by Glenn Wood
We raced back into town and were surprised to find that Shane had gone. Imagine our consternation as we passed a police car pulling out of our motel when we returned. Soon after we left a cop on the beat spotted Shane and came over to see if he could help. As all handcuff keys were the same in those days he was able to release Shane. He even called a car to transport the rest of the guys back to the motel. When the cops heard who was behind the handcuff debacle they laughed loudly and professed no surprise at all. By the following Monday the whole region was aware of what had happened. I wasn’t even safe cocking up in someone else’s district.
Our welcome from Shane was warmer than expected. His sense of humour had returned with his circulation.
He sneezed a bit on his wedding day but aside from a runny nose everything went as smoothly. For him anyway, I was still getting ‘the look’ from Carey and I may have been a bit paranoid but Sharon seemed to have gone off me as well. Women eh! They’re so touchy.
During my next week at work I came across someone else equally touchy. The man was an ex-All Black and he was the biggest arsehole I have ever come across. I was working in the watch-house when he was brought in. One of our dog handlers had arrested him for a relatively minor charge (assault, I think) and I was surprised to see he was in handcuffs. He was being so obnoxious that the dog handler had to cuff him just to get him back to the station. I didn’t recognise him and asked him the usual identification questions. When I enquired as to his name he really went off. He began yelling: 'Don’t you know who I am?'
‘No.’ I said and furthermore I didn’t care.
He started ranting on about what a bunch of nobodies we were and how he was making more money than all of us combined. He really was a most objectionable individual and I was keen to get him into the cells and out of my hair. He suddenly nodded to something outside the bars of the holding cell and cried out: 'Look over there!'
We all fell for it and as soon as our attention was distracted he kneed the dog handler in the groin, causing him to double over in pain. I grabbed the ex-All Black and rammed him into the bars of the cell, momentarily stunning him. Another officer grabbed him and dragged him to the cells. He spent the rest of the night screaming down the corridor that we had no right to treat him this way.
The other officer told me who he was. I was staggered. The arrogance of the man was incredible. Just because he was a half decent rugby player he thought the world should bow at his feet.
I strolled down to the cells and gave him some tips on how he could improve his passing. He chose to ignore my advice and was never selected to play for our top team again. Served him right.
A belated celebration for Shane’s nuptials was suggested by Sheep, who also proposed we make some wine to mark the occasion. There were plenty of grapes on a vine in our backyard so we had the raw materials. What we didn’t have was the remotest idea about wine making. The sensible thing to do would have been to go to the library and find some reference material on the subject. That would have been the sensible thing to do so naturally we decided to wing it instead. How hard could wine-making be? Even the French could do it.
As a baker, Sheep claimed to have mastered out the rudiments of fermentation. I struggled to find the connection between baking a meat pie and fermenting grapes but Sheep wouldn’t elaborate and I was left to trust his judgment.
The following morning we picked the fruit and then spent the next few hours washing the grapes and sterilizing the equipment (running it under the hot tap). Next came the squashing, which presented a problem as I’d left my wine press in my other trousers. Good old Kiwi ingenuity came to the fore and, armed with potato mashers and several large pots, we set to work. Once we’d mushed the grapes we strained the liquid through an old pair (we hoped) of Michelle’s pantyhose, into waiting saucepans. Then we added water and boiled the resulting concoction on the stove, adding sugar when the brew looked like it needed it. Once the sugar had melted we poured the liquid into a stainless steel milk churn that Sheep had borrowed from his mother. The white wine was made, now for the red. There was a snag; we didn’t know how to achieve the colouring. I suggested red food dye but we didn’t have any. The only dye of any sort was a semi-permanent hair colour Michelle had left in the bathroom. We decided against using it because it was only semi-permanent and ‘chestnut’ didn’t sound like a very good wine shade. Just as we had reached the plateau of despair, after having slashed our way through the jungle of despondency and forded the river of dejection, we had a brainwave. We would boil up the black skins from the grapes we’d already crushed. Surprisingly, it worked and we had our reds. We boiled the juice, bottled it and then took the bottles and milk churn around to Sheep’s mother’s place for fermentation.
The party was arranged for the following Saturday night and we couldn’t wait for the week to pass, anxious to try our new creations. The festivities were to be held at Quentin’s flat because his house was closer to town and we preferred to trash his place. Word of our skills in viticulture had spread and the level of anticipation in the room was high. Mainly because most of the guests were students and the lure of free alcohol, no matter how dodgy, was strong. Finally the moment arrived. Two bottles of white wine (or as one uncultured yob was heard to comment ‘yellow’ wine) were placed on the table as were two bottles of red.
A toast was made and the wine tasting began. Astoundingly the reds were drinkable. Thick and chewy (admittedly not characteristics normally associated with fine wine) but palatable and I suspect severely alcoholic. Unfortunately the white was terrible and was left untouched. We decided it needed more sugar and another week's fermentation. At the end of the party we drunkenly declared our foray into wine making a roaring success.
Things soured over the following weeks. All the remaining bottles of red exploded in Sheep’s mother’s garage, sending glass fragments careening across the carport. The residue left a dark stain on the concrete that refused to quit no matter how much scrubbing Sheep did (a lot - his mother was furious).
