by Harry Morris
He then handed me a blue form.
In all my innocence, I thought I had to fill it out in order to state my intention and obtain permission to grow my moustache.
‘What’s it for, sir, permission to grow it?’ I asked.
‘No!’ he replied. ‘It’s a resignation form. If you think you suit the moustache, fill it in and hand it back to me!’
– Baldy old bastard!
Pea and Ham from a Chicken
. . .
My sister Linda invited me over for a barbecue one summer’s day and I volunteered to do the cooking.
I was making chicken drumsticks, sausages, burgers and pork chops.
After I had finished cooking, Gary, my sister’s young son, helped himself to a large pork chop and went out to the front of his house, where he joined my daughter and his friends.
‘Whit’s that you’re eating, Gary?’ asked one of his pals.
‘It’s a pork chop!’ he replied smugly.
‘Where did you get it from?’ asked another friend.
Gary replied sarcastically, ‘From a cow, stupid!’
At which point, my youngest daughter Kimmy said, ‘No, Gary, it’s from a pig … Stupid!’
The Snitch
. . .
It is common knowledge amongst the rank and file that a well-known senior police officer got a young policewoman into trouble.
Apparently he reported to a traffic warden she was parked on a double yellow line!
Taxi to Charing Cross
. . .
While performing surveillance duties with the Serious Crime Squad, I was following a car being driven by the target male along a busy road in Glasgow city centre.
At this time, I was driving a black taxi, which we used from time to time, and I was the tail end in the surveillance team operating that day.
I was instructed by radio to close in on the target and take over the main role, while the lead vehicle was replaced to avoid any suspicion by the suspect.
As I moved up through the traffic on the target vehicle, I was stopped in a line of vehicles at traffic lights.
While waiting for the lights to change, I was watching the target vehicle closely for any sudden movements from him, when suddenly the door of my taxi opened and a well-dressed, suited man got into the back seat.
‘Charing Cross please, driver,’ he said.
I turned around to look at him and said politely, ‘Sorry, mate, I’m not for hire!’
‘Well your light’s on, so you’ll have to take me,’ he replied.
I looked over to see the opposite junction traffic lights change to red and turned back to my passenger.
‘Right, mate, you’ll have to get out,’ I said. ‘I’m busy!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ he enquired.
‘You heard me, I’m busy, now get out the taxi!’ I repeated.
‘You’re for hire and I’m hiring you to drive me to Charing Cross!’ he replied rather indignantly.
‘And I’m telling you to sling yer hook and get out my taxi,’ I responded in a stern voice. ‘Now move yer arse and hurry up about it!’
‘That’s it! You’ve gone too far, now I’m going to report you!’ he responded in true Basil Fawlty fashion.
Then, taking a notebook and pen from his breast pocket, he began scribbling notes down in it.
By this time, the traffic was starting to move off and I was instructed over my police radio, ‘Right, Harry, move up, move up, the target is now yours!’
Now I was getting really annoyed, so I said to my passenger, ‘Right, mate, write this down: “I am personally going to batter you if you don’t get out my taxi right now.” Comprendez?’
‘That’s it, so you’re threatening me with violence? You are in such deep trouble, my man! They’ll throw the book at you!’ he replied, while writing in his wee notebook.
Then, blasting loudly over my police radio came: ‘Harry, what is keeping you? Will you move up on the target before the traffic lights change again!’
This was the final straw — my patience was exhausted, so I opened my driver’s door.
‘That’s it, pal, you’ve had your chance!’ I said.
I jumped out of the driving seat, opened the passenger door and, grabbing hold of his jacket collar, I physically pulled him out of his seat.
At this point, he wrapped his arms around the passenger handlebar rail and held on tightly, refusing to budge.
‘I’ll call the police on you!’ he said, clinging on like a leech.
‘Don’t bother, I’m here!’ I said. ‘Now do yerself a Rodney and piss off!’
I then threw his briefcase and brolly out on to the pavement before he would move.
I got back into the taxi and drove off into the lead position, where I continued with my surveillance of the target vehicle.
However, as I looked back, I saw my evicted passenger flag down another taxi and get in.
I had to laugh when I thought of the taxi driver asking him, ‘Where to, mate?’
And him replying, ‘Follow that cab!!’
Exam Results
. . .
During the Police Scotland Examinations, an officer was taken aside by the adjudication officer and informed he was being reported to the Examination Board for cheating.
‘Who, me?’ said the surprised officer. ‘Where did I cheat then?’
The examiner replied, ‘Question eight!’
‘What about question eight?’ asked the officer.
‘Well,’ said the adjudicator, ‘the person sitting on your immediate right has written his answer as, “I don’t know”! And you’ve written, “I don’t know either”!!’
Police Proverb
. . .
