PC Briggs: (puffing out chest, jabbing a sausage-like finger) I’m PC Barry Briggs, mate, finest copper in all of East London! Got a tip-off you’re causin’ a right ruckus with them fancy video games. Where’s your license, then? Hand it over, sharpish!
Britcuck: (bewildered) License? For what? I’m just playing Counter-Strike!
PC Briggs: (squinting suspiciously, leaning over the desk) Don’t gimme that malarkey, son! You think you can sit ‘ere, clickin’ and clackin’ on your keyboard like some bleedin’ cyber-criminal, without proper documentation? Show me your gammin’ license, or I’ll nick ya faster than you can say “Game Over”!
Britcuck: (laughing nervously) Gaming license? Mate, there’s no such thing! I bought this game on Steam, it’s all legit!
PC Briggs: (slamming a fist on the desk, knocking over an energy drink) Don’t get clever with me, sunshine! I know your type…hidin’ behind them pixels, causin’ virtual mayhem! You got a permit from Her Majesty’s Ministry of Digital Tomfoolery, or what? I ain’t leavin’ ‘til I see paperwork!
Britcuck: (holding up hands) Look, officer, I’m just a uni student. I paid for the game, I’ve got a receipt somewhere if you want…
PC Briggs: (interrupting, sneering) Receipt? RECEIPT?! You think a poxy email from some internet shop’s gonna cut it with PC Bulldog Briggs? I want an official license, stamped, signed, and preferably embossed with the Queen’s bleedin’ corgis! This ain’t the Wild West, son…London’s got rules!
Britcuck: (exasperated) Rules? For playing PC games? Since when? You’re having a laugh, right?
PC Briggs: (leaning in, voice lowering to a growl) Laugh? I don’t laugh, lad. I enforce. Word on the street is you’re rackin’ up kills in that shooty game without a Class 3 Virtual Firearms Permit. That’s a serious offense under the 2025 Digital Disorder Act, Section 12, Paragraph 8…or summat like that. I don’t read the fine print, I just bash heads!