The white wines future was even more lamentable. Having re-brewed it we poured some into a teapot for a friend of ours to try. She drank several glasses one afternoon and had to be rushed to hospital with an acute case of poisoning. She remained in critical care for one day and was in hospital for another three (sorry Gill). After that we thought it best to tip the rest down the drain. As the liquid seeped away we righted the milk churn and noticed that the wine had almost eaten through the stainless steel side of the container. Instead of making wine we had created acid. Great for burning through stuff but not recommended as an accompaniment for beef, chicken or fish. We decided not to give up our day jobs.
Not that I was having a great deal of success with my day job. True, I hadn’t poisoned anyone in the line of duty (that I knew of) but I hadn’t shown any significant improvement either. I decided to try really, really hard to improve my policing. I (wrongly) thought that if I made a concerted effort to be more helpful and courteous to the general public then news of my good deeds would trickle back to my superiors and they’d have to reassess their opinions of me. This line of reasoning was so far off it wasn’t even funny. They didn’t care how popular a cop I was, they just wanted me to make more arrests and be less of a Gonzo. Easier said than done.
In my misguided quest to single handedly improve the police’s public profile, I decided I would no longer sneak into the movies during night shift and hide in the dark watching the film. Well, not unless it was a really good one. ‘Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark’ was in; ‘Attack of the Killer Tomatoes’ was not. ‘Blue Lagoon’ or anything featuring Brooke Shields was definitely out.
Carey made me go and see ‘Endless Love’ which I renamed ‘Mindless Love’ and got clipped around the ear. If a film has the word ‘love’ in the title then most men will hate it. Unless it’s ‘Tina Plays the Love Flute’, but we won’t go into that. To help women out, I’ve compiled a list of the words men want to see in a movie title;<
br />
Kill, Bomb, Death, Dead, Android, Alien, Mutant, Hooker (not the rugby type but that’s good too), Hitman, Blood, Bikini, Massacre, Beast, Nuke, Cheerleader, Cheerleaders, Cheerleader Try Outs, Bang (all meanings), Footy, Terminator, Sex (as long as it’s not a Woody Allen film) and Flamethrower.
Words we don’t want to see include:
Smile, Feelings, Shopping, Mother, Happy, Love, Shoe, Cuddle, Touch, Beauty, Magnolia, Wedding, Engagement, Funeral, Sisters, Meg Ryan, Message, Christmas, Togetherness, Horse (unless it’s wooden), Romance, Paris, Kitten, Hope and Commitment.
In the spirit of improved policing I decided to curtail my visits to the local radio stations as well. This meant no more chatting with the late night DJ’s for half my shift.
Finding a cosy place for a kip was also banned, as was sneaking around to Carey’s place for some ‘feminine company’.
No. My place was out there on the beat. Protecting the good people of Palmerston North and practicing police work as we were taught in training.
God, it was boring.
Once you’d inspected the city shops and made sure they were secure and then moved on all the glue sniffing teenagers, what else was there to do? According to regulations I was to maintain a constant presence in the city and environs to deter crime. A blow-up dummy could have done that. That's actually a good idea. Stick lifelike inflatable constables around all the trouble spots, cunningly incorporate the occasional real one in the mix to keep the more observant crims in doubt and bang, crime stops overnight. This was the kind of thinking I did when I had too much time on my hands. During a lonely trudge through Palmerston North on a wet Tuesday night I also invented the missile launching police hat and Swiss Army Truncheon (it converts into a torch, calculator, electronic note pad, breath alcohol tester and portable holding cell as well as being able to remove stones from horses’ hooves).
After a fortnight of increased zeal with little discernible result I finally came across a soul in need. It was just after midnight on a cold Wednesday morning. I was in the Mobile Beat car with Bruce and it had been a dull shift. We were thinking about making our way back to the station when we came across an angry looking man standing outside a hotel in the central business district. He was clearly distressed and as he was wearing his dressing gown I was sure he wasn’t out seeing the sights. I decided to have a chat with him. Bruce declined, preferring to stay in the nice warm car. He made the right decision.
The man was happy to see me. I wasn’t used to this and didn’t know how to deal with it. He told me he was staying in the hotel behind him and was having trouble sleeping. I sympathised. Hotel beds can be hell. He said his bed was fine. The problem was that his room faced into an adjacent alley and a terrible noise was keeping him awake.
Terrible noise eh? I didn’t like the sound of that. Images of an axe-wielding psychopath or an escaped zoo animal sprang to mind. He went on to describe the sound as a loud mechanical hum, like an industrial fan or similar. That was a relief. In my newfound feeling of public-spiritedness I confidently told him I'd fix it. I briefed Bruce on the situation and he asked if I needed a hand. I told him it was all under control and followed the complainant into the alley.
