by Harry Morris
‘Crikey! He even cuddled her body and kissed her!’ added Davie.
I then said, ‘Well, he’s in for a shock in the morning when Maggie knocks on his front door!’
To which Big Davie retorted, ‘Having seen his reaction tonight, he’ll probably no’ recognise her!!’
Learn to Drive
. . .
One day while driving a traffic patrol car along the road, a black hackney carriage (that’s a taxi to you) suddenly and without warning made a U-turn in the road in front of me, causing me to take evasive action to avoid a collision.
As I came to a stop, I leaned out of the driver’s window and shouted at him, ‘Where the hell did you learn to drive?’
To which the taxi driver shouted back, ‘In the polis – I used to be a traffic cop with you, Harry, remember?’
I then recognised him and, sure enough, it was David Colvin — an ex-traffic cop!
The Adventures of Harry the Polis
. . .
Post-it Thru the Window
. . .
‘Stinker’ Smith was the policeman in charge of the temporary police station on Paisley Road in Glasgow, which was a Portakabin.
He was enjoying a game of cards during his tea break with some of the colleagues on his shift when someone entered the front office.
He put down his cards and went through to the front to see who it was.
There, standing holding an injured pigeon, was a small girl, who explained to Stinker how she had found it on the road outside.
Stinker took possession of the injured pigeon and said he would contact the local vet to mend its obviously broken wing.
He then went into his drawer and handed the small girl a sweet, thanking her for her kindness.
Stinker returned with the pigeon to the back office and, opening a hopper window, promptly threw it out.
He then sat back down to play his hand of cards.
Several minutes later, the front door opened again. Down went his cards for a second time and through he went to see who it was this time.
To his surprise, the same small girl was standing there, this time holding a tiny kitten!
‘I found this little kitten outside on the footpath and I think it’s lost its mummy!’
Reaching over to take possession of the kitten from her, he opened his drawer, handed her another sweet and said he would call the local cat and dog home to come and collect it. He also suggested that she make her way home before her mummy reported her missing!
He then rushed through to the rear of the office and just as before, he opened the hopper window and threw the kitten out.
He then sat back down to play his hand of cards.
His colleagues remarked on his lack of compassion, which he totally ignored.
Picking up his cards again, he continued with his game, when – you’ve guessed it! – the door to the front office was opened again.
Becoming exasperated by these untimely interruptions to his card game, Stinker slammed his cards down and said, ‘If that’s her again, I’m going to throw her out the window!’
He then rushed through to the front office, but to his surprise it was a workman standing with the office door half opened and holding the reins of a horse, pulling a cart.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ enquired Stinker.
‘Yes, you can, mate!’ replied the workman. ‘I found this horse wandering about the road outside your office, with apparently no one in charge of it. It’s going to cause an accident.’
Before Stinker could say a word, a voice called out from the rear of the office, ‘Let’s see you throw that out the window!’ followed by loud hysterical laughter!!
The Lord Provost of Russia
. . .
I had the good fortune to meet and strike up a friendship with the late David Hodge, former Lord Provost of Glasgow.
This is a story he related to me about a visit he made to the USSR.
‘My visit was full of surprises and I found so much that was completely different to what I had been led to believe. The people were happier than I expected. It was interesting to attend church services and find standing room only.
‘I had a memorable experience in Sochi, a delightful resort on the Black Sea, with a tropical climate and unending sunshine. Apparently some years ago a learned professor experimented with citrus fruits and he found that all fruits of this family could, by being grafted, grow together on one single tree. This actually happens in a garden of remembrance and distinguished visitors and Russians of note are invited to make a graft, usually a fruit native of their own country, and these are labelled.
‘It was interesting to read the names of Uri Gargarin, Mrs Ghandi, presidents and ambassadors of most countries in the world, all represented in the garden of remembrance. I felt greatly honoured to be invited to humbly add the name of the Right Honourable Lord Provost of Glasgow, David Hodge, to this impressive roll of honour.
‘It was quite unbelievable to see a tree bearing fruit, large and small, growing with oranges, limes, tangerines, lemons and grapefruit at one and the same time. The Russians had this idea of living things growing together in a spirit of peace and friendship.
‘Unfortunately the world has not yet got the message, but we must live in hope that, one day, it will and people, not politicians, take over!
‘May I add that, as our climate does not encourage the growing of citrus fruits, my graft was that of an orange which originated in California. It may take two years for a successful graft to produce any ripe fruit, so maybe the football team Dynamo Moscow will one day be sucking on one of my oranges at half-time during a game.’
David Hodge, former Lord Provost of Glasgow.
