Even the Lies are True

by Harry Morris

  As the van pulled up outside a mini-market, the young driver got out and went to enter, but was stopped by John.

  The driver stated that the van belonged to the shop owner and he was just the delivery driver. He also gave his name as Iqbal Singh.

  While John spoke with the driver, I went inside to speak with the shop owner and check the identity of the driver of his van.

  I immediately noticed the shop owner was wearing a ring with the name Iqbal on it.

  ‘Can you tell me your name please?’ I asked him.

  ‘Iqbal Singh!’ he replied. ‘I am the shop’s owner here!’

  ‘Can you tell me your driver’s name?’ I enquired.

  ‘As’ him!’ he replied.

  ‘No, I don’t want to ask him, I’m asking you. Now what is his name?’ I said with a stern voice, knowing the driver had given a false name to John.

  Again, the shopkeeper replied, ‘As’ him, sir!’

  Losing my patience, I replied, ‘I told you, I’m asking you, not him! Now tell me his name!’

  This time with his voice trembling, he replied, ‘As’ him, sir, as’ him!’

  ‘That’s it, this is your final chance to tell me his name,’ I said with authority, ‘or else I’ll charge you with attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

  To which the poor frustrated shopkeeper answered, ‘As’ him, sir! Assim Naseem! Honest!’

  Forgot Who You Were Today?

  . . .

  Whilst patrolling with my partner David Ball, we stopped a vehicle being driven along Edmiston Drive, opposite Ibrox Park in Glasgow.

  The driver, who was a young Asian, accompanied us around his car while we examined it for any visible defects.

  We asked him to identify himself and to provide some form of proof.

  The driver immediately pulled out his wallet and handed over a driving licence bearing the name Abdul Ahmed, and stated that he was the named licence-holder.

  While examining it, David noticed that the driver’s licence had not been signed by the holder and pointed out that it was an offence.

  He handed it back to the driver, along with a pen, to sign it.

  The driver took possession of his licence and proceeded to sign it ‘Mohammed Al—’ then suddenly, realising the error of his ways, he scored it out with the pen and began to write above it ‘Abdul Ahmed’!

  His lapse in concentration in forgetting who he was that day cost him dearly, but I bet he won’t forget who he is next time he gets stopped by the police!

  Who’s Comforting Who?

  . . .

  George had arrived at my office from the Drug Squad, where he had worked for several years and, as you can imagine, had seen some memorable sights during his time there.

  We both had the same years in service and on one particular day, we were detailed to work together.

  During the shift, we received a ‘death message’ to deliver.

  This was the sudden death of an older man, who had collapsed in the street going to the local post office.

  His elderly wife, who had remained in the family home, was totally unaware and had to be informed.

  As usual, in these difficult circumstances, you call at a relative, a neighbour or a friend’s house, to ask them to accompany you to the family home and assist in comforting the person whom you are about to inform with the sad news regarding the death of a loved one.

  Unable to trace a relative, we called at her neighbour’s house and explained the situation.

  The neighbour, who was also a close friend of the elderly couple, was devastated at the news but was prepared to accompany us.

  We knocked on the door and the wife answered it.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Brown, I wonder if we could come in a minute? We have some sad news to tell you,’ I said to her.

  ‘If it’s about Paw Broon, he’s at the shops getting a few messages, but he’ll be back shortly!’ she said in all innocence.

  ‘Well, it is about “Paw”, hen, but I’m afraid it’s not very good news!’

  By this time we had walked through to the living room area. With the assistance of her neighbour to comfort her and put an arm around her, I broke the news of her husband’s sudden death.

  There is no easy way to perform this task!

  No book has ever been written describing how to go about it and it doesn’t matter who you are – a family death is devastating!

  The poor woman was distraught, the tears and cries of disbelief greeted us, as the neighbour, with tears in her eyes, tried along with George to console her.

  I decided to make a cup of tea, while the others were comforting her.

  As I was doing this, I noticed there was no milk.

  I told the neighbour, who permitted me to go into her house and get some from the fridge in the kitchen.

  What a shock there was for me when I returned to the grieving woman’s house!

  There in the middle of the sofa couch, was my police partner George, sobbing uncontrollably and being comforted by both the bereaved woman and her neighbour.

  Looking at the situation, you’d have thought George was the one who had just received the bad news.

  The older woman had her arm around George, patting him sympathetically and saying, ‘It’s OK, son, just let it all out and don’t be embarrassed!’

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! I was lost for words!

  So I blurted out the first thing that came into my head: ‘That‘ll be three cups of tea, then? Milk and sugar, everybody?’

  Later, once George had drunk his tea and composed himself, he told me that in his twenty-three years’ police service, this was the first time he had ever delivered a death message to a loved one and the built-up emotion of it all had just hit him!

  ‘Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone about what occurred today!’ he pleaded with me.

  ‘My lips are sealed, George!’ I replied, as I drew my fingers across my lips, as if to close a zip fastener.

