The Last Night on the Beat

by Harry Morris

  At this point, an agitated Dick interrupted Stuart, ‘I won’t do that! I won’t! I won’t! I promise you I won’t!’

  Too which Stuart replied, ‘Ye’re fucken right ye won’t! ’cause yer not getting a bloody light!’

  Window Cleaners

  …

  Walking through the office one day, I answered the telephone to an irate female who reported, ‘Somebody has just poured yoghurt or cream all over my bedroom window!’

  On hearing her outburst, I offered her a solution: ‘Well, can you not just go out and clean it off?’

  The rather perturbed female caller replied, ‘What?! With a disabled son?’

  At which point I paused for a moment, before answering, ‘I think that’s a bit drastic missus, I was going to suggest using a bucket of water and a cloth!’

  Guns in the Family

  …

  One day a telephone call was received at the CID office, from a male informant, who wished to remain anonymous.

  The information was, that there were several guns within a house at … there was even an old-fashioned Tommy gun. The informant supplied the young detective with the address. The young detective officer, convinced that the call was genuine and keen to make a good impression, coupled with a discovery like this, arranged with other armed CID officers, to attend at the address with a warrant, to make a search of the premises for the alleged firearms.

  As the CID officers made their final preparations prior to leaving the police station, David Toner, an elderly, bespectacled uniformed officer who was presently performing indoor duties as the CID office clerk, overheard the entire episode of events and entered the room with his gold rimmed half-moon glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and carrying a copy of the public Voters Roll log for the entire area, under one arm and opening it up at a page he had previously marked off, he handed it over to the eager young detective officer and said, ‘Aye son, your informant was spot on, there are “Gunns” at that address, mind you, there’s an entire family of them … Oh, and the father’s name is Tommy Gunn!’

  Surprise! Surprise!

  …

  Dougie Mack was a cop with a mad passion for eating his culinary delight: pie and beans. He absolutely 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 with baked beans, Dougie would suffer the most horrendous, obnoxious flatulence, in fact, he was an out-and-out ‘pongo’!

  Suffice to say, wherever he go, the Pongo!

  Being a single bloke, this did not unduly bother him, until he met the woman of his dreams, a policewoman on another shift and started dating her.

  After dating regularly for over a year, the inevitable happened, when they got engaged and subsequently handcuffed – sorry, I mean married. (Same thing!)

  Several months later, Dougie was involved in a big drug-bust court case and, having obtained a guilty verdict, he accompanied some of his fellow drug squad mates, to a local hostelry for an afternoon bevvy session to celebrate.

  After swallowing numerous pints of Guinness, Dougie the dutiful husband, made his excuses and left the celebrations to catch his bus for home.

  However, whilst standing at the bus stop awaiting it’s arrival, he could smell an aroma, which had escaped his nostrils and taste buds for so long – yes, it was that of pie and beans!

  The aroma to his nose was the equivalent of Chanel No 5, to a woman – pure nectar from the gods. Not that you would get too many women wearing the pie and bean fragrance, but you get my drift in comparison I hope!

  Anyways, as he stood there soaking up this bouquet of fragrance, he thought to himself, why not have just one?

  One couldn’t hurt anybody and it would go a long way to satisfying his craving!

  Finally convinced, he marched into the baker’s shop and purchased one.

  Oh how he enjoyed it – three bites and it was gone. Suddenly it came 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 the unwanted foul flatulence on the way, thereby, he could arrive home to his house, 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 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 – ‘Bbbrrrpppppp!’

  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 the local wildlife.

  Finally, almost at his house, he’d passed enough wind to re-write, The Wind in the Willows and play the lead part in The House at Pooh Corner.

  He had single-handedly contaminated the entire countryside with his foul waste and with time left for one more blow-out before he reached his front door.

  Cocking his leg up to one side, he let rip … ‘Bbbrrrppppppp!’ Pausing for a brief moment, before minging his doorbell … Sorry, ringing his doorbell!!

  After a few moments, his wife duly answered the door, ‘Hello darling!’ she said, as she leant forward placing a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Hello, love, he responded, stepping inside the hallway he was about to remove his jacket when his wife said, ‘Stop! Close your eyes, darling, I have a nice wee surprise for you!’

  Being the obedient husband, he complied with her request, whereby she then lead him by the arm along the hallway 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?’ At that she began to count, ‘One, two …’ but before she could say ‘three’, the house telephone started ringing.

  ‘Stop! Don’t open your eyes. Promise me you’ll keep them tightly closed until I return.’ she pleaded with him.

  ‘I promise, I promise!’ he replied.

