by Harry Morris
‘Sorry I’m late, Sarge, but I came home last night to find my apartment had been tanned!!’
The entire shift was stunned by this news.
‘How did it happen?’ asked the concerned shift sergeant.
To which Harry replied, ‘The wife left her sunbed on all night!’
Reducing Crime
. . .
The chief constable of Strathclyde, working in conjunction with the various regional councils, has devised a plan to help reduce the amount of crime on our streets by 50 per cent.
Apparently they’re going to double the number of streets!!
Don’t Trust the Polis
. . .
A number of crimes have taken place recently whereby the suspect involved was a bogus police officer.
An alarmed senior officer was prompted to issue a statement to the public, informing them not to trust anyone claiming to be a policeman!!!
The Adventures of Harry the Polis
. . .
No Chance
. . .
Constable Paul was absolutely delighted when he won the tickets for the hospitality suite at Ibrox Stadium to watch his favourites, Glasgow Rangers, play an important league game.
His prize also included a four-course meal, champagne and other refreshments at half-time and full-time.
Excited to get going, he awoke his wife, who was in bed after a busy nightshift, and asked her to drive him to the stadium to drop him off.
Barely awake and wearing her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, his wife duly obliged.
Afterwards, as she drove back home, she realised, she had no keys to get into the house and about-turned and made her way back to the stadium, where she had to make her way through hundreds of football supporters, to get to the stewards at the front door of the main entrance.
‘Excuse me, but I’ve just dropped my husband off for the game and I haven’t any house keys. Could you possibly give him a call over your tannoy and ask him to come to the front door with his house keys?’ she asked.
‘Certainly, love,’ said the steward, and looking at her Winnie top, he added, ‘Seeing you’re one of the teddy bears. What’s his name?’
She paused for a moment before uttering the words, ‘It’s John Paul!’ She then added, ‘But I can assure you he’s a Rangers supporter!’
The steward looked at her and said, ‘Hen! This is Ibrox Park. If I broadcast the name “John Paul” over the tannoy system, he’ll get lynched afore he even reaches the stairways!’
‘Well what do you suggest I do, then?’ she asked. ‘I’m locked out!’
‘I’d go home, hen, and call the police,’ he suggested.
‘I am the police and so is my husband John Paul!’ she responded. ‘Anyway, they’ll just boot the door in! I know what they’re like,’ she added.
‘Well, why don’t you go home and boot the door in yersel’ and claim some overtime?’ he replied condescendingly.
As it was, she made her way home and spent the remainder of the day in her pyjamas in her neighbour’s house, until finally a drunk but extremely happy John Paul returned from his hospitality day out, totally unaware.
How Did They Know?
. . .
This was in a newspaper years ago.
‘A man discovered in a car with his trousers down at his ankles and a woman astride him was arrested today for impersonating a police officer’!!
Toilet Graffiti
. . .
I had to laugh one evening when I entered the police toilet used by suspects brought to the office for interview.
One had written on the wall: ‘My mother made me a poof!’
Underneath it, someone else had written: ‘If I send her the wool, would she make me one?’
Jacket In!
. . .
It was the practice while working in the Production Department of the police to note the time, date, locus, crime/offence and a full description of all items worn or involved in incidents, and for this to be lodged by the reporting officer as productions for the court.
At the completion of a court case, where items were produced as evidence, the procurator fiscal’s office would issue a ‘release notice’ in respect of the items retained by the police.
It was then the duty and responsibility of the production officer to notify the owner of the items to call at the police station and collect them within a certain period of time.
This would result in an official recorded-delivery letter being sent to the address of the named person claiming to be their owner.
After a certain length of time and failed attempts to have the owner call and collect the articles, items such as clothing would be destroyed.
On one particular occasion, I was clearing a serious backlog of clothing, where I had a bag for destroying and a bag for a local church charity group, who were collecting warm clothing and blankets for the charity Bosnia Aid.
Any warm or half-decent items of clothing I came across for disposal/destruction, I would put into the Bosnia Aid charity bag!
Several weeks later, having dropped off the black plastic bin bags of clothing at the church, I received a telephone call from a young man requesting the return of his confiscated jacket.
I checked the relevant property book regarding his request, but could find no information as to the whereabouts of this particularly distinctive jacket in his name.
He explained that there were complications in his request, in as much as he was not the person wearing it at the time the police had retained it as a court production.
He then stated that the jacket was being worn by his cousin at the time of the offence, and therefore it would be lodged by the police under this cousin’s name.
I then looked under the name and address of his cousin and, sure enough, I found it.
But unfortunately for him and to his utter disappointment, it had not been reclaimed during the retaining period and therefore, as per force instructions regarding unclaimed items, it had been destroyed.
The caller blew his top big-time!
‘Destroyed?’ he shouted down the telephone. ‘Destroyed my arse! You’re winding me up, big man!’