After a few steps I heard the noise he’d been complaining about. It was definitely a fan of some sort, a bloody big one too by the sound of it. We located the offending fan quickly. It was positioned high up on the outside edge of a huge building opposite the hotel. We stood there for a few minutes looking at it and wondering what to do. I spotted an external switch for the fan. It was located some distance from the ground on the outside of the building. Getting to it would be tricky, not just because of the height but it was also partially protected by a plastic casing. I assessed the situation and decided flicking the off-switch was possible. I would need to get a leg up from the complainant, climb along a drainpipe, ease myself up a metal extraction duct and then lean over and bash the switch off with my baton. Up I climbed and after three unsuccessful baton swipes I finally made contact and the switch flipped off. The fan gave a splutter and died. The alley grew silent.
My friend on the footpath below was jubilant. He rushed over to me as I climbed down and vigorously shook my hand. He was so thrilled with my efforts that he asked my name and promised to call the station the following morning to sing my praises. I was rapt. My plan was working. Soon my superiors would be aware of what an inventive and efficient police constable I’d become.
I told Bruce about my victorious problem solving but all I got from him was a bored nod. The fact that he didn’t share my enthusiasm didn’t concern me. I spent the rest of the shift in a triumphant mood that not even the hell bitch could sour. I couldn’t wait to get to work the following night as I was sure the station would be awash with tales of my good deed. It turned out I didn’t have to wait. I was woken at nine the following morning by a call from the station. The senior sergeant wanted to see me straight away. This was unusual as I’d only finished work at five that morning. I rushed down to the station, confused by the fuss. I knew I’d done a good deed but it wasn’t that big a deal. A sinking feeling began as soon as I entered the station. One of the policewomen I got on well with gave me a look of heartfelt sympathy, made to say something and was led away by her colleague. From the other end of the station I heard the senior sergeant bellow my name. CONSTABLE WOOOOOD!
I was ushered into his office and told me what had happened.
True to his word, my friend the noise sensitive businessman had come into the station to tell everyone what a great job I’d done. He enthusiastically retold the events of the night before to anyone who’d listen, elaborating on how difficult it was for me to reach the switch. Unfortunately his visit came minutes after the New Zealand Customs Department had rung the senior sergeant to report an act of industrial espionage. Someone had scaled the side of their building and switched off their computer cooling unit, causing their newly purchased, multimillion-dollar computer system to overheat and explode.
I tried to explain that I couldn’t have known about the air cooling system but the senior sergeant wasn’t listening. He was too busy yelling. I can’t remember all of what he said, but the gist was that he was most unhappy at having to phone the Customs Department to tell them that their computer system hadn’t been blown up by urban terrorists but by Constable Wood.
The repercussions of my simple act of kindness went on for weeks. The police tried their best to find a clever motive for me sabotaging the Customs Department but couldn’t. They were forced to concede that I had acted with good intentions and were unable to take the matter any further. They hated that. There was some loose talk about docking my wages to pay for repairs to the computer system (estimated at $1.3 million. My bank account at the time contained $352) but it came to nothing. This was the first serious black mark on my record.
On a more positive note, the businessman left me message saying he’d slept brilliantly for the rest of the night. I can’t tell you how happy that made me.
The Tour
Rugby season was upon us, but during 1981, the game took on a whole new significance. It was the year South Africa made some small concessions against apartheid and assembled a multiracial rugby team. Okay, so there was only one black African in the team but it was enough for the government to open our rugby fields to the tourists.
A lot of people felt the South African government was only making a token effort to stop racism in their country and weren’t happy having the Springbok rugby side in New Zealand. A lot of other people thought what the South African government did had nothing to do with rugby and just wanted to watch some good footy. This turned out to be a naive view and declaring that sport and politics shouldn’t mix didn’t stop it happening.
I am not going to get into the political ramifications of the Springbok tour as I’m neither qualified nor willing to. Besides, I wasn’t interested in the politics behind the tour. Politics bores me stupid so I didn’t pay much attention to the situation in
South Africa. I know this is narrow-minded and apathetic but I was nineteen and hadn’t given the issue much thought. Naturally I was appalled to think that injustices may have been occurring in the bottom half of Africa, or any other part of the world, but I failed to see how punishing their rugby team would help.
People had talked of a law and order problem if the tour went ahead but I wasn't buying it. It was going to be a storm in a tea cup. Sure, we’d been trained in riot control the year before at Trentham and a select few, who showed exceptional proficiency with the long batons, were taken aside for mysterious ‘special training’, but that was just the police being over cautious. This was New Zealand and the only riot we’d ever seen was during the Easter Parade lolly scramble when it was discovered that someone had eaten all the nice Macintosh toffees and left just the coconut ones.
I had no idea of the scale of feeling against the tour. I had a few semi-serious arguments with the assorted students I knew (most of whom were anti-tour) but was just revving them up for the sake of it rather than treating the subject with the weight it deserved. My first inkling that there was more to the tour than I imagined came after the Springbok’s first game against Poverty Bay in Gisbourne on July 22nd 1981. The match was dubbed the ‘Day of Shame’ by the protest movement and for the first time we saw the police and protesters clashing on the muddy outskirts of a provincial rugby ground. I started taking more notice of the protests after that date, reasoning that there would probably be a student march in Palmerston North. This worried me immensely because of the likelihood that Constable Wood’s police hat would make an appearance. As it turned out, that was the least of my problems.