Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  Inching ever closer, Dan by now was virtually in the brawl himself, bending down with his head almost touching the floor, snapping away like a pump action machine gun at the man’s squashed head that lay dormant at the bottom of the pack of policemen. In the end, the duty officer told him enough was enough. Shrugging his shoulders in acceptance Dan put his camera away and trudged off. Meanwhile I had been observing and talking to a few interested viewers.

  Most people seemed to find the police response a brutal overreaction, not that I had been feeding this view with my questioning, “Do you think it was completely necessary for the officer to knee the guy in the back when he wasn’t moving underneath six large policemen?” It goes without saying that we could have crucified them in the story for over zealous policing, captured on camera and witnessed by many. But on this occasion, mostly due to the duty officer’s helpful approach, a softer angle was taken in the interests of the bigger picture.

  In any event, it was difficult for the police to put a positive spin on the crackdown following the deployment of 1,300 extra officers when a variety of other incidents kicked off late in the shift, including an assault where someone fell and hit their head before later dying, a drunk pedestrian being killed after stumbling onto a road without looking, and the usual array of glassings, stabbings and punch-ups. But rather than accept any responsibility for failing to curtail the level of crime, the authority’s policy was naturally to blame others. “Some people chose to ignore our warnings about booze-fuelled crime,” the senior commander said. Did he really expect any different?

  There were other methods in capturing police behaviour on the streets other than through the traditional snapping of a camera. Always with equipment that was at the cutting edge of technology, Dan had installed a small video at the front of his car, which automatically recorded the road in front. The theory was not so much to catch reckless drivers, but more part of his never-ending quest to catch cops breaking the rules of the road. We had, on occasions, followed their cars, but on realising they were not heading anywhere exciting we would soon ditch them.

  On one such occasion our luck changed, though. While driving aimlessly about, all of a sudden a police car, with no sirens on, came hurtling towards us as it weaved dangerously in and out of traffic. Dan, eyes popping from his head, couldn’t believe his luck. “Gotcha you cunt,” he shouted ecstatically, delighted at the prospect of having just captured an officer of the law breaching the highway code by failing to put its flashing lights on. And then, without a pause for breath, he slammed on the breaks and performed a three-point turn in the middle of the road, causing my neck to harshly jolt back before being strangled by the seat belt. All as a large truck was accelerating worryingly towards us. But just as it looked like we were about to be flattened, we screeched off in pursuit of the police car, the smell of burning rubber totally stinking the car out.

  Fortunately it was a long straight road so we could still see them. They were in a hurry and so were we, doing 90kmh in a 50kmh zone. “I hope they’re going somewhere important,” I said, my hand firmly clutching the holder above my head, giving myself a superficial sense of security. Meanwhile, Dan was in the zone, “Come to papa,” he said calculatingly, as we closed the gap on them - a notable achievement, as by now we had gone through several sets of traffic lights, somehow making it through each of these.

  And then the inevitable happened. Just after the police car had gone through a set of lights they started to change. Determined not to lose out, Dan put his foot down even further, if that was possible, as we careered toward the amber light. It then turned red but we were like a runaway express train. There was no stopping us now. “Hold on, looks like we’re doing a reddy,” he yelled heatedly, referring to going through a red light in a manner which suggested he had done it before once or twice. We tore through the cross roads with the light having been red for what must have been at least two seconds. Fearing the worst I closed my eyes before peering through my hands to see a car pulling out from the other direction, who thankfully suddenly halted, choosing life over a premature and instant death. “Aha you can’t lose us that easily you bastards,” my partner blasted, before letting out his customary Dracula laugh, as we kept up the chase. I was in stunned silence, praying I would somehow defy logic and emerge alive from this carnage.

  And then, after what had seemed like an eternity, the police car turned round a corner, with us following seconds behind where we were met by that familiar sight of flashing sirens lighting up the dark sky. “I smell trouble,” Dan, taking his hands momentarily off the wheel so he could rub them with delight, said as we pulled up. A car had smashed into the underside of a bridge having veered up an embankment following a police chase, which had left two of their vehicles slightly damaged. With no crime scene tape yet up we had clearly arrived within minutes of the crash. To ascertain exactly what happened I did my usual trick of casually strolling over, ensuring my pen and notebook were nowhere to be seen, looking as though I was meant to be there, before tactically positioning myself behind a couple of officers, while facing away from them so they wouldn’t think I was eavesdropping if they noticed me. “Lucky no-one was killed eh,” I heard one say, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, unreal that the driver was only 13,” his colleague responded. I was beginning to build a picture of what had happened.

  There were several undercover cops on the scene and I could only presume they thought I was one, just like the police car we’d been following must have, which wasn’t unheard of. Dan had told me a story where he was once in pursuit of a villain with cops hot on his tail. After momentarily losing the assailant, he was abruptly turning round when a cop pulled over and wound down his window, “Any ideas where he’s gone mate?” the officer asked, clearly blind to the fact he was speaking to a photographer and not, as he had assumed, an undercover policeman. “I’ll follow you,” the officer then added. And off they went. That was one of the beauties of the job: the assumption you were a fellow officer of the law, which opened up doors.

