The Laughing Policeman: My Brilliant Career in the New Zealand Police

by Glenn Wood

  The photograph appeared in the paper the next day, a quarter-page picture of me spreadeagled and handcuffed on the ground, surrounded by armed police and barking dogs. The caption read:

  ‘Few people would have enjoyed being in a situation similar to the one staged by members of the Armed Offenders Squad at Inglewood this week. Twenty-five squad members from New Plymouth and Palmerston North are at present in Taranaki conducting regular combined exercises, which are held every three months. The squad has held manoeuvres at both Stratford and Inglewood. Squad members are pictured here while staging a mock search of an armed offender. Police Cadet Len Wood (Len??) was apprehended, handcuffed and searched by Constable Don Allen. At the ready was dog handler, Dave George and another armed policeman.’

  The famous Len Wood or, as I’ve been known to the tax department for about 15 years, Glenn Kenneth Wodd. This is despite numerous letters informing them my name is actually Glenn Keith Wood. Once they actually replied: ‘Thank you for helping correct our records, Mr Widd, we’ll make the appropriate changes immediately.’

  Nothing else of consequence happened for the remainder of station duty, and the time came to relax and enjoy our hard-earned leave. I was travelling to Palmerston North for the rest of my time off to try and persuade Carey that she needed a few more driving lessons. And speaking of driving, in a less metaphorical sense, I was just about to buy my first car.

  One of the major concessions the police were made for our second term of training was that we were allowed to have vehicles. The only snag being that I didn’t actually own one, not unless you count the Kawi 100, and I didn’t.

  I had saved some money during my first month of training, due to the fact that we were too busy to spend it. So I decided to add it to my savings and get a decent car. Snag number two, I didn’t have any savings. This was because I had worked at Jim’s Foodtown for two years after school, being paid the princely sum of 99 cents an hour. It was daylight robbery but I got no sympathy from my parents. Dad said that if Jim had deducted all the stuff I damaged from my wages then I’d end up having to pay him.

  Anyway, what it came down to was a bank balance of approximately $800. Not, you would have thought, enough to buy a car. Wrong. Dad had a mate who was prepared to let me have a perfectly serviceable vehicle for that exact amount. He would be taking a loss, of course. Cutting off his arm. It was a once only offer and although it pained him to let such a magnificent machine go for such a ridiculous price, he’d given his word and a deal was a deal. I finally agreed to have a look at this majestic example of precision engineering after being informed that he thought of me as the son he’d never had. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers, and I really, really, wanted a car.

  Actually, calling it a car is unfair to every other member of the automobile family. Yeah, it had four wheels, a couple of doors, a roof and was propelled by what could, at a stretch, be called an engine, but there the similarities ended.

  It was a Mini and it was pink.

  I mentioned these obvious flaws to Dad but he just shrugged and asked me what else I’d seen in my price bracket. He had a point. Car dealers weren’t exactly sending me hand-delivered invitations to come to their yards. But still, a pink mini…

  Dad said it was up to me and in a cruel, but remarkably effective move, jingled the keys to the Kawi 100 under my nose. Suddenly the Mini started to look a bit bigger and not quite so pink. More of a light orange from some angles and it did have black pinstripes down the sides. The seat also went way back so I could almost get my knees under the steering wheel. And learning how to double the clutch was a driving skill lost to many drivers these days. And it was cheap to run. And I really, really wanted a car.

  The more I thought about it the better ideas it seemed.

  If I owned a time machine and could travel back to one particular moment in history to stop myself doing something incredibly stupid, this would be it. But I don’t and I bought the damn car.

  I called it Floyd because it was pink and I thought that was quite witty. Once Carey stopped laughing she said she thought it was witty too, but I think she was humouring me as I’d obviously had some kind of a breakdown.