  On that note, his wife went off into the hallway to answer the telephone.

  While awaiting her return, Dougie’s stomach began to rumble with a build up of gas, which he has just got to get rid of – pronto!

  He stretched his neck and cocked his ear in the direction of his wife on the telephone and hearing her engaged in conversation, he let rip once again –‘Bbbrrrppppppp!’

  What a rasper this was and he doesn’t even have a dog that he can blame it on.

  The smell was so strong you could practically taste it!

  If it was canned, it could be sold as insect repellent!

  There’s probably enough vitamins in it, to find a cure for a Mediterranean disease!

  He began blowing frantically and waving his hands about in an effort to disperse the smell and 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 responded by shouting back to her, ‘Yes, sweetie pie!’

  There was nothing sweet about this pie and he knew it, I can assure you!

  ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil your surprise for me.’ He then quietly muttered to himself, ‘I hope tae f*ck it’s no’ pie and bloody beans.’

  He then giggled to himself nervously, this just happened to coincide with another rumble in his stomach – surely not again? He felt like he was about to lift off! Look out NASA, his bomb doors were about to open fully!

  Was this a three-minute warning that the brownies are coming? Definitely!

  However, he couldn’t go to the toilet, because he would have to pass his wife in the hallway.

  Panic-stricken, he had a repeat of his last fart, only double and in stereo sound, ‘Bbrrrppppp – Bbrrrppppp’! �
� ‘Uugghhhhhh!!’

  It felt as though he had just passed a ten-pin bowling ball … whole! He is absolutely stinking!

  He smells as if he is 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 takes the biscuit.

  This time, the bunnet is off his head and he is vigorously waving it about in front and behind him, in an effort to dilute the stench that he has produced with the room’s scented atmosphere.

  Then panic took over as his wife finished off her telephone conversation.

  He stopped his frantic waving and tried to act natural as his wife re-entered the room and said, ‘Right, did you open your eyes?’

  ‘No darling, I did not.’ he replied. ‘Honest!’

  ‘Good!’ she said. ‘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!!!!

  Lucky Tatties

  …

  I was recently reminiscing with my brother Allan about sweets we used to buy, like MB Bars, Whoppas, Milk Dainties, etc and we brought up the subject of Lucky Tatties or Lucky Potatoes, depending where you were brought up.

  Now, for those not old enough to know what a Lucky Tattie was, let me explain that it was a brick hard, flat brown thing, covered with brown cinnamon powder, which you had to bite through and try and chew in order to eventually find, concealed inside the centre of it, a key ring, a glass marble (jorry) or some other ridiculous little toy.

  For me, the ‘Lucky’ part was that you didn’t break your teeth while trying to bite it or, swallow the article inside it and choke to death!

  Another piece of food we used to eat regularly was my auld Granny’s, home-made clootie dumpling, made in a pillow case.

  It was absolutely brilliant, but for some reason, and best known to her generation, when mixing the ingredients to make it, she would add some silver threepenny coins to the mixture. These were coins the size of a 5 pence piece. Now what was that all about?

  In one portion alone, I bit into three. Mind you, I swallowed two of them. Everybody would say, ‘Away ye go ya lucky wee bugger!’

  ‘Lucky?’ My Granny just tried to choke me by putting coins in my slice of dumpling and I’m ‘Lucky’! Don’t think so mate! Imagine if one of them stuck in yer gullet? There’s no way the ‘change’ would do you any good!

  And I also had the added embarrassment of having to check my ‘stools’ for the next few days until I passed them and even then, I had to swallow several spoonfuls of liquid paraffin and stand well clear, as they came out fast and hard, they nearly cracked the toilet pan.

  To crown it all, when I told my mother what I had just passed, she took them off me.

  ‘Lucky!’ ‘Lucky my arse!’

  A Clash of Personalities

  …

  I’d just arrived for duty when I was summoned to the chief inspector’s office for my annual appraisal/assessment, often referred to as your MOT.

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

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

  ‘So 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?’ he asked before continuing. ‘Do you think a change of shift would help?’

  Whereupon I replied with a straight face, ‘Frankly, between you and me sir, I’d have to say no! I don’t think he could get on with anybody!’

  That’s My Dad!

  …

  I was writing a wee story about my late father the other day and by pure accident, I came across some interesting facts that I was unaware of, so let me tell you them first.

  At the age of thirteen, having left school, he worked as a motorbike dispatch rider for the fire brigade and by the age of sixteen, two years into World War 2 and desperate to serve his country, he enrolled in the Royal Navy.