My kids handed me a key ring one Christmas, which said, ‘Help your local policeman – beat yourself up!!’
Kicking the Habit
. . .
A man was arrested and, on being searched, was found to be concealing drugs in his training shoes.
When asked to explain his possession of the drugs, he gave the following excuse to the officers, ‘I’m genuinely trying to kick the habit!’
Cosmetic Surgery
. . .
An older female station assistant decided to go for some facial cosmetic surgery. She was not one bit vain about it either and didn’t care who knew!
Several months later I happened to be in the office where she worked and on seeing her, I noticed a big difference in her facial appearance. I decided to joke with her:
‘Do yer toes always curl up when ye talk?’
‘Did ye get everything stretched and lifted?’
‘Yer eyes are open awfully wide, Cathy. Can ye no’ shut them?’
‘Is that a dimple on yer chin or yer belly button?’
She laughed at these but soon got fed up with my constant joking, and pointed her elbow at me and said with a straight face, ‘One more remark like that and I’ll pish all over you!’
There was a silence, before she burst into hysterical laughter.
Talking Sex
. . .
A black policeman I worked with was employed with the Support Unit, which consisted of a van with usually eight or ten officers who would be deployed into a troublesome area.
One evening an officer nicknamed Gattling Gub was berating him in the van in front of the other officers and making him the butt of his jokes and remarks.
Later that evening, half of them were dropped off at my office for their refreshment period.
As they all sat around the table, enjoying a cigarette and a cup of coffee, one of the officers said to the black officer, ‘Why did you put up with that tosser Gattling Gub slagging you off like that? Why did you not just tell him to shut the fuck up?’
The black officer, totally calm and sitting quietly, looking down at his coffee, replied, ‘Because, at the end of the day, I know something he doesn’t!’
He then paused for a moment before continuing, ‘When his wife worked
as a cop with me, I had sex with her many times, before him!’
You could hear a pin drop at this remark, then, as one, the entire table of seated cops burst into hysterical laughter!
A Special Unit Burns Supper
. . .
Several years ago, while working in the Crime Intelligence Unit at police headquarters, Pitt Street in Glasgow, I attended a Burns Supper evening of entertainment in the HQ restaurant.
There were some excellent speakers at this well-attended venue and the top table was littered with senior police officers and distinguished guests.
The main guest speaker was a high-profile and colourful character who was a former Conservative MP and highly respected Queen’s Counsel.
The start was delayed due to the late arrival of our distinguished guest speaker, who was absolutely pished as a fart on his arrival and decked out in his usual tartan three-piece suit and cravat.
The senior officers and other invited guests squirmed in their seats at his noisy, over-the-top entrance, whereby some of them had to assist him as he staggered unsteadily on his feet.
After a brief slurred apology, which I struggled to make any sense of, it was his big moment to address the haggis!
The chef, carrying the haggis, was led in by a tartan-clad bagpiper and made his way along the front of the top table, stopping directly opposite the guest speaker and placing the impressively large haggis in front of him.
Drams of malt whisky were then handed around the guests before the main speaker began his most notable and totally unforgettable address to the haggis!
He began, ‘As a former well-known Barlinnie Special Unit client of mine once said …’ Pausing for a moment to compose himself, he then blurted out loudly, ‘Take that, ya bastard!’
He then began stabbing and thrashing the large butcher knife into the cooked haggis in front of him.
Pieces of haggis were strewn everywhere, all over the top table.
The expressions on the faces of senior officers along the top table were priceless.
As for the assembly seated before them, of which I was one, we howled with laughter at his antics.
However, a few minutes later, it was a case of, ‘Taxi for Pitt Street!’ as he was whisked off, out of the building, into the night!
Karaoke? Not!
. . .
A police officer, aptly nicknamed ‘the Slug’ because he was so slow at everything he attempted, was attending the Sheriff Court in Glasgow in order to give evidence at a trial.
While in the witness box, he was being cross-examined by the accused’s defence agent.
The officer answered each question that was asked of him, in his own immutable fashion, refusing to allow himself to be harassed or hurried.
This was becoming infuriating to the defence agent, to such an extent that he said abruptly, ‘Do you know, Constable, you give the impression of being more laid-back than Perry Como. Would you agree with that statement?’
To which the Slug reacted by shrugging his head from side to side and giving the question some consideration, before replying, ‘I’d probably have to agree with you, sir, so long as you don’t ask me to sing like him!’
The Adventures of Harry the Polis
. . .
CSI Glasgow
. . .
How do Gil Grissom and his CSI team do it, week after week? I mean how do they solve the crimes on TV?
It’s one thing to solve it, but it’s another thing convincing a jury, particularly a Glasgow jury, to convict an accused on the DNA evidence available.
One particular case comes to mind, whereby an accused, serving a jail term for robbery, attended the High Court in Glasgow for trial on another charge of armed robbery.
