Traffic wardens in Manchester wear...

red. I noticed it again today and though I've not really taken much notice they do seem to carry with them a fair amount of equipment. Portentous machines with buttons and screens and knobs in brushed aluminium or veneer of ochre. It's obvious even to the lay observer that all this kit must be a radiation hazard, bit of a giveaway given sterility is promoted as a perk of the job. How bold is that?

Like many I've seen publicity photographs of fully equipped fighter aircraft where the extra weaponry is spread out on the ground, guns, missiles, ammunition, flares, fuel tanks, assorted pods, nipple clamps, things of that ilk. The layout in such photos is generally of a sleek looking jet parked within a 100 foot diameter of death dealing instrumentation manufactured by the Daggerkill Corp of Arteryrupture, Illinois. A recent brochure advertising Manchester Traffic Wardens produced by the Daggerkill Corp of Little Embolism, Greater Manchester displayed a traffic warden in a similar manner. A solitary figure adjacent to over four hundred different gadgets. It was an cool photograph because the warden had been cleverly positioned to represent an exclamation mark next to equipment arranged to form the words FUCK YOU! A neat touch I thought, both menacing and not easily forgotten.

The question of weight was addressed inside the booklet through one of those diagrams that show the inner workings of things. Via a hidden staircase the uniform could be entered unseen. Beneath the red all weather gear was a structure not unlike the Caterpillar Loader used by Sigourney Weaver's Ripley to fight that mother Alien in film two of the series. The main seating cabin was approached down a long corridor lined with magnificent bay windows and no expense was spared on the sumptuous curtains.

From a coffee house today in central Manchester I saw two wardens and curious I went to ask some questions.

"Heyup," I said. "is all that equipment necessary?"
"Not all of it," They said.
"What bits don't you need then," I shouted up to them.

"Well...lets see, obviously we need the taser for your reluctant driver see, this model's called the Pacifier, kind of speaks for itself. And the cattle prods keep pigeons from shitting on the equipment, pure ochre this, just look at the craftsmanship. Err we've got yer phasers, lasers, dazers, gazers, amazers, hazers, razors, vases, just for flowers like. Out back's where we keep the coal, nothing like coal for a nice fire in winter, then there's that curious hole where beer gets delivered. Oh and the cyber cafe but that's only open at weekends though the Weslyan Chapel uses the next room every second Thursday, nice folk the Weslyans, always making cakes."

"Where's the power come from?" I asked.
"From the Lord of course, ha ha, no, only joking. Have you read of those redundant Russian nuclear submarines?"
"I've read that removing their power plants is a dangerous business." I say.
Both rosy cheeked wardens chuckled, "No removal's were necessary, bought up the whole fleet, one sub for each uniform. Crew and all. Even weaponry, ICBM's, launch codes the lot. Seemed cheaper that way. Turned out to be a real boon."
"Got to be off," Said the more quiet of the two. "The city never sleeps."

And that was that, as they say. I ordered my next coffee in a recycled paper cup and felt that like those wardens I was doing my bit for the environment. Recycling Russian Sub Reactors, whatever next? As a citizen of Manchester it made me walk just that little bit taller, though not too tall mind for what comes through that thinning ozone layer will flay the skin off your average skull in no time.