  However, the nickname Greetin’ Face stuck with him for the rest of his police service.

  To this day George thinks I said something – but I can assure him I didn’t! I wrote it down!!

  Road Accident Excuses

  . . .

  ‘I was sure the old fellow would never make it to the other side of the road, so I struck him with my car.’

  In the Dark

  . . .

  During a recent football match at which I was engaged on duty in the stadium, I was standing on the touchline, near to the players’ tunnel, when the floodlighting system went out, placing the entire stadium in total darkness.

  The referee immediately summoned all the players on both sides to the centre circle and began to lead them off the park.

  As the players filtered off towards the dressing room, the referee and his assistants were just about to enter the tunnel when a spectator in the crowd shouted, ‘This shouldn’t make any difference to you, referee – you’ve been in the dark all bloody night!!’

  The Bar-L Strike

  . . .

  During a strike by prison officers at HMP Barlinnie in Glasgow, they were refusing to accept any more prisoners during the dispute.

  As a result, the prisoners were being housed at police stations such as London Road.

  Many police officers from the divisions around Glasgow were detailed to report there for their duties, these being to perform the job of prison warden.

  Let me inform you immediately – both jobs are completely opposite and entail a different approach.

  We had to allow the prisoners certain privileges not permitted in the ‘Bar-L’, in order to prevent any unwanted disturbances or rioting!

  Whilst on this duty, I spoke with some of the prisoners and have enclosed a few of the conversations.

  Alec: ‘I’m fifty-eight years of age and I’m a lifer in instalments. I’ve served twenty-six years in prison for drink-related offences like breach of the peace, drunk and incapable and shopli
fting, all stupid things because of my alcohol problem. I’m safe in here, because I can’t handle the outside – I’m frightened!’

  Alec died shortly after his release; his death was alcohol-related.

  Ian: ‘It’s my first time in prison and I got locked up for litter! I threw a lousy chip poke away.’

  ‘You don’t get locked up for litter,’ I said.

  ‘You do if you fail to pay the fine!’ he replied.

  Tam: ‘My brief said, “It’s only breach of the peace, just plead guilty. Everybody’s getting a letter to return to court after the prison dispute is resolved. You won’t be sentenced today!”

  ‘So what happened? With his expert advice, I pled guilty and was sentenced to thirty days!’

  Later the same evening, Tam shouted out, ‘Hey, boss, any chance of a wee stretch?’

  I shouted back, ‘You’ve already got thirty days, Tam, is that not enough for you?’

  Is that a Cannon I Hear?

  . . .

  A young struggling actor was contacted by his agent and offered a part in the London West End play Waterloo.

  The part was small, but the pay was very good and it would guarantee him some much-needed work for several months.

  On accepting the offer, he was sent his lines to learn and told to come immediately to London. With his bags packed, he was off.

  As he travelled down on the train, he tried out various voices to deliver his line: ‘Hark! Is that a cannon I hear?’

  This rehearsal continued all the way to the stage door of the theatre, as he arrived minutes prior to the start of the play and his big entrance.

  He was quickly whisked off to make-up and wardrobe, dressed in costume and ready to walk on stage, with minutes to spare.

  As he received his cue to make his entrance and say his line, he took several steps toward centre stage, when suddenly there was an almighty ‘BANG!!’

  Receiving such a fright, he totally forgot his opening line and blurted out loudly, ‘WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?’

  Trailer Bike

  . . .

  One day while out on motorcycle patrol, I passed a garden centre advertising a closing-down sale!

  During my lunch break, I went in and it was Christmas for me.

  Everything you’ll ever want at ridiculously reduced prices – I just had to have some of this.

  ‘I’ll take six bags of that and four bags of this and four of your rowan trees. Oh! And give me four of your wild-bird houses and three packets of birdseed. Is that grass seed and lawn feed? I’ll take some of them and two tins of fencing preservative paint and a hard garden brush and bucket!’

  They even had that new Whyte and Mackay grass seed. You just scatter it over your lawn and it comes up half-cut!!

  Anyway, after the assistant had totalled up the cost and I had paid for it all, I asked him, ‘What time do you close and I’ll come back and collect my goods later?’

  ‘Sorry, mate!’ he replied. ‘We’re closing now. You’ll have to take it all with you!’

  Arrghh! Shock horror!

  Out I went to my police motorcycle and loaded the six bags of compost across the back pannier boxes, grass seed and lawn food in the pannier, bird food and boxes in the other pannier, paint tins balanced on top of both panniers, held by the weight of the compost bags, potting compost across the petrol tank, and I carried the trees and brush in one hand!

  Down the road I went on my bike, camouflaged like a landscaped garden with my bargains.

  Just as I was turning into the motorcycle shed, I was passed by my superintendent in his car, who almost crashed as he spun his neck around like Linda Blair from The Exorcist for a look!

  Later, I was reprimanded for my improper behaviour.