  How could it be possible for journalists to get to the scene of an incident before most police? Time and again they would misjudge us, thinking it was simply not possible for media to arrive first. On arrival you could see them scoping you out while thinking, “Who’s that?” Before concluding, “Oh, it’s probably some shit-face from special division,” and then never giving a second thought as to who the hell you were, until they saw you interviewing members of the public while scribbling notes next to a melee of excited photographers taking pictures of disturbed individuals who had just witnessed some horrific scene. To see the officers’ faces at that precise moment of realisation was indeed a picture; a look of total hate, mixed with a strong hint of humiliation, as they were forced to accept they had been outfoxed by the arch enemy: the media.

  As it turned out on this occasion the officer I spoke to seemed like a decent bloke and was more than helpful. In fact he wouldn’t shut up, giving me more details than his superiors, no doubt, would have approved of. In technical terms he shouldn’t have told me anything as it was only meant to be the duty officer who spoke to the press, such were the lengths the force tried to go in preventing the media from getting information - a reflection of the high level of mistrust between both factions. The chatty officer was talking to me like a mate down the pub, which was perfect from my point of view. Gently guiding him along, I found out three kids had stolen a top of the range BMW after plying themselves with a concoction of alcohol and drugs and then decided to go for a spin in the middle of the night, narrowly avoiding killing themselves and a host of innocent motorists on several occasions. All while making their way across the foggy city with a convoy of police cars in hot pursuit, before finally succumbing to a mound and bridge.

  Miraculously all three were unhurt and had been taken into custody. The car was soon towed away after being searched and gradually officers started to disperse just as all the other media began to arrive, much to our delight, as i
t meant we had an exclusive.

  As with any of these stories, ideally we needed some form of confirmation from police media of what had occurred. But, unfortunately, for whatever reason it seemed they wanted to sweep this one under the carpet. I had heard a theory that, apart from the obvious fact that writing fewer press releases meant less work for them, failing to confirm an incident also served to give the impression there wasn’t as much crime, which could only be a good thing from a publicity point of view. Crime, what crime?

  To add to the mix it seemed to me the police had a strict policy on employing some of the most useless people ever born. I wasn’t sure if this was a deliberate ploy, therefore ensuring there was yet a further obstacle for the media to get past. One useless man sounded like he should have been - and wanted to be - in bed. In fact, wherever he was in police headquarters I’m convinced he was horizontal with a warm duvet over him. He genuinely didn’t have a clue what was going on.

  Another man, of advancing years, was a pompous git whose voice would virtually perforate your eardrum, such was the volume and speed he spoke at. Clearly on a crusade to be as unhelpful as possible, he gave the aura of knowing exactly what was happening but took great pleasure in telling you nothing. On asking if it was possible for him to look into matters you got the kind of reply you would expect to get if you were asking to borrow his wife for a night. “I’m afraid we have absolutely no knowledge of this and there is no point whatsoever in me attempting to contact the duty officer. He’s not back for a reason: he’s not finished yet,” he snarled delightfully, as I sought an official line on the youths’ incredible rampage through the city.

  Unfortunately we weren’t getting very far so Dan got in touch with his mates at the radio and television stations, getting them to each ring police media requesting a press release on the joyriding. The plan being that eventually the police would cave into the concerted pressure being applied on them from all angles and would no longer be able to palm it off as something that was a figment of our imaginations. And sure enough, following a frenzy of media attention, they finally took notice of our pleas and did a press release. Though, of course, Dan still had his exclusive pictures while I had my “insider” details. Our cause, it has to be said, had been significantly helped following a change of shift in the press office, with a strangely rare, upbeat and helpful media officer saving us any further pain after replacing the two previous incumbents.

  The mind games never ended with Dan, though, and he was soon up to his usual trick on the phone: offering false praise to the media officer, which he hoped she would overhear after she put him on hold. “I do like Kylie, she’s my favourite…she always does her best to help us out,” he said directly into the loud speaker on his phone, while winking at me conspiratorially. He would keep this up, lavishing a variety of different praises upon her, particularly when he heard her coming back on the line, ensuring that she would at least have heard one compliment. “Oh, sorry for interrupting,” Kylie, or whatever her name was, said as she picked the phone up.

  “Oh, sorry didn’t realise you were there,” Dan replied, winking at me with a huge grin. “I was just saying how you’re the best media officer the police have.”

  After an embarrassed laugh, Kylie recovered her composure. “Well, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

  “No problem, just being honest.” Of course, Dan would do this to every media officer. But, nonetheless, he would take great delight when they fell into his trap, as he left no stone unturned in the never ending war of extracting information from the police.

  Despite my colleague’s best efforts I’m not convinced his tactics of buttering up police media really made a blind bit of difference to some. His ploy of rounding up other media outlets to contact the cops, however, seemed to be more successful in manipulating them to release information. With the time turning 6am Dan switched on the radio for the early morning news where sure enough the story was one of the headlines. “Gotcha,” he shouted excitedly, before letting out his Dracula laugh and giving me a high-five. Various television stations were also running the story as one of their headlines, but unlike ourselves, sadly, had to make do with meagre footage of a few police cars and officers scouring the area in the absence of the crunched car they had missed out on capturing, not to mention the inside details of what had really happened. “Good work mate,” Dan continued, “without us that wouldn’t be on there and no one would have known about that story.”

