by Harry Morris
To which I replied, ‘On one condition, Bob! You could go outside and eat a dog’s turd and tone your breath down a bit!! Now that would make me feel better!!’
No Profit in Theft
. . .
A man walked into a shop and placed a £20 note on the counter.
He then asked the assistant for change of the note.
The cashier duly obliged and opened the cash drawer.
Quick as a flash, the man put his hand into the till and grabbed what money he could before running off out of the shop into the street, leaving behind the £20 note he had placed on the counter.
On checking the contents of the shop cash register, it was discovered the thief had snatched the total sum of … £14.
Thereby making the thief a loss of £6 and the shopkeeper a profit of £6.
This is one robber who would be well advised to start going straight and work for a living!
Who’s a Boot?
. . .
I was contacted one day to return to the station and perform an urgent escort duty.
On my arrival back at the station, the sergeant instructed me to take a CID car and drive over to police headquarters and collect a policewoman called Delia Blain, to accompany me with the transport of a female prisoner.
I arrived at police HQ and walked into the front office, where I enquired from the police control room staff, in my broadest Glaswegian accent, ‘Is Delia aboot?’
To which one of the cops replied, ‘No, she is not. In fact, she’s quite a nice girl!!’
Single White Male
. . .
A young ginger-haired, spotty-faced police recruit called in at his local Asda store.
As he got to the checkout, he placed a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a can of beans on the conveyor belt.
The pretty cashier looked up at him as she scanned his goods.
‘Are you single?’ she asked him.
‘Yeah!’ he replied. ‘How did you know?’
To which the pretty cashier said, ‘’Cause you’re an ugly bastard!’
Toilet Paper
. . .
It’s amazing how they now talk about recycling refuse.
Way back in the fifties and sixties everybody in the street where I lived did it. In those days it was called ‘nae lavvy paper’!
None of your Velvet, Andrex, ‘soft tissue’, ‘quilted’ or any other crap for us, pardon the pun! That wee Labrador dog wasn’t even born then.
Now, if you were posh and could afford it, you used Izal!
Its slippery surface didn’t wipe your arse, it just spread it further than Flora margarine.
No wonder they wrote, ‘Now wash hands please’! Yer hands? Ye had to have a bath after it!
As for my family, it was the Daily Record cut into neat squares! However, it was the Evening Citizen for any visitors! Pure class!
Ladies and Gents, No Bother
. . .
Several years ago, the shift I was working on organised a day out with all of our kids at a local swimming club.
I shared a locker with my young son, and my two daughters, aged ten and five, did likewise.
Later, after we had left the pool and had a shower, my two daughters were drying themselves when the youngest one, Kimmy, decided to go to the toilet.
Out she went from the shared cubicle, only to return several minutes later to ask her older sister, ‘Samantha, am I a male or a female?’
Straight from the Horse
. . .
During a drugs trial in Glasgow, a senior detective was cited as an expert witness to clarify that the amount of drugs found on an accused person was being used to supply drug deals and not, as the defence claimed, for his personal use.
The defence agent continued to press the point that the drugs were for his client’s own personal use.
The senior detective however, in his role as an expert witness for the Crown, was reiterating his response that when cut into equal quantities, it was a clear indication it was for supplying drug deals.
The detective continued that if it were for personal use, there would be no need to cut or divide it into equal parts.
However, the defence agent persisted with his client’s futile excuse about personal use and pursued this line of questioning.
Finally the sheriff, bored by this continual line of questioning, interrupted the defence agent and in a stern voice asked, ‘Excuse me, Mr Carr, but, have you ever been charged with cruelty to animals?’
The defence agent looked up at the sheriff on the bench and with a puzzled expression enquired, ‘Why, m’lord?’
To which the sheriff responded, ‘Because you’re flogging a dead horse. Now let’s move on!!’
Kiss Me Quick
. . .
In 1976, at the Police International Tattoo in the Kelvin Hall Arena in Glasgow, I was performing a routine display with the rest of the motorcycle section.
However, prior to our performance, we had to take turns on the police motorcycle stand and answer questions from members of the public, as well as giving children a seat on the police motorbike or in a traffic patrol car.
When I was on the stand taking my turn, a young female civilian staff member of the Traffic Police Administration Department entered the stand and tapped me on the shoulder.
On seeing her, I put my arms around her and took her in a passionate embrace, leaned her over the motorcycle saddle and proceeded to give her a long, deep, sensual kiss. (As a joke.)
As we straightened up again, I noticed she had a stunned expression on her face and was blushing uncontrollably.
For a moment, I thought I had swooned her off her feet, but to my total embarrassment and humiliation she said, ‘Harry, I’d like you to meet my dad and my brother!’
