Even the Lies are True

by Harry Morris

  My next priority was to try and stem the bleeding from his serious facial injury and summon an ambulance.

  Using paper towels and applying pressure to the wound, I was able to stem the flow of blood. I searched through the office first-aid kit, but the items inside were so old they would not be out of place on the Antiques Roadshow!

  The sterile pads would’ve given him gangrene!!

  At this point I noticed on the wall of the female officers’ toilet a Dr White’s sanitary towel machine.

  Now they’re most definitely sterile!!

  Out of sight of the young hard-man victim, I quickly ripped open the small package and removed the sanitary towel, which was about four inches long with a loop at either end.

  Removing the sodden paper towels from his face, I replaced them with the sanitary towel, covering the wound and hooking the loops over his ears to hold it in place. (Why loops I’ll never know. But I’ll accept explanations on a stamped addressed envelope. From women only!)

  I then told him to apply pressure to it.

  He sat quietly, waiting for the ambulance, totally unaware of what the sterile dressing on his chin was.

  That was, however, until four of my colleagues arrived at the office in response to my call for assistance.

  They all instantly recognised the victim, who was sitting quietly feeling sorry for himself with his hammock dressing dangling from his ears.

  That was it – they just couldn’t contain themselves as they all fell about laughing and making trivial excuses in order to leave the office.

  A few minutes later the ambulance arrived and, after a few titters from the paramedic crew, they soon removed the injured man, complete with sanitary towel, to the local accident and emergency department.

  After they had left, as you would imagine, there was the usual ‘period’ of sick jokes from the cops who were present.

  Particularly as this was the beginning of the ‘festive period’.

  Lucky Me

  . . .

  During an Old Firm match in Glasgow, a drunken fan was shouting and gesticulating abuse at my colleague and me. When we went towards him, he ran off across the busy main road without looking and was promptly blootered by a bus.

  As I went to his assistance, he looked up at me, unfazed, and said, ‘Wiz Ah no’ lucky I didnae hurt myself there?’

  ‘Not really, son,’ I replied as we nicked him!

  The Adventures of Harry the Polis

  . . .

  Sick Joke

  . . .

  Whilst on motorcycle patrol duties, I was involved in a road accident in the city centre of Glasgow.

  A big orange and green Corporation double-decker bus collided with me head on. (Don’t laugh – that bit was true!)

  Anyway, I was knocked unconscious and rushed by ambulance to accident and emergency, where I was admitted to an observation ward.

  Several hours later I regained consciousness and tried to focus my eyes.

  I looked to my right and John Wayne appeared to be in the hospital bed next to me.

  I then looked to my left and Clint Eastwood was in the other one.

  Rubbing my eyes frantically, I called for the nurse and said, ‘Where am I? Where am I?’

  To which the nurse replied, ‘You’re in the Western!!’ (Infirmary.)

  No Change

  . . .

  During the old City of Glasgow police days, when wages were poor, the cops relied on shops and companies giving a ‘discount’ to police officers.

  We would also get the odd steak pie, six rolls, pint of milk or apple tart handed in to the station by delivery van drivers.

  Amalgamation came upon us and in 1975 we were united with cops from the Paisley area, who were slightly naive as to these practices.

  During one nightshift, a county sergeant was partnering one of the Glasgow cops.

  About five in the morning, the Glasgow cop was driving the patrol car when he suddenly sped off along the road after a bread van.

  Once alongside it, he activated his blue lights and signalled the van driver to pull over and stop.

  He then informed the sergeant to remain in the car while he spoke with the driver.

  Having spoken to the driver, he then accompanied him to the back of the bread van. Within a few moments the cop returned to the police car carrying a loaf of bread, which he placed on the rear seat before driving away.

  A few minutes later, the sergeant asked the Glasgow cop, ‘What was that all about?’

  He then explained that you would signal the van driver to pull into the side and stop. Then you would go up to him and ask to buy a loaf of bread – the driver would be so relieved to know that he was not being booked that he would duly oblige.

  You would then offer the driver the money (28 pence) to pay for the bread, which he would refuse to accept, saying, ‘It’s only a loaf, mate. I’ll not miss one!’

  You would then thank him and leave with your loaf.

  Intrigued by the action of his fellow officer, the sergeant told the Glasgow cop that he would like to try it.

  About fifteen minutes later, they drove along the road and saw another bread van.

  They immediately sprung into action and pulled up alongside the van. With the blue lights flashing, they signalled the driver to pull over and stop.

  As he pulled over, the sergeant told the Glasgow cop to stay in the patrol car and let him try it out for himself.

  Up to the driver’s window he went and within seconds, he was walking with the driver to the back of the van.

  They were out of sight for a few moments before the sergeant appeared in the rear-view mirror, walking towards the police car, carrying four loaves of bread!

  He then opened the back door and placed the loaves on the seat.

  As he got back into the police car, the cop remarked, ‘Four loaves, Sarge? You’re being a bit greedy there.’