  Quentin was less sympathetic and refused to have Floyd parked in his flat’s driveway. He said it clashed with everything he owned. I quickly replied that was okay because there wasn’t enough room due to all the other fabulous vehicles parked there (one rusty 10-speed). After this stinging attack he relented and let me park it round the back.

  The enormity of my error didn’t strike me until I returned to Trentham. There was no question who had the crappiest car in the wing and the Gonzo legend began to grow.

  The Three P’s

  Winter was coming. We knew this because our instructors began organising a one-mile swim through Wellington Harbour. I’d never swum a mile before and it sounded like a sod of a long way. And to cap it off we would be swimming in freezing temperatures.

  This was obviously another team-building exercise; several weeks had gone by without our being placed in mortal danger and our instructors clearly thought that was too long. Just to spice up our harbour swim and give it an extra edge of danger, we would be swimming right past the meatworks outlet. A favourite dining area for sharks.

  I am terrified of sharks. The movie Jaws had a profound and lasting effect on me. In fact I hold Steven Spielberg partially responsible for destroying my promising marine biology career. I decided having a limb ripped off by a massive shark, just to protect the breeding place of the greater speckled puffer fish, was not the job for me. The puffer fish could fend for themselves.

  So, to recap: we would be swimming a mile through Wellington Harbour, past the shark-infested meat works, in sub-zero temperatures. Well, that would certainly prepare everyone who survived for life as a beat constable.

  Those of us who couldn’t swim would bloody well have to learn. That was our instructor’s directive as we began training in the Trentham pool.

  A mile was approximately 100 lengths of the pool and we were tested on the first day to see how many we could do. I swam 40 lengths which was about average. No one made the full 100 but a couple got close.

  Godfrey Watson, a mate of mine, almost made one length without sinking. The instructors thought he was having them on. He wasn’t. Godfrey (instantly nicknamed Aquaman) is without doubt the worst swimmer I have ever seen. He is completely unable to float. He was promptly taken aside for special swimming training.

  We had three weeks to prepare for the swim and by the end of that time almost everyone was able to swim the 100 lengths. Aquaman had managed six, thanks to probably the most patient instructor in the whole college. In the end even this sainted instructor snapped. After Aqua failed to make it across the pool without a flutter-board for the 20th time in five minutes, his instructor walked round to where Godfrey was thrashing about in the shallows and yelled ‘Watson, you have the buoyancy of a brick shithouse.’ Then he stomped off in disgust.

  Aqua was told he wouldn’t be taking part in the harbour swim. He was really disappointed but most of us would have traded places with him in a flash.

  Our bus arrived at the diving-off point on a grey and cold Wellington morning. The instructors were in fine spirits. They were so happy that before letting us disembark they walked around the bus surfing their hands past the windows like shark fins, the jolly wags.

  To help protect us from the cold our instructors supplied us with a large jar of Vaseline. It gave them quite a laugh watching us smearing it all over our bodies, with most cadets paying particular attention to an area of the body which has been known to shrivel in cold water. The thought that there was even the remotest possibility of permanent shrinkage was more than any self-respecting male could bear.

  Once we were all greased up we had to leap off the dock in groups of three, made up of a good swimmer, an average swimmer and a poor swimmer. The aim of the exercise was to get every member of the group home.

  My group was close to th
e front, for which I’m grateful. We only had to listen to a few screams of pain as warm bodies were suddenly immersed in freezing water. Hearing the continuous gasps of shock must have been really demoralising for the groups at the end of the line.

  Hitting the water was like being slapped in the genitals with a frozen trout. The Vaseline had no decernable effect and the only way to warm up was to swim like buggery. There was an upside to this freezing my bollocks off though; I had completely forgotten about the sharks.

  My group kept up a steady but unremarkable pace and we finished in a reasonable time with only minimal discomfort and shrinkage.

  About two-thirds of the cadets who entered the water got out under their own steam. Cold and exhaustion took its toll on the other third and they had to be rescued by police patrol boats. Phil was among the rescued - he got bad cramp in his leg half way through the swim. No one was eaten by a shark. I think they could sense that we had a lot of suffering ahead of us and to have been slaughtered so early in the term would have been the easy way out. Cruel creatures, sharks.

  Quite a few cadets got sick after the swim (what a surprise) and this was when we discovered Molly’s Mixture. Molly was Trentham’s resident nurse and she dispensed her own medicine, which quickly became legendary. It wasn’t very effective but it contained a copious amount of alcohol - half a bottle of MM and you were drunk as a skunk. And as it was a prescribed medicine we had a legitimate, unbookable excuse.

  The instructors figured out what was going on after about two weeks, when large numbers of intoxicated cadets were reported lurching around the barracks, swigging from brown plastic medicine bottles. Sadly, Molly was taken aside and told to tone down her brew: the flu was never as much fun after that.

  The police were very strict on the alcohol consumption while we were training. Of course, they realised that they couldn’t stop 80 teenagers indulging in the occasional drinking binge, but they made it clear that if we were caught under age in a pub or dinking illegally in a public place then we would be in serious trouble. Fair enough: in 12 months’ time we would be expected to arrest people for doing the same thing. Not that we thought about actually becoming police officers. Few of us believed we would make it through second term, let alone graduate.

  It was during one of these bouts of post-swim illness that Sergeant Edwards asked to borrow my car. Naturally I thought I was delirious; no one had ever shown anything but complete disdain for Floyd, and Jacko had laughed loudest when my recent purchase was unkindly discussed in class.

  Efforts to justify my vehicular decision had failed very early on. I invited one of the most vocally sceptical members of my section for a drive so I could prove Floyd wasn’t as bad as appeared. The cadet agreed, hopped into the passengers seat, shut the door and the side window fell onto his lap. Once I was able to be heard over the laughter, I explained it only happened occasionally and most times the window just slotted right back in again. But it was too late, the damage was done.

  It seemed Sergeant Edwards was truly desperate. The other cadets were on a run and he needed to get into town urgently. His wife had his car and I was the only one around with car keys. I was rapt, this could restore Floyd’s reputation. My plan was instantly foiled, Jacko swore me to silence under pain of extra PT, low test marks and a couple of unjustified bookings.

  As I handed over the keys I remembered that it was my Carless Day (due to a petrol shortage the government had allocated all drivers days when they were not allowed to use their car and stickers identifying the banned day were placed in car windows. Driving on these days was an offence). I mentioned this to Jacko but it didn’t faze him in the least - he claimed that his errand was a police emergency and the car was exempt from all restrictions. I made a half hearted attempt to get reassurance that he would pay any fines he received. Sergeant Edwards replied ‘Only the speeding tickets,’ then laughed all the way to the car.

  He was back three-quarters of an hour later and looked shaken. He tossed my car keys on my bed and shook his head in what I like to think was admiration, but suspect may have been pity. ‘Cadet Wood,’ he said, ‘you are either a very brave or very foolish young man.’

  I replied I knew Floyd was less than ideal but I was desperate. He asked if there was a woman involved and I told him about my long-distance romance with Carey. He said he understood and walked away with a curious look in his eye.

  A few days later Sergeant Edwards delivered his most memorable classroom speech. He spent an entire morning warning us about the dangers of the opposite sex. He wasn’t against women - far from it - but he felt it was his duty to point out (very graphically) the many traps involved in dealing with the fairer sex.

  It was the closest I saw Jacko come to preaching. He took to the subject with a religious fervour, frequently banging his pool cue on desktops to reinforce a particular point.

  He started with a discourse on the three most common reasons for a young constable to be thrown out of the police in disgrace. These reasons were summed up as ‘The Three P’s’ - Property, Pricks and Piss (obviously none of the P’s stood for Politically Correctness).