I turned around to see two men, six feet tall, glaring at me!
The Battery Store
. . .
Out one day on patrol, my partner Kenny was telling me his car battery was flat and he wanted to go along to the police garage in Helen Street to charge it up.
When we arrived, Kenny went to see Alex, the garage sergeant, and asked his permission to charge his car battery.
Alex said, ‘Yeah, on you go, but d’you know how to do it?’
Kenny replied confidently, ‘No problem, I’ve seen the set-up!’
Off he went, carrying his car battery along to the battery store.
On entering the store, there must have been about thirty to forty large car batteries, all connected up to each other and all being charged at the same time.
While I looked around at the complicated system linking all the batteries together, Kenny lifted his battery up into a space on the shelf.
He then took the positive and negative wire leads and connected the negative lead to the battery beside his and then took the positive and clipped it on to his battery …
Bang! The battery next to his exploded and within seconds, there was a chain reaction – Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The entire battery store resembled the fourth of July!
Three and four at a time, every battery in the store was exploding round about us, as we were showered in acid and bits off the exploding batteries!
I quickly did a runner, leaving big Kenny with a helluva job to do in explaining his obviously serious mistake to Alex!
I’ll Tell Him Tomorrow, Maybe!
. . .
One evening, a well-dressed male accountant picked up a young prostitute from the red-light district of Blythswood Square in Glasgow.
Having agreed a price for full sex, he drove off with her in his car to her home on the Southside of the city.
They both stripped off and engaged in sexual intercourse, after which, while she was in the toilet washing, the accountant got dressed and quickly left the house, neglecting to pay the prostitute the agreed fee for the services she had provided.
Not to be outdone so easily, the aggrieved female contacted her minder, who just happened to be in
the vicinity.
Armed with a baseball bat, he confronted the accountant as he made his way out of the high-rise tower block, en route to his parked car.
The accountant displayed some wonderful athletic skills and ran like hell, pursued by ‘Babe Ruth’, armed with the baseball bat.
At this point an anonymous call was made to the police station regarding one male being pursued by another, armed with a large club.
A police car was immediately dispatched to attend the call, whereby, on their arrival, they quickly observed and apprehended Babe Ruth.
Handcuffing him, they placed him in the rear of the police car, while they obtained a full statement about the incident from the shaken accountant.
Whilst noting the statement, one of the officers was beckoned over by a woman in the large assembled crowd.
It was the young prostitute who had been involved.
She then related to the officer her side of the story with regards to the events that had taken place earlier.
Armed with this new information, the officer returned to the accountant, who immediately blurted out, ‘Whatever she said, she’s lying, she’s a lying little whore!’
The officer then related her story, as told to him.
The smug accountant then freely admitted giving her a lift home because she had looked unwell, but strenuously denied being involved with her in any sexual act. In fact, he went as far as to say, ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman.’
(Where have I heard that line before, Bill?)
‘She’s a lying little whore, but then, what do you expect from the residents about this area?’ he replied rather indignantly.
The officer then said, facetiously, ‘You’re right enough, sir, who ever heard of an accountant cheating a client out of their money?’ He paused for a moment before continuing, ‘Anyway, sir, I have to ask you a question! You definitely deny having had sexual intercourse with her?’
‘I certainly do! What do you take me for? I’m a happily married man!’ the accountant responded with his pitiful denial.
‘Well, sir!’ replied the officer. ‘I’m ever so glad to hear you say that, because apparently she’s been diagnosed HIV positive and she continues to entertain men in her flat for unprotected sexual intercourse!’
On hearing this, the accountant’s facial expression changed, as the colour visibly drained from his face.
‘Are you OK, sir?’ asked the officer. ‘You look like a ghost!’
The accountant replied very quietly, ‘Not really. I’m feeling a bit nauseous and would just like to go home to my wife and my family now!’
‘But what about Babe Ruth with the baseball bat? We haven’t charged him yet,’ said the officer.
The accountant replied, ‘I’m not interested. I’d like to drop all the charges against him and go home please. I’m feeling very ill with all this!’
‘I’m not surprised, sir, but are you sure, because he looks really nasty with that big baseball bat?’ said the condescending officer.
‘Yes, I’m positive, now can I just go home please? I’ve wasted enough time here,’ the accountant said.
‘Not a problem, sir. Just sign my notebook to the effect that you don’t want to proceed with the charges,’ said the officer. ‘No harm done, so by all means, you can go on your way now!’
The accountant then walked off rather unsteadily to his car before getting in and driving off.
The first officer then said to the second officer, ‘You might have told him you were only kidding about the HIV stuff!’
To which the first officer replied, ‘What for? You heard him give the Bill Clinton speech – “I did not have sexual relations with that woman!” Now why would I disbelieve the lying, cheating bastard!’
