Chief Inspector Rod Slipper, who led the raid on a popular drinking club in St Neots in which 144 gnomes were arrested for gross indecency, was upbeat about this latest development in the deepening gnome crises.
"We brought him in after simultaneous dawn raids on 47 garden centres in the region," he told our reporter confidently. "We had a tip-off from a member of the public that an illegal assembly of gnomes was being planned and we were able to put a stop to it."

Asked to confirm rumours that police had been injured in the operation, the Chief Inspector winced and eased his considerable bulk gingerly into a chair. "This was a dangerous operation carried out in the dead of night. Our officers were outnumbered ten to one and it was only due to their skill and professionalism that injuries were not more severe." Pausing to re-adjust the crotch of his serge trousers with a painful grimace, he added: "I can, however, state that despite the provocation our officers will not be giving the gnome the damn good kicking he so richly deserves now he is in police custody."
"Were you personally injured in the mêlée?" I enquired solicitously as the Chief Inspector sucked in his breath.
"I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind."
"Of course, Chief Inspector..."
"The lads would never let it lie if they found out."

Rod Slipper went on to reveal that three of his officers are recovering in hospital after separate incidents. He refused to give me any further details until relatives had been informed. Fortunately, a senior male nurse at Addenbrooke's Hospital who I didn't speak to, but is sleeping with my researcher, told her during a post-coital lapse that the injuries occurred when an officer carrying a ladder turned around and stood on a rake. "It was dark," the heavily bandaged and obviously embarrassed officer confessed when I interviewed him later. "I didn't spot the rake until it hit me between the eyes."
"What happened then?" I asked.
"A fucking great flower pot fell on my head and my weapon went off accidentally."
"You shot a fellow officer?"
"Not exactly, no..." mumbled the policeman. "The bullet richoched off a police motorcycle and decapitated a terracotta troll. It might have caused serious injury but as luck would have it, it was spent by the time it imbedded itself in Sergeant Pratt's lunchbox."

"Is that how your colleague sustained his injuries?" I asked, eyeing the graffiti-covered plaster cast that encased the legs of the officer lying in the next bed.
"Good heavens, no..." mumbled the policeman. "Pratt only lost a tuna sandwich. Boddington here broke both his legs when he fell through the roof of the greenhouse."
"And the young lady?" I enquired, nodding at an attractive policewoman turning the pages of 'Hard Studs Monthly' in a desultory fashion in the bed opposite.
"Er...WPC French was astride the motorcycle when the petrol tank caught fire and got a bit...um...singed."
"Is that right miss?" I asked.
She glared at me over the top of her magazine and slowly raised two fingers.
"So was anyone at all actually attacked by any gnomes, officer?"
"Apart from the gaffer getting bitten on his policeman's truncheon?"
"Truncheon?"
“Er… it’s a euphemism, sir.”
"So no one else was hurt by gnomes?” I persisted.
“Not really...no."

We understand that the gnome is being held under prevention of Gnomery legislation recently introduced by Chairman Tenji's National Satirists Party of England—or NASI—as the popular press have waggishly dubbed them. Under the new act the police have 120 days to decide what the gnome has done before charging him, which basically means the little shit will be weeding Chief Inspector Slipper's cannabis plants in the basement for the foreseeable future.

The gnome population were maintaining a stony silence this evening.

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