  Due to being very tall for his age, he easily passed for eighteen years old and was accepted, no questions asked.

  Several convoys later, at the end of the war, he was accepted back into the fire brigade full time, having failed the medical for the police, because he had flat feet!

  Accepted by the fire brigade, he was to become the youngest fireman in Britain and had the distinction of having served his country and been awarded six medals as a result. Something that a lot of his older colleagues in the brigade had never done!

  He also continued to serve in the armed forces, by enlisting in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserves, and when he was required to resign years later due to a back injury, he found it hard to accept. So, as soon as he recovered, he contacted the Royal Engineers Territorial Army Reserves and enlisted with them, serving for a further twelve years.

  He was also very much a Royalist during this time and would never tolerate anyone talking badly about them, or any part of the Armed Forces, and when I say, ‘he didn’t tolerate anyone berating them’, I mean to the extent where he would have no hesitation in resorting to physical assault!

  Now with this in mind, I will now relate an incident that took place one evening in a pub in Glasgow, while he and I were sitting having a quiet drink, whilst awaiting the arrival of one of his ex-army buddies.

  We had been sitting at a table in the middle of the lounge for about half an hour, when in walked his old mate Cameron.

  During the preceding conversation, Cameron intimated that he had arranged with his daughters fiancé, a newspaper reporter, to join us for a casual drink.

  In the interim period, before he arrived, they were talking about the latest news regarding two young army squaddies, who had been killed whilst on duty, and how tragic it had been, when the door of the pub opened and in came Cameron’s future son-in-law, the reporter.

  He joined us at the table and after the polite introductions I went to the bar to fetch some drinks.

  On my return to the table, they were discussing the situation regarding the young soldiers, and the reporter said that he was doing an article on them and that’s why he was late in arriving.

  My father then remarked that it was sad to hear about the loss of life of two young soldiers who were ‘pawns’, placed in a situation they would rather not have been in.

  Whereby the reporter replied flippantly, ‘They get well paid to be there, so they know what they’re doing when they join up, and dying for their Queen and country, is just part of the game!’

  Within a very short space of time, the situation was becoming very heated and I immediately feared the worst for the smug reporter’s boyish good looks, for I could visibly see the hackles beginning to rise in my father’s neck as he pointed out that, ‘They were only young boys, who were sent over to another country to save lives by keeping both sides apart and thereby maintaining peace.’

  However, the reporter was having none of it and replied with a short, sharp and resounding, ‘Tough! That’s life.’

  The word ‘Tough’ had barely left his lips, and I doubt very much if he saw it coming, or remembers much about it afterwards, but it coincided with my father’s big fist coming the opposite way, directly across the table and connecting full on with the reporters face, knocking him clean off his seat and sending him sprawling across the floor, whereby he landed flat out on his back, about ten feet away, totally unconscious!

  Cameron did not appear to be the least bit surprised at the outcome of the heated discussion between his daughter’s fiancé and my father, as he signalled for me to get my father out of the pub qu
ickly, while he attempted to try and bring him round.

  Along with my father, we left the premises and stopped a taxi to take us home, although I did encounter some resistance from my father, who wanted to remain there and finish off his drink.

  About an hour after we had arrived back at his house, when the phone rang and I answered it. It was Cameron.

  I immediately made to apologise for my father’s behaviour towards his future son-in-law, but Cameron interrupted me in mid-sentence.

  ‘Are ye kidding? Fu*k him! I knew he couldnae keep his big mouth shut. That’s why I invited him to come along. He was bound to say something during the night about the army or the navy, and knowing yer auld man, it was only a matter of time, but I didnae expect the big man to react so quickly. What a ‘dull yin’ he gave him. He’s been sparkled ever since!’

  On hearing this, I had to ask Cameron.

  ‘So why invite him along if you knew that he would say something that would upset my dad and end up like it did?’

  ’cause I cannae stand the prick, but I couldnae dae anything myself! He’s been dating my daughter for a while noo, but he’s bad news, pardon the pun. He’s a cheeky arrogant bastard and I don’t like him one bit. But my daughter disnae see it and refuses to listen to me.

  ‘Listen Harry, I’ve been in your old man’s company long enough to know how he reacts to anybody making remarks about the forces, and I also knew this bastard widnae be able to bite his tongue once they started talking. He’s a reporter after aw, cannae keep his big mouth shut, but he’ll maybe no’ be able tae open it for a few weeks after that punch!

  ‘By the way! He didnae remember a bloody thing about what happened tonight!’ Cameron paused before adding, ‘He’s some man big Freddie, you don’t mess about with him.’