  It was, of course, all totally true and I couldn’t deny feeling satisfied at our exclusive and the fact we had manipulated the police and other media by creating a tidal wave of interest, leaving the authority with little choice but to admit to the event.

  Chapter 13 – In the line of fire

  One of the routes we would do while driving about listening to scanners and people watching was through the infamous and seedy Kings Cross. As you may be aware by now it was not my favourite place, unless of course you fancied being surrounded by some of the biggest morons you could possibly imagine. Foraging through its packed streets on a Saturday night even when in the relative safety of the car, therefore, was about as much fun as being trampled by a herd of elephants. At least when I had gone out for a night there on previous ventures I had been well refreshed and consequently far more oblivious to the crap around me.

  As we scoured the area for any action I couldn’t help but be reminded of one of those zombie movies, such was the array of warped looking people stumbling about, who would gaze intensely at you like they wanted to munch your face off after we’d had the cheek to drive the car on the road, of all places, when they had suddenly decided to amble across blindly for no apparent reason. On countless occasions Dan had to sharply hit the break to avoid hitting revellers, who by way of a thank you would volley a mouthful of expletives in our direction. I thought it was only a matter of time before a new windscreen would be needed. Needless to say, the abuse didn’t stop Dan from expressing his own feelings at the hostile drunks, “Move you stupid cunt,” he shouted out the window at one large shaven headed man rocking in the middle of the street with a kebab, who banged the side of the car as we navigated round him.

  Moments later, with reports of a possible stabbing nearby, we were forced to pull over on yellow lines so Dan could jump out and race to the scene while I kept look out in the car. In the mad rush of it all the I had forgotten to lock the doors when some angry large oaf, who had been strangely glancing over at me, casually meandered over before pausing, while looking the other way, and then in one swift movement swooped to open the door. Thankfully, in the split second before he pounced I anticipated such a stunt, and as he lunged for the door handle I reached for the automatic lock switch, just beating him to it and preventing him ambushing me. I don’t know what his intentions were but on realising I had shunned him, he looked at me, while fighting gravity, and wagged his finger menacingly before heading off in no particular direction. Dan returned glumly shortly after, reporting there had only been a minor brawl but no stabbing.

  We continued our cruise down the heaving Darlinghurst Road before doing another agonising circuit. We turned onto an adjacent back street – with a healthy flow of traffic on it – where we suddenly noticed a vested man, with one foot planted on the back of a car for leverage, as he tried to pull off its number plate. It was a strange sight, particularly as he didn’t seem to care about who could see him. “Let’s get him,” my colleague enthusiastically announced. We turned around and parked across the road in the shadows, no more than 30 yards away from him. As we climbed out the car, Dan started taking shots while I acted nonchalantly, pretending to be on my phone, though I don’t think our subtle behaviour made any difference as the man was so focused on ripping off the plate – no doubt to be used for ulterior purposes, such as on a getaway vehicle – he wouldn’t have noticed us had we been stood right next to him.

  With photos taken we were chatting by the car when a police riot van slowly went past. “Get in,” Da
n, his face lighting up, squealed as we screeched off in pursuit of them. When they stopped at a red light a short distance down the street Dan wound down his window and started madly gesticulating. It was plain from the blank yet slightly startled look on the officers’ faces that they thought they were dealing with someone not quite the full ticket. Undeterred, Dan was going into seizure mode with veins popping out of his head, as he demanded the cops open the window, which eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, they did. “You need to go back there,” my colleague shouted, pointing vigorously back down the road. “A man is stealing a number plate. I repeat, a man is stealing a number plate, you need to go back now.”

  Looking somewhat bewildered, the officers glanced back and forth at each other blankly – presumably to decide if this was genuine and not just the vivid imagination of a crazy individual – before indicating they would be turning the riot van around. Dan, breaking the highway code right before the eyes of the police with a three-point-turn, led the riot van to the incident. Yet even when the group of officers surrounded the deviant, he was so focused on ripping off the plate that bizarrely he still failed to realise the police were there - until a cop tapped him on the shoulder. As we looked from across the street the man’s demeanour suddenly became far more aggressive as he waved his hands ferociously about. Unfortunately for him it didn’t appear that he was doing a very job in convincing the policemen of why he had felt it absolutely necessary to be desperately trying to yank a number plate from a car down a gloomy side street.

  Minutes later another riot van pulled up, with the man politely ushered gently against the side of it before being handcuffed and escorted into the back, still looking confused at the sudden turn of events. “Thanks for that officer. I didn’t mean to tell you how to do your job but I thought I better notify you,” Dan said, as we strolled triumphantly over, slyly taking a dig at how a vehicle full of policemen had failed to see a crime being committed right before their eyes. We walked off smugly, with Dan especially proud of his efforts. The irony was that it wasn’t even a story for us, though I was beginning to see that you could never have enough pictures of people being arrested, particularly when it was a slow night.