‘I can assure you, sir, I am not!’ I replied. ‘The named owner, who according to the records was your cousin, was contacted by Royal Mail recorded delivery several months ago, to contact this office and arrange for the collection of the jacket. He failed to do so within the retention time!’
‘But it’s my jacket!’ he said.
I responded, ‘And?’ but before I could finish, he interrupted.
‘It’s a big bloody bright orange North Face jacket, worth over three hundred quid – you couldn’t miss it!’ he said aggressively.
‘Well, I’m sorry, mate, but I would take it up with your cousin and ask him why he didn’t call to collect it when he was notified by recorded delivery,’ I replied.
‘Are you for real, mate?’ he enquired. ‘You’re telling me you’ve destroyed a three-hundred-quid North Face waterproof, thermal jacket?’
‘Not at all, sir. I’m telling you I destroyed a big orangecoloured jacket belonging to your cousin. How much it cost, I don’t know. How fashionable it was, I couldn’t care less. So I suggest you speak with him about it!’ I then replaced the telephone.
However, this entire episode of events prompted an interested response in me.
Thereafter, every night, when I watched the television news or a humane relief documentary, where charity aid workers were involved, I was always conscious of the fact that some poor wee refugee guy was walking about with a 300-quid, bright orange North Face waterproof thermal jacket on, none the wiser of its make, expensive value, or even the fact that it’s all the rage in the yuppie fashion scene, but just extremely grateful and delighted to be keeping warm and dry in the freezing cold!
Cruelty to Girlfriends
. . .
Sitting in the police canteen, I was joined by the office cleaner.
As she sat down besi
de me, I was reading an article from the daily newspaper.
‘How disgusting can you get?’ I remarked. ‘A man’s been charged with indecent behaviour towards a nanny goat. Is that no’ terrible?’
To which the cleaner replied, ‘Not really. Sounds a bit like my son and his new girlfriend!’
The Carbolic Alcoholic
. . .
As a raw recruit in 1972, I was farmed out to work the Oatlands area, bordering the infamous Gorbals.
I was partnered off with an old cop with several weeks of his police service remaining before he officially retired.
As I was leaving the muster room, after being detailed my duty, another young cop approached me and enquired, ‘Are you working with “Soapy”, Harry?’
‘Soapy?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘No, it’s Davie I’m working with.’
‘Soapy,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘That’s his nickname.’
‘How come?’ I enquired.
‘Just wait. You’ll see!’ He then laughed and walked off.
Davie had been a real character and a police officer with a great track record.
However, due to the recent death of his wife, Davie had struggled to overcome her loss and found solace in alcohol.
On this particular Sunday afternoon, Davie took me out with him to meet the gatehouse man at a local factory in our area.
I thought we were there for a cup of tea, but Davie and the gatehouse man had other ideas and were pouring and drinking something that was the same colour, but entirely different.
A short time later, we received a call on our personal radios that the shift sergeant and inspector were requesting our locus to rendezvous with us.
Davie answered the radio and began making screeching and burping noises, which didn’t make any sense, but sounded like wireless distortion.
He then turned to me, grabbed his hat and coat, then said, ‘Quick, Harry, follow me and run like hell!’
We ran halfway down the road, when the radio controller broadcast, ‘Would the station trying to transmit please note you have a very poor signal with a lot of interference. I suggest you change your position and try again!’
Further down the road, Davie stopped and transmitted his screeching and burping noises again over his personal radio.
He then looked over at me and, catching his breath, he heaved a huge sigh and said, ‘Right, go!’
We were off again down the road until we came to the bottom of Polmadie Road and Old Rutherglen Road, where there was an old-fashioned police box.
(Remember them – Doctor Who and all that?)
Davie put his key in the lock and opened the door for us both to enter, he then stood for a moment inside, while he tried to catch his breath, then he put his hand behind the telephone and produced a polythene bag which appeared to contain pieces of tablet.
I watched him as he took a piece of the tablet out of the bag and popped it in his mouth. He began to chew vigorously on it.
The smell emanating from his mouth was revolting and as if that wasn’t enough, a yellow bile began to pour profusely out of either side of his mouth, as he continued to chew on the tablet.
‘What the hell are you eating, Davie?’ I enquired, while screwing my face up in utter disgust at the stench.
‘It’s carbolic soap, son, guaranteed to mask the smell of the best twelve-year-old Scotch whisky!’ he said confidently, while foam still spouted from his mouth like a rabid dog and dripped uncontrollably down his uniform tunic and on to the floor.
‘Carbolic soap?’ I said. ‘Are you serious? You’re breath is absolutely bowfin, man, and you look as if you’ve got rabies!’
‘Maybe so,’ he said. ‘But you can get disciplined for smelling of drink, whereas you can’t get done for smelling of soap.’
With that, he tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger and winked an eye.
