I was listening to a Chief Constable on the radio the other day - you know the sort, the type whose vowels sound like they were polished at a minor public school and whose consonants never had to dodge a regional accent in their life. And it struck me, not for the first time, just how plummy most of them still sound.
We like to pretend the police is a great meritocracy: a rough-and-tumble career where anyone with enough graft can work their way to the top job. But let’s not kid ourselves: a glance at the upper echelons of chief constables tells you there’s a certain social flavour to the leadership ranks. It's not all old boys' networks and Oxbridge ties, but the odds do tilt in favour of those who started life a rung or two up the social ladder.
It’s not that a working-class constable can’t reach the top. They certainly can and occasionally do - Sir Hugh Orde and Sir Norman Bettison are examples. It’s just that they have to navigate a course that’s subtly booby-trapped with cultural hurdles and social codes. They have to pick up the managerial dialect, the right credentials, and the quiet ease of fitting into a club that still leans heavily towards the middle class.
In other words, by the time you hear that chief constable on the radio sounding like they’ve just walked off the set of a BBC period drama, you’re not hearing an accident. You’re hearing the sound of a system that still, for all its talk of inclusion, has a pretty narrow sense of what leadership should sound like.
So next time someone tells you the police is a classless ladder, just ask them why the top rung so often echoes with such well-bred tones. It’s not that the ladder’s missing rungs, it’s just that some people have to climb it in heavier boots.
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