  Next day I received a memo from him, instructing me to attend the motorcycle garage to have a trailer fitted to my bike, just in case I came across another closing-down sale.

  Don’t Talk to Strangers

  . . .

  One day I was sitting in the lounge of my house, having a glass of wine with my new next-door neighbour.

  Suddenly the front door opened and in walked my youngest daughter, carrying an armchair.

  A few minutes later, the door opened again and she was followed in by my other two kids, who were carrying a three-seater sofa between them.

  I enquired where the items had come from.

  To which my eldest daughter replied, ‘A man gave them to us!’

  I immediately got up from my seat and proceeded to scold all three of my kids.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked my shocked and surprised new neighbour.

  To which I replied, ‘I’m fed up telling them, never take a suite off a stranger!!!’

  Remind Me of Ramensky!

  . . .

  On hearing the news that a film is to be made about the life of the famous safebreaker Johnny Ramensky, I was reminded of a story I was told by a detective inspector.

  As a young police probationer, he was patrolling his beat one night and checking out property in the area.

  He went around the rear of a post office in Paisley Road, Glasgow, when he heard something.

  He shone his torch up in the direction of the noise and saw a man sliding down a drainpipe at the rear of the building.

  As he drew his police baton, the man said, ‘Calm down, son. You’ve caught me fair and square. I won’t give you any trouble!’

  On reaching the ground level, he immediately held his hands out in front to be handcuffed by the young cop.

  What a surprise to learn later that he had apprehended the famous gentleman safebreaker and war hero Johnny Ramensky!

  Apparently Johnny was serving a prison sentence during the war and was released by the authorities to help the war effort.

  He was flown to Germany, behind enemy lines, with specific orders to break into certain safes and steal enemy secrets!

  By all accounts Johnny performed his duty to his usual perfection and proved no safe was safe from Johnny Ramensky!!

  Marmalade or Jam?

  . . .

  I was fortunate to visit Moscow several times and struck up a relationship with a local Muscovite called Vitaly Mironov, who was a historian and president of the Moscow Caledonian Society.

  One evening, whilst participating in a little drinky-poo of the local vodka, Vitaly told me a story about one of the first times he visited the United States.

  He had frequented a bar-diner near to the hotel where he was staying and became the centre of attention with the regulars.

  The conversation got around to sex and one of the American hippy-style guys, who had joined the company, asked Vitaly what methods they used when making love in Russia.

  Vitaly, trying to sound interesting and knowledgeable to his new American friends, said in his best broken English: ‘I always use preservative, I enjoy sex better!’

  ‘Preservative?’ asked the hippy, surprised by this.

  ‘Yes, preservatives. And in Russia we have many types and fancy flavours!’ he said, rather pleased with himself.

  Several more drinks later, he made his excuses and headed back to his hotel for the night.

  The following evening, he went back to the local bar-diner for a drink, and, as he walked in, the joint-smoking hippy guy who had been part of his company the previous evening shouted out:

  ‘Hey, Boris, I tried your Russian way of having sex last night. It was amazing, man, my woman went wild! She loved the strawberry jelly preserve the best!’

  However, now with a better knowledge and command of the English language, he informed me he meant ‘preventative’ sex, as in a condom, as opposed to ‘preservative’, as in jam!

  Wood U Beleeve It?

  . . .

  Whilst checking our missing person reports at the office, I was looking up a recent report involving a young girl, when I noticed an update from a young officer that stated: ‘Her mother is unable to give any further information as she is dyslexic and cannot read or right.�
��

  Neither could the writter updating this resort!

  Road Accident Excuses

  . . .

  ‘I pulled away from the side of the road, glanced over at my mother-in-law and headed over the embankment.’

  More New Releases

  . . .

  Strathclyde Police Pipe Band performed in a recent competition.

  I’m informed they played a haunting melody.

  ‘Haunting’ because they were murdering it!

  (Now they’re just jokes, guys. You’re not bad!)

  Mini a Bargain

  . . .

  Being recognised as a bit of a scatter-cash, there was no expense spared when I purchased my first real motor car.

  There it was, in the paper, circled with a fancy box, with the bold heading stating: ‘Bargain of the Month!’

  I liked the name right away, a Morris Mini, brown in colour and all for the princely sum of £30 cash, payable to the Executive Cars Centre, Paisley.

  The pungent smell of dampness should have been an obvious clue, but I accepted the salesman’s patter.

  ‘Can ye no’ smell that leather upholstery? Man, ye just cannae beat the real McCoy!’ he enthused. ‘And another extra feature fitted is the sporty bucket seats,’ he added.

  They were certainly bucket seats all right! Saturated with water and the metal handle still attached!

  There was a ‘Hole in dem buckets, dear Henry, dear Henry’ …

  The radio wasn’t working, but he put it down to a faulty valve or maybe a short wire!

  In other words, I think there was a wire–less!

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, we’ll replace it!’ he said with an air of confidence. ‘Are we paying by cash or would you like credit arrangements?’ he then enquired.