‘Do you think so?’ I replied. ‘Well, you should get done for just being totally mingin’!’
Just at that point, we could see the supervisors approaching us.
Davie put his bag of soap tablets back behind the telephone, emptied his mouth of foaming spittle and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his tunic, before leaving the police box to greet them.
It took me all my time not to laugh, as Davie conversed with the gaffers, unaware he was still slobbering bile at the mouth.
As for the gaffers, they were just desperate to get away.
I learned a big lesson that day: never drink on duty and you won’t have to wash your mouth out with carbolic like Soapy, and also pay particular attention to the nicknames of your partners – as Lloyd Grossman would say, the clues are there!
Such as Gattling Gub (talks non-stop), Olympic Flame (never goes out), Sergeant Signal (the tube with the stripes), the Itch (gets right under your skin) and Harpic (he was clean round the bend)!
The following day, I was partnered off with Big Dick Bruce!!
I’m Sick, Sick, Sick up to Here!
. . .
I followed a car that was being driven in excess of the 30mph speed limit, down a particularly busy accident blackspot road.
Having covered the required measured distance, I activated the blue lights and siren to signal the woman driver to pull over and stop.
Once stopped, I walked up to the driver’s door.
The driver was sitting inside, staring directly ahead.
I asked her to open the window but she ignored my request.
I then opened her door myself and, as I did, she vomited all over her steering wheel and dashboard.
She was so worked up and nervous at being stopped by the police, she made herself so physically sick and couldn’t stop spewing all over her car.
Therefore, I used my discretion and reckoned if I didn’t make a hasty retreat, she would be spewing all over me as well.
Having witnessed her obvious distress, I decided under the circumstances that a warning would suffice and allowed her to carry on her way!
By the way, she was also totally mingin’ wi’ the vomit!
Michael Schumacher … Not!
. . .
One early morning I attended a call, along with other police mobile stations, to the Old King George V Dock in Govan.
My partner, Graeme Povey, had been putting up a case for our Ford Consul GT being faster than George Dalglish and David Ball’s new Jaguar 4.2-litre.
George had baited Povey that he would leave him trailing in his wake if they both had to race to an emergency, since he had a 4.2-litre Jag.
The inevitable was decided: we would have a race along the old derelict dock roads to see which car was the fastest.
We lined up alongside each other, then — go! – we were off, hurtling along the cobbled dock roads at great speed.
Graeme managed to edge our car in front as we approached the winning post.
I looked back with great relief and delight that my underwear was still unsoiled and was about to wave bye-bye to George and David, only to see them juddering to a sudden stop as smoke appeared from the engine of the Jag.
What could have happened, I hear you ask?
Did they blow up the engine? … No!
The Jaguar has considerably less ground clearance than most cars and as a result, while hurtling along, George had straddled a metal stud which just happened to be the remains of a capstan (not the cigarette)!
Whereby the engine cross-member of the Jaguar was caught by the protruding stud and virtually removed the whole engine, as the momentum of the bodywork went forward, causing considerable extensive damage to the Jag.
This was an incident that required some expert storytelling from the 4.2 Jaguar car crew!
Vasectomy
. . .
Several years ago, having made the decision not to have any more children, I reluctantly agreed to go for a vasectomy operation, although I was slightly apprehensive about it.
The doctor tried to allay my fears by saying, ‘A wee snip here and a wee sni
p there and Bob’s your auntie! So to speak!’
‘You’re supposed to instil a bit of confidence, doctor!’
However, my sinister-in-law (that’s what I call her) added her tuppence worth to my concerns, just to make me feel better: ‘It’s a dawdle for a man. You don’t feel a thing!’ she stated.
I responded by saying, ‘Is that right? And you would know from experience, I expect, having been a man in an earlier life!’
You’ll have guessed I don’t get on with her! (Him!!)
Moustache You a Question
. . .
While serving my police probation period at the Gorbals police station, I turned up for the first night of my five weeks’ nightshift, sporting a rather faint but visible ‘Pancho Villa’ Mexican moustache.
The guys had informed me on my shift that if you want to grow a moustache, you either do it on your annual leave or during the nightshift.
This was the present trend of style of facial hair and I must admit, I thought I looked darn well cool for cats, so to speak!
I sat in the muster room along with the rest of my police colleagues, awaiting my duty detail, stroking my face like a veteran moustache-grower and making sure I drew attention to it, just in case someone present hadn’t noticed.
There were the usual remarks: ‘Something up with your lip, Harry?’ ‘Could you no’ wash yer face afore you came out to yer work, son?’
At the end of the rib-taking and muster, I was summoned to Inspector Wilson’s office.
I knocked on his door and was instructed to enter.
As I did, I was asked the following: ‘What is that on your face, Harry?’
‘It’s a moustache I’m growing, sir!’ I replied, rather pleased with myself.
‘A moustache?’ he said. ‘Well, take that, Harry!’