Reality Television
. . .
If, like me, you are fed up to the back teeth with reality TV shows, let me put forward a suggestion, as a former police officer, for a reality TV show that would be worth the licence fee.
Now, my personal pet hate is that shite they call Big Brother and the total diddies and unknown oddities they seem to audition for the show and who we, as the viewing public, are expected to watch, then phone up and vote for your favourite twat, who behaves like a toss-pot, in order for him or her to remain in the house.
The eventual last man standing, so to speak, gets a few boob – sorry – a few bob for surviving the tiaras and tantrums, the clothes on and clothes off, the exposed pierced nipples and tattooed torsos of pain-in-the-arse contestants loosely referred to as ‘housemates’.
My idea to rival Big Brother would be to gather up a selected bunch of society’s nutcases, bampots and disruptive unruly neds — we’ll even introduce a few do-gooders — before conveying them all to Barlinnie prison, better known in Glasgow as the ‘big house’, and instead of ‘housemates’, we’ll call them ‘cellmates’.
Next thing would be to integrate them in the specific cell block reserved for convicted murderers, a few of whom are eager to make a name for themselves and hoping to write a bestseller afterwards, when crowned the Big House Baddie.
The ‘Bar-L gang’ will view the BHB TV tapes and decide the punishment for unpopular cellmates in the ‘jailhouse block’.
Heinous crimes – like squeezing the toothpaste at the wrong end, not eating the vegetables on your plate, talking total bollocks in the exercise yard, boasting of sexual conquests and admitting live on air that you fancy Davina McCall – would immediately represent a nomination for the ‘chop’ by your new jury of cell-mate buddies!
Now, is that not worth watching?
The Spark-le is Still There
. . .
After twenty-five years of marriage, a police inspector surprised his wife by returning with her to the hotel where they had spent their first honeymoon night.
The following day, he drove her to an area near to a farmer’s field where they had enjoyed their first romantic kiss!
They both got out of the car and, hand in hand, walked over to the special spot.
&
nbsp; He took her in his arms and leaned her against the fence as he kissed her ever so passionately.
The wife suddenly responded in an erotic manner, digging her nails into his back, gripping him tightly and biting his face.
She then jumped up on him and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, squeezing him as she yelled and squealed ecstatically.
The inspector’s reaction was one of total sexual excitement: ‘Darling, you weren’t as amorous or vigorous as this twenty five years ago!’
The wife responded, ‘No, and the farmer’s fence wasn’t electrified then either!!’
Surprise! Surprise!
. . .
Dougie Mack was a cop with a mad passion for eating pie and beans. He adored them.
The only problem was they didn’t particularly agree with him.
You see, after consuming a few pints of Guinness and a few greasy pies smothered in beans, he would suffer the most horrendous, obnoxious flatulence, in fact he was an out-and-out ‘pongo’!
Suffice to say, wherever he go, the ‘pongo’!
This did not unduly bother him, being a single bloke, until he met a policewoman and started dating her.
After dating for over a year, the inevitable happened and they got engaged and subsequently handcuffed – sorry, I mean married. (Same thing!)
Several months later, Dougie was involved in a big drugs-bust court case and, having obtained a conviction, he accompanied some of his fellow Drug Squad mates to a local hostelry for a bevvy session to celebrate.
After swallowing numerous pints of Guinness, Dougie the dutiful husband made his excuses and left to catch his bus home.
However, whilst standing at the bus stop awaiting its arrival, he could smell an aroma which had escaped his nostrils and taste buds for so long – yes, it was pie and beans!
The aroma to his nose was what Chanel No. 5 is to a woman – pure nectar from the gods.
As he stood there soaking up this bouquet of fragrance, he thought to himself, why not have just one?
One wouldn’t hurt anybody and it would go a long way to satisfying his craving!
Finally convinced, he walked into the baker’s shop and purchased one.
Oh, how he enjoyed it — three bites and it was gone. Suddenly it occurred to him that it was still quite early, so why not have another and he could walk part of the route home, ridding himself of any foul flatulence on the way. He could arrive home with his lovely wife none the wiser.
He talked himself into it and re-entered the shop.
The greedy pig didn’t stop at one pie and before he left the shop he had scoffed three more. They hardly touched the sides of his throat on their way down.
Off he went along the road (wind-assisted), striding it out like a beat policeman, farting away like a four-bob rocket on Guy Fawkes Night, every few minutes – ‘Bbbrrrpppp!’
It was like walking on Nike Air without wearing the trainers, as each step he took practically blew the backside out of his trousers. It was brilliant with no one to bother about. He was only a threat to local wildlife.