PS: If you’re the accountant involved and reading this, remove that rope from around your neck. It was only a joke!
Road Accident Excuses
. . .
‘I was on my way to the doctor with rear end trouble when my universal joint gave way, causing me to have an unplanned accident.’
A Secret Service
. . .
This is a story I just had to include.
It has nothing to do with the police, but refers to my son Scott, who was six years old at the time and was fascinated with his hero James Bond.
One Sunday afternoon, having attended church in the morning, we were relaxing at home when the telephone rang.
Quick as a flash, my son Scott answered, ‘Hello, James Bond here!’
The person at the other end of the line paused for a moment, then said, ‘Is that you, Scott?’
Slightly puzzled by the caller, Scott answered, ‘Yes!’
‘Do you know who this is?’ enquired the caller.
Still puzzled, Scott replied, ‘No!’
The caller responded by saying, ‘Well, I spoke to you this morning in church! Now do you know who it is?’
Scott paused for a moment, then replied, ‘Is it you, God?’
He was nearly right. It was the minister!
Wanted
. . .
Several years ago my oldest daughter Samantha, who would be about five or six at the time, was out playing in the front garden when a car drove past at speed and the driver stuck his tongue out at her.
This really upset her and she ran into the house to tell me. I listened to her intently and then said I would look out for him when I was out on police patrol and deal with him severely.
My daughter was delighted with this response from her policeman dad.
Next day, she returned from school. ‘That’s him, Dad!’ she said, handing me this sketch of the suspect responsible for sticking his tongue out at her, for me to hand out to my colleagues:
WANTED
As you can see from her excellent artist’s sketch, he is instantly recognisable and extremely da-da-da-damn ugly!
Yuill and Dodds
. . .
This poem was written during the mineworkers’ strike, April 1984.
Yuill and Dodds (Haulage) were contracted to play a big part and were escorted to and from Ravenscraig and Hunterston, when fully laden, in convoy by uniformed police car and motorcycle patrols.
Money for Old Coke
I love my Morris Minor though it’s 25 years old.
I take it out on Sundays if the weather’s not too cold.
We took it out on Sunday last, the wife, the weans and me
And drove along the Fenwick Moor for a picnic by the sea.
We admired the lovely countryside, truly the work of Gods,
When thundering around a corner came a fucking Yuill and Dodds!
As it trundled up towards us, its size just grew and grew.
I had visions of having ‘Scania’ stamped across my brew.
As the lorry thundered past me I thought my life had endit!
Wait till I get my hands on him, that trucking Mexican bandit.
The coal dust was just clearing from the bandit’s little ploy
When coming straight towards me was the Ravenscraig convoy.
Now Yuill and Dodds are well-renowned from here to Timbuctoo –
The polis were always stopping them for things they shouldn’t do.
But now the tables are turned and they’re buddies every one,
A polis car goes out in front and leads them on their run.
Now the miners aren’t very pleased the way they drive a truck –
None of them will ever stop ’cause they just don’t give a fuck.
The drivers now are all caged in, I don’t know how they stick it,
But I hear they’re on a bonus if they hit-and-run a picket.
Yuill and Dodds will run for ever, I hear the people say,
And when the miners realise this, perhaps they’ll call it a day.
So come on, boys, throw in the towel and let’s just see it endit.
We’ve been counting up our money and now we’d like to spend it.
; (Many police officers disagreed with the apparent taking of sides in this political dispute and also the views of miners’ leader Arthur Scargill.)
Cobblers
. . .
A prisoner was released after serving twenty-five years in prison.
As he went through his property, he found a receipt in his jacket pocket for a cobbler’s.
He went to the repair shop and handed it over to the cobbler, who studied it carefully.
‘A pair of brown brogues, to be soled and heeled?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, that’s correct!’ said the prisoner.
‘Be ready, Friday!’ said the cobbler.
New Release
. . .
I have just been informed that the Strathclyde Police Pipe Band are to release a new CD of Scotland’s finest bagpipe tunes.
The only hold-up is what to call it.
How about Criminal?
Speed Camera Excuse
. . .
‘I was suffering from a heavy cold and sneezed excessively, causing a chain reaction whereby my foot pushed down harder on my accelerator, causing me to speed up at the wrong time.’
Everything is Free
. . .
One day in the office, we were in the process of organising a night out for the entire shift to attend.
We were all chipping in with various venues to contact and arrange our do!
One place was too expensive for drink, or the food another served wasn’t very good, or there was a severe lack of burds.
Then out of the blue Andy Kouskous, the shift sergeant, piped up, ‘We could go to that new place that has opened up in Hamilton!’