  To which the sergeant replied sheepishly, ‘Not really – he didn’t have change of a pound!!’

  Signing Session

  . . .

  In possession of an arrest warrant for Tommy Morrison, I called at his last known home address.

  Due to his record of violent behaviour towards the police, three other officers accompanied me.

  After checking with the nameplates on each door in the tenement close, I made enquiries with a few of the tenants as to Tommy Morrison’s whereabouts but to no avail. Not known at this address!

  A few days later I was working in the office when two detectives from the Scottish Crime Squad called with an inquiry in the area.

  They told me that they had called at the home of Morrison and cited the same address as the one I possessed for Tommy.

  We realised that we were both interested in the same person, but they had just come from his house where they had obtained a written witness statement from him with regards to their inquiry.

  I checked the address they had for him and it turned out he was staying ‘care of’ his girlfriend, with her name, Galvin, on the nameplate on the front door.

  The detectives had taken all his relevant particulars, including his home telephone number.

  I called the number, which was answered by his girlfriend, and I told her I was one of the officers of the Scottish Crime Squad who had called at her house to speak with Tommy. I explained that I had forgotten to have him sign his statement and asked if he could possibly call within the next half-hour at the local police station and do so.

  The detectives sat quietly looking on with interest as I called their witness with this excuse, but after a few minutes they saw the funny side and couldn’t contain themselves.

  As they left the station, they insisted I call them and let them know the outcome.

  Sure enough, within half an hour the door of the station opened and in walked Tommy Morrison.

  ‘Hello, mate. I’m here to sign a statement for the Scottish Crime Squad,’ he said assuredly.

  ‘Oh, right. Can you just co
nfirm your name and date of birth for me, please?’ I asked him.

  He quickly reeled off, ‘Thomas Morrison, date of birth, twenty-fifth of October 1958.’

  ‘That’s what it says here, Tommy. You’re the man I’m wanting!’ I said.

  I then walked around to the side door of the front desk and, opening it up, I invited him inside.

  As we entered the office, I led him through to the detention room, where I opened the door.

  He confidently entered the detention cell, totally unaware of where he was going.

  Once he was safely inside, I locked the door behind him.

  I then took great satisfaction in telling him, ‘As Jeremy Beadle would say, Tommy, you’ve been framed!’

  And all performed by yours truly with the minimum of fuss!

  Disposing of Evidence

  . . .

  George Cowley was a cop from the East End of Glasgow, working out of the old Tobago Street station.

  His pet hate was the scrap metal men, the guys who went about the streets uplifting old bits of cars, washing machines, copper piping – anything that earned them some beer money.

  George was always stopping them and checking out their vehicles, looking for defects.

  One day, George was just leaving the station when he saw ‘Tank’ Irwin, the Del Boy Trotter of Bridgeton, coming down the street towards him in his pick-up truck, fully laden with scrap metal.

  George stepped out into the middle of the road and signalled for Tank to pull over and stop.

  ‘Right, Mr Irwin, let’s just check your vehicle for any defects!’ said George, as he began to examine the pick-up for faults.

  At this point Tank, a likeable rogue, got out and began to follow George around on his inspection of the vehicle.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find anything, Mr Cowley. I’ve just put it through an MOT,’ said a confident Tank.

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ replied George as he continued with his thorough examination.

  They arrived back at the front of the vehicle, but George was unable to detect any obvious faults.

  He began lecturing Tank prior to letting him go on his way.

  Just at that moment, George’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Got you!’ he cried ecstatically.

  He then put his hand through the open window and removed the road tax disc from the windscreen and, on examining it very carefully, he cried out, ‘Ya beauty! I’ve got you! Fraudulent display of tax disc!’

  George could hardly contain himself as he jigged about the footpath in complete and total ecstasy, performing a dance routine that Michael Flatley would have been proud of.

  While George did his victory celebration, Tank remained very calm and collected as he watched. Then he said, ‘Can I see the tax disc, please, Mr Cowley?’

  Not thinking about the consequences of his actions, George handed the fraudulent disc over to Tank who, without the slightest hesitation, crumpled it up into a ball and stuffed it into his mouth.

  As his evidence was being chewed before his very eyes, George jumped on to Tank’s back and placed his hands around his neck to try and stop him swallowing the evidence.

  On seeing what appeared to be an unprovoked physical attack by George on Tank, some of the other cops, coming out of the station, ran over and pulled George off and away from Tank in order to restrain him.

  This was all the time Tank required and, with one final gulp, he had disposed of the entire evidence.

  The Ballad of Big Bad Alec

  . . .

  Big Alec MacLellan was a gentle giant who was responsible for the running of the police motor vehicle pound.

  He was the guy you went to see about getting your car back after it had been towed away by the polis, because it would end up in his vehicle pound.

  He was a character in the force and a legend in his own mind.

  This poem was written to celebrate his retirement in 1982.

  There was a big polis called Alec, custodier of the police vehicle pound.

  When customers called at his office, they could never find Alec around.