Finally, almost at his house, he’d passed enough wind to rewrite The Wind in the Willows and play the lead part in The House at Pooh Corner.
He had contaminated the entire countryside with his foul waste and with time left for one more blowout before he reached his front door.
He cocked his leg up to one side and – ‘Bbbrrrpppp!’
He then paused for a moment, before minging – sorry, ringing – his doorbell!!!
After a few moments, his wife duly answered the door.
‘Hello, darling!’ she said as she leaned forward, placing a kiss on his cheek.
‘Hello, love,’ he responded. He stepped inside the hall and was about to remove his jacket when his wife said, ‘Stop! Close your eyes, darling. I have a nice surprise for you!’
Being the obedient husband, he complied with her request.
She then led him along the hall with his eyes tightly closed and into the lounge area of the house.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘on the count of three, I want you to open your eyes.’ She began to count, ‘One, two—’ and before she could say ‘three’ the telephone rang.
‘Stop! Don’t open your eyes. Promise me you’ll keep them closed until I return,’ she pleaded with him.
‘I promise, I promise!’ he replied.
She went into the hallway to answer the telephone.
While awaiting her return, Dougie’s stomach rumbled with a build-up of gas, which he had just got to get rid of – pronto!
He cocked his ear in the direction of his wife on the telephone and, hearing her engaged in conversation, he let rip – ‘Bbbrrrpppp!’
What a rasper this was and he didn’t even have a dog he could blame for it.
The smell was so strong you could practically taste it!
If it was canned it could be sold as insect repellent!
There were probably enough vitamins in it to cure a Mediterranean disease!
He began blowing frantically and waving his hands about in an effort to disperse the pong, still with his eyes closed tightly.
What a good husband (probably stinging anyway) – he was totally bowfin’!!
His wife called out to him from the hallway, ‘I hope you still have your eyes closed tightly!’
Dougie shouted back, ‘Yes, sweetie pie!’
There was nothing sweet about this pie and he knew it!
‘I wouldn’t want to spoil your surprise for me.’
He then quietly muttered to himself, ‘I hope it’s not pie and bloody beans.’ He then giggled to himself nervously.
Suddenly, he felt another rumble in his stomach – surely not again!
He felt like he was about to lift off!
His bomb doors were about to open fully!
Was this a three-minute warning that the brownies were coming? Definitely!!
However, he couldn’t go to the toilet because he would have to pass his wife in the hall.
Panic-stricken, he had a repeat of his last fart, only double and in stereo. ‘Bbrrrpppp – brrrpppp!!’ Uugghhh!!!
It felt as though he had just passed a bowling ball – whole! He was absolutely stinking!
He smelled as if he was in the advanced stages of decomposing.
Local farmers would pay him just to roll over and fertilise their fields.
The UN are searching Iraq for chemical weapons and here we have our very own located in a suburban estate in Glasgow!
This last one took the biscuit.
This time the bunnet was off his head and he was vigorously waving it about in front and behind him, in an effort to dilute the stench that he had produced.
Then panic as his wife finished off her telephone conversation.
He stopped his frantic waving and tried to act natural.
His wife entered the room and said, ‘Right, did you open your eyes?’ ‘No, darling, I did not,’ he replied. ‘Honest!’
‘Good,’ said the wife. ‘Well, you can open them now!’
Very slowly, he opened his eyes and gasped in horror, as seated around the room were police colleagues, friends and relatives, who in unison, burst into song: ‘Happy Birthday to you!!! Happy Birthday to you!!!’
‘Aaaarrrrgggghhhhh!!!’
My Appreciation
. . .
The author would like to thank you for buying this book and hopes that you had as much fun reading it, as he had writing and compiling it.
The author would also like to thank the many police colleagues/characters who made it possible to write about all this but impossible to tell the real truth.
The author would also like to add that most of the names have been changed to protect the guilty and most of the stories have been exaggerated!
The Harry the Polis cartoons were created and written by Harry Morris and illustrated by Derek Seal.
Harry Morris, who appears courtesy of his parents, is available as an after dinner speake
r for functions and can be contacted by email at:
[email protected]
Website: www.harrythepolis.com
Or by post:
PO BOX 7031, GLASGOW, G44 3YN. SCOTLAND.
Copyright
. . .
First published 2006
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL
www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
This electronic edition published in 2012
ISBN: 978 1 84502 624 0 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 84502 625 7 in Mobi pocket format
ISBN: 978 1 84502 113 9 in paperback format
Copyright © Harry Morris, 2006
The right of Harry Morris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay