The Last Night on the Beat

by Harry Morris

  As he stood there, frantically wracking his brain for an amicable solution to this problem, he overheard one of the trustees in the yard, mention that he knew how to get them down off the roof.

  ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ he thought to himself. ‘If anybody knows how to get a con off the roof, it’s another con himself!’

  Convinced of this, he nonchalantly sidled over to the trustee and said, ‘Tell me something Coutts – if you were in my position, how would you get those prisoners off the roof?’

  To which Coutts confidently replied in all seriousness, ‘Very easily Guvnor! I’d shoot the bastards!’

  Open the Door

  …

  Late one night, I received a call that a certain person wanted on warrant by the police, was within a house in the Rutherglen area.

  Accompanied by three other cops, I attended at the address given and so as not to spook our wanted person, I parked the police van several metres away, out of sight and we walked to the building to avoid being seen.

  The entrance to the tenement had a security controlled system, with buzzers for each flat.

  In order not to warn our wanted person, I buzzed the ground floor apartment, which had a light on.

  ‘Who is it?’ screeched a woman’s voice over the intercom.

  ‘It’s the police ma’am!’ I replied quietly. ‘Can you let me into the building please?’

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s the police ma’am!’ I repeated in a soft voice.

  ‘What are you whispering for then?’ she said.

  ‘Because, we need to gain entry quietly!’ I replied.

  ‘Why?! What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing to alarm you ma’am, I just require to gain entry to the building.’ I repeated.

  ‘Don’t you have a key then?’ she asked me.

  ‘No, ma’am, I don’t have a key. Now can you please let me in the building?’ I pleaded, trying to keep reasonably quiet and calm.

  ‘Well, how do I know you’re the polis?’ she enquired.

  I assured her, that I was and she need only to look out her window and she would see for herself.

  This she did, by pulling her curtain to one side, whereupon she was able to view my three police colleagues and me, standing on the footpath, in full view, waving to her.

  She then returned to her intercom and I stood at the door, ready to open it, when she buzzed.

  ‘You don’t look like polis,’ she blurted out. ‘Where’s yer hats?’

  I was becoming exasperated with her, but remained very calm.

  ‘They’re in the police van!’ I replied. ‘Now will you please open the door to the building and allow us access?’

  She paused for a moment, then said, ‘Whit polis van are ye referring tae, ’cause I don’t see one?’

  ‘That’s because I parked it further along the road!’ I said, trying not to lose my cool. ‘Now will you buzz the door and let us in, please?’ I repeated for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Why did you park it further along the road?’ she asked.

  I then explained to her, we didn’t want the person we were after, looking out his window and seeing us arrive in it. Although, by this time, I think most of the street knew of our presence.

  Finally, she decided, she would let us in, but there was a delay.

  ‘Now what’s up?’ I asked her.

  ‘It’s my buzzer – it’s stuck!’ she said.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me, missus. You probably don’t use it enough!’ I replied facetiously.

  It was then decided, she would come out to the front of the building and unlock the door, but she would only do it, if we stood far enough back from the door entrance.

  Reluctantly, I agreed to her request and we all stood back as she tiptoed to the outside door and pulling it open, she ran back to her house.

  Guess what? As I approached the door – bang!- it closed shut. I got back onto the intercom and informed her, we did not gain entry, as the door had closed before we could reach it. So would she mind opening it again!

  Like before, we had to stand well back from