one's civic duty and making that call. Some years ago I'd inadvertently become a witness in a child murder case, simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After a day's teaching I'd headed with a few students and colleagues to the pub on campus. In the course of the evening, I ferried a couple of people home, coming back to the pub to rejoin the company. Every time I came to or from the car, I spotted a man standing staring shiftily around. When I eventually left to go home for the night, the man was still there, and this seemed mightily suspicious to me. I dismissed this, however, as my usual penchant for thinking the worst of people, and didn't phone to report him, as I didn't want to be a Clype, Drama-Queen, or Time-Waster. However, when a child's body turned up a couple of days later, only a few yards from where I'd seen the suspicious man, I thought perhaps I should give the police a call. But, yep, you guessed it, I didn't want to be a Clype, Drama-Queen, or Time-Waster, and anyway, I was convinced it wouldn't be remotely connected to the case at all. But after a couple of hours of procrastination I phoned. And I was wrong. It was the man. And then followed many months of Procurator Fiscals and Witness Citations and a probable appearance at a murder trial. I was in bits. The worst thing was the haunting thought that maybe if I'd made that call straightaway, the laddie's life could've been saved. The police, the Fiscal, and everyone else, tried to reassure me on that one, being convinced that the boy was already dead, and the killer was merely there that evening sussing out a place to dump the body, but I can't get rid of the nagging doubt. It's shameful of me, but I really do wish I'd never called, because at least that way I would never have had it confirmed that the man I saw was actually the killer. I could've pretended it was just a coincidence. Anyway, my desire for self-protection nowadays initially overrides the urge to do my duty, and I'll try to look the other way, but then, a while later, guilt takes over and I will end up doing the right thing. But the procrastination and indecision means that it's usually too late to be any bloody use, of course. I need a kick up the arse, I really do.

A footnote: strangely enough this morning on Great Northern Road, while I was waiting at some traffic lights, who should come proudly along the pavement but the lad who chased and assaulted the wee mannie on Monday night. Ah well. The criminal's still 'at large' then. "Would you recognise the men again?" the bobby had asked when he phoned. "Aye", said I, a bit doubtfully, "I think I'd be able to pick out the assault-er, but maybe not the assault-ee." And here we are today, recognising him instantly. So at least it turns out I didn't lie to the police.