  We were dutifully copying this down in our notebooks and were taken aback when Jacko told us to put down our pens. He said what he was about to tell us would not appear on any test. It was advice he was passing from one cop to another. His conspiratorial tones had us hanging on every word. This was no longer an instructor telling a group of cadets some indisputable point of law; this was some of the lads getting together over a few beers to chat about women. Choice.

  Jacko elaborated on the three P’s one at a time. ‘Property’ was defined at any item handed to you as a police constable. This included lost property given to you by the public, and stolen goods recovered from criminals to be used in evidence.

  Sergeant Edwards emphasised the importance of properly recording and checking property when you received it. Receipts had to be issued and he impressed upon us the importance of personally escorting and handing goods to the watch-house keeper. We were to ensure the constable on duty acknowledged, in written form, receiving the goods.

  In short, Jacko was saying things go missing, so cover yourself. Many an honest cop has found himself up to his neck in brown sticky stuff because he couldn’t prove he had handed over property that had subsequently got lost. While stopping short of questioning the honesty of his fellow officers, Sergeant Edwards did make it clear the only way to avoid finger-pointing was to do your paperwork properly and trust no-one.

  The next two P’s fell into slightly more dubious areas. It’s important to emphasise at this stage that the views expressed here aren’t necessarily those of the author (who would like to remain married).

  The second P stood for pricks. It could just have easily have stood for penises but that didn’t have the impact Jacko was looking for. He admitted that he would also use the second P to talk about women, but explained that ‘The Two P’s and a W’ didn’t sound as good. Jacko did point out that his advice was a little harsh on womanhood in general, as it seemed to slander any woman who became involved with a police constable. The main thrust of his diatribe was to alert us to the thousands of loose women out there just waiting to get it on with a man in uniform (not so I’d noticed).

  Basically, bonking on duty was a no-no and against the law. If you were married, then rumpy-pumpy with anyone who wasn’t your wife should be avoided. Having it off with suspects was dodgy in the extreme and it was inadvisable to give a witness a quick shag. Knobbing your fellow officers also led to problems and probably concussion if they weren’t female.

  It seemed almost any carnal act would instantly bring your police career to a crashing halt. We thought this was harsh and you could feel the testosterone level in the classroom hitting unheard-of levels.

  Jacko called for calm and explained. Sex was fine (phew), but not while on duty and not with anyone involved in a case you were working on. He explained that temptation was often placed in the way of police office
rs and normally an ulterior motive was involved. Your impartiality could be called into question if your activities were discovered and your credibility destroyed.

  Ethical issues aside, doing the horizontal mambo with someone who just fancies doing it with a cop leaves you wide open for problems. Jacko told us of several cases of rape that had been alleged against some of his colleagues.

  He summed up, in the quote he became famous (infamous) for: ‘Woman, Boy! They’ll get you in a power of shit.’

  The third P was Piss. Sergeant Edwards was talking about alcoholism and it was rife in the police. The life most officers live is like a cocktail - if I can use a drinking simile and I believe I may. Work as a police officer is made up of two parts stress to one part responsibility. Blend that with macho pressure, then add a dash of temptation, and you’ve got a very dangerous mix indeed.

  Sometimes, Sergeant Edwards said, it might seem easier to take what you have to face every day as a constable if you fortify yourself beforehand. After a particularly hard day, a drink makes you forget all the shit you’ve just dealt with. Then of course there is Sunday School. Not, you may have guessed, the religious one. Far from it. Sunday School happened at the end of every week of night shift. Cops worked nights once a month and because it was the most exciting and stressful shift, it was customary to have a drink when you knocked off on Sunday morning. This was normally a serious drinking session and the pressure to attend was enormous.

  The police force was a very male domain and if you didn’t drink you quickly became an outcast. Drinking could become so much a part of life in the police that it began to take over and hence many a cop has fallen foul of the third P. Get caught drunk on duty and you were out; get caught drinking and driving and your career is severely limited; get drunk and start a fight and your card was marked.