From the Crypt

There's a box down in the shed that's stuffed full of newspaper clippings - almost every column I wrote for The West Australian since I began in the late 80s.
Some of these were included in the two books I had published and I hadn't thought about them for years until I was stopped in my tracks by an episode of Murder She Wrote on Foxtel's TV1 channel.
It was an episode that inspired a column that was written, oh, it must be 17 years ago now and it made me think it might be fun to drag out an occasional oldie and run it here.
(I should add that I can't post anything of mine published between 2004 and 2009 because The West owns the copyright and would shit on me from a great height BUT all of the columns written before that are owned by me and good to go.)
Anyway, here it is, the first instalment From the Crypt - living proof that (1) pay-TV has no shame when it comes to endless re-runs and (2) cop shows really haven't changed that much over the years.

I WAS lying in front of the fire watching Murder She Wrote and all of a sudden this guy said, "I always wanted to be a carp. My daddy was a carp, God rest his soul, and when I was a kid he always let me polish that silver badge of his..."
It made me realise you need to have extraordinary abilities to get into American cop shows, as opposed to British cop shows like The Bill where all you really need are sturdy shoes and the ability to memorise three lines: "PC39 reporting for duty, sir", "Give us a break, Sarge" and "Right, mate, you're nicked."
American cop shows, on the other hand, require a multitude of talents. For starters you have to be totally incapable of getting on with your boss so that he can:
1. Take you off the case (but you do it anyway)
2. Suspend you from duty (but you do it anyway)
3. Give you till noon on Toozday to solve three murders and cure your partner of the death wish that is threatening his otherwise promising career, this death wish having been brought about by the violent demise of partner's wife/childhood sweetheart/handicapped child at the hands of a black crack dealer who drives a white Mercedes.
Not that it's essential you have a male partner with a death wish. You could just as easily have a female who's wet behind the ears. This female will have replaced the partner who retired after 47 years on the beat and who has been married to the same woman for 45 of them.
Your ex-partner and his wife will retire to Florida, be gunned down on a golf course by a black crack dealer driving a white Mercedes and wet female will help solve the crime, proving she's got what it takes after all.
You will also need to have an ex-wife so you can go to her apartment to visit your two cute children who will throw their arms around your neck and shout, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" every time you walk through the door.
This wife has to be "ex" because then you can visit your mother and say things like, "Jeez, Ma" when she serves you up enormous home-cooked meals. These meals are necessary because your diet consists entirely of doughnuts and Danish washed down with cawfee that comes in a polystyrene cup.
What's more, you will eat only when you're sitting behind the wheel of a car, preferably one that's parked alongside a broken fire hydrant that's squirting water all over a Puerto Rican couple having a domestic on the sidewalk. Then you can leap out mid-bite, throwing doughnut roughly to one side while you pull out your gun.
And why anyone would want to go through all that just to be a carp, I have no idea.
Far easier, I think, to lie in front of the fire like a stunned mullet and wonder at the meaning of it all.