  There would often appear a wee notice which plainly in pencil did say,

  ‘I’ll only be out for a minute,’ but he really meant ‘all bloody day’.

  I suppose he’s gone out to the pub – Maxwell’s or maybe McNee’s.

  It was heard from one of his colleagues, ‘He’ll drink till he lands on his knees.’

  His last trip was out to the bookies. He walked from the pound in a dream.

  He ended up in the chemists and asked them for vanishing cream!

  No Hiding Place

  . . .

  In possession of an arrest warrant, I called at the home address of the named accused and knocked on his door. After a moment, his wife answered.

  I told her why I was there and she swore to me, hand on heart, that Joe was not in the house and hadn’t stayed there for some time.

  She also stated that she was unaware of his present whereabouts.

  I asked if I could make a customary search of the house in order to satisfy myself and also to confirm her story.

  She reluctantly agreed to my request.

  I searched the house, which was also occupied by several of her children, all under the age of five. I was about to leave when the wife stopped me in the hallway and said she would contact me immediately should he return home.

  At this point my attention was drawn to one of the small children, standing in a bedroom.

  I looked through the hinge opening of the door.

  To my surprise, she was facing a double wardrobe and saying, ‘Dadda! Dadda!’

  She was also stretching her hands up towards the door.

  I continued to watch her for a moment, when suddenly a hand appeared from inside the wardrobe and began waving the child away.

  The hand then disappeared back inside.

  Desperately trying not to laugh, I entered the room, knocked on the wardrobe door and said, ‘Knock knock, Dadda! Guess who’s here to see you!’

  The accused fell out the wardrobe, laughing uncontrollably, and said, ‘See weans! Don’t ye just love them?’

  No Armchair Stampede

  . . .

  There had been an incident at the rear of Celtic Football Park whereby it was alleged that Strathclyde Police mounted officers had stampeded, on horseback, football supporters who had congregated in Janefield Street.

  The sensitive inquiry was being dealt with by one of our most senior and respected officers, Chief Superintendent John T. Dickson.

  During this ongoing inquiry, there was an international football match coming up between Scotland and England at Hampden Park and I was trying to get tickets.

  One day I was called into Superintendent Irwin’s office. He said to me, ‘I’ve to ask you, Harry, are you still looking for tickets for the big game? If so, Mr Dickson has two for sale.’

  I told him yes, I was still looking for tickets. He called Mr Dickson at his office in Pitt Steet HQ to let him know.

  ‘Right, Harry!’ said the superintendent. ‘You’ve to go up to his office right now!’

  I went straight to HQ and knocked on the chief superintendent’s office door.

  ‘In you come, Harry!’ he said. He opened a drawer, took out the match tickets and handed them to me.

  ‘Nowadays I prefer to watch the game in the comfort of my armchair in the house,’ he said convincingly.

  To which I replied, jokingly of course, ‘Well, let’s be honest, sir, you’ve less chance of getting trampled by a big bloody polis horse!’

  Needless to say he was not amused by my comment.

  But I bet he had a right good chuckle after I left his office!

  A Clash of Personalities

  . . .

  I was summoned to the chief inspector’s office for my appraisal/assessment, commonly referred to as your MOT.

  Halfway through the appraisal report, the chief inspector said, ‘I detect from some of the remark
s made by your shift sergeant that you don’t get on with him.’

  ‘I think that’s a fair observation,’ I replied.

  ‘What appears to be the problem?’ he asked me.

  ‘It’s just a clash of personalities, sir,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t have one.’

  ‘A personality clash? Do you think a change of shift would help?’

  Whereupon I replied with a straight face, ‘Frankly, no, sir! I don’t think he could get on with anybody!’

  Hearing Things

  . . .

  A ned in the court was being sentenced for his offence.

  ‘Have you anything you would like to say?’ asked the sheriff.

  The accused replied rather despondently, ‘Fuck all!’

  The sheriff called out to the procurator fiscal, ‘What did he just say there?’

  ‘ “Fuck all,” m’lord!’ replied the fiscal.

  To which the sheriff said, ‘I’m sure I heard him say something!’

  Don’t Blow a Fuse

  . . .

  One day my partner O’Reilly arrived at the station in his new car, a second-hand Hillman Avenger.

  Proud as punch he was as he led me on an inspection of it.

  There were the statutory furry dice hanging from the interior mirror and stuck on either side of the front windscreen were ‘Eddie’ and ‘Mary’ – very impressive – and the wee dog with the bobbing head in the rear window shelf. A classic!

  On the dashboard he had fitted an impressive array of a dozen coloured switches on to a velvet-covered dashboard extension which protruded out from the original Hillman dashboard. It was like a pilot’s cockpit!

  He could not contain his obvious enthusiasm as he gave me a demonstration of the changes he had made, showing me all the extra switches and what they did.

  ‘This one operates new fog lights at the front and this one operates new lights at the rear!’ He continued, ‘This one is high-intensity lights I’ve fitted and this switch here operates a quadraphonic stereo music system!’