During the trial we heard that the accused, along with another male, both wearing ex-USA President Richard Nixon masks, had entered a bank, produced a gun and held up staff and customers, before committing a robbery.
While the bank was being held up, an ex-police officer standing in the queue decided to have a go at the gunman and began to struggle with him, during which he pulled off the gunman’s mask, exposing his true identity.
Meanwhile the other robber, with the money, climbed back over the security screen and ran out of the bank and was driven off in a waiting getaway car, leaving the gunman stranded.
The gunman then ran from the bank along the busy main street pursued by the ex-policeman, who shouted out, ‘Stop him!’
A male shopper put down the bags he was carrying to intervene, but on seeing the gun in the robber’s hand, he stepped out of his way, allowing him to pass unchallenged.
The gunman managed to escape capture at this point, but was later identified and subsequently arrested, along with the gun he used, which was recovered in a shoebox in his house.
Now, the farce referred to as the court case went as follows:
The ex-cop, who had a go with the gunman in the bank and ripped off his Richard Nixon mask, positively identified the accused in the dock as being the person he had fought with and who struck him on the head with the gun, causing injury.
The shopper who had allowed the gunman to pass unobstructed positively identified the accused in the dock as the same person and qualified his evidence by adding, ‘When someone is running towards you armed with a handgun, you don’t forget what the person looks like!’
Next up were the cops who raided his house and arrested him. During his taped interview with the CID he had freely admitted having bought the Richard Nixon masks worn during the robbery while on a recent weekend trip to Manchester.
Then the final nail in his coffin was the scene-of-crime evidence. Enter the forensic scientist to give his expert evidence. (Yes, just like CSI’s Gil Grissom!)
He was the CSI officer who matched the DNA on the hair follicles ripped from the accused’s head when he struggled with the ex-cop in the bank and lost his mask.
The forensic officer then gave the odds of one in five million that it wasn’t the accused person on trial involved.
In other words, it was the accused male seated in the dock.
The jury went out to deliberate and consider the evidence, before returning a very short time later with a Not Proven verdict!
As for the accused, who expected to be found guilty and sentenced to at least five years, he just burst out laughing at the verdict of a rather weak and totally inept jury.
A Side Order of Vegetables
. . .
Detective Superintendent Charlie Craig was a very funny guy.
I had been fortunate to hear Charlie as a guest speaker at a function and found him a very witty character.
One time, whilst a guest speaker at a Burns Supper at police HQ in Pitt Street, attended by the deputy and assistant chief constables, Charlie was speaking about the knighthood that had been bestowed upon the present chief constable.
Charlie said that the chief constable had invited his most senior staff members, who just happened to be seated along either side of Charlie at the top table, to accompany him for a meal and a celebration drink.
Once inside the restaurant, the chief constable and his party were escorted to their specially prepared table.
After they were all seated, the waitress noted the drinks order, whilst a second waitress handed out the food menus.
After a few minutes the food menu waitress returned to note each guest’s order.
She began with the chief constable.
‘Now, sir, what would you like to eat?’ she asked politely.
‘I’ll have the filet mignon, please!’ replied the chief constable.
The waitress made note of his order, then asked, ‘And what about your vegetables?’
To which he replied, ‘Oh, they’ll just order for themselves!’
Only ‘Cheeky’ Charlie would attempt to get away with that one!
Red Card for Pink Slip
. . .
A regular complaint in the police was the number of times members of the public
would call at the station to report having lost a bag, a wallet, a handbag or its contents.
At this point I must stress that on most occasions it was usually the loss of a cashed Department of Social Security giro cheque!
With this in mind, they would ask for a pink slip/loss report to present to their insurance company in order to make a claim, but more realistically, if you were on state benefit, you could take it to the DSS office and obtain help with your loss, i.e. a crisis loan, etc.
This procedure was being abused big-time by certain members of the public and was highlighted with a story in the Sunday Mail under the heading ‘Red Card for Pink Slips’, referring to the amount of false reporting!
While I was on duty one Sunday evening, a woman called at the station to report having lost her handbag and asked if I could provide her with a loss report for her insurance company.
Having heard it all before, I handed her a copy of the newspaper and advised her to sit down, read the article and consider the consequences before I processed her request.
I sat back down at my desk and continued with my paperwork.
After a short while, I looked up to see the woman, still peering at the newspaper.
Thinking she might be illiterate, I said, ‘Do you have a problem reading the article, missus?’
To which she replied, ‘Not normally, sir, but my reading glasses were in my bag when I lost it!’
Ask Him Yourself
. . .
Out one day on motorcycle duty together with John Imrie, we were patrolling the Great Western Road area of Glasgow when John and I had occasion to stop a van, being driven by a young Asian man, regarding an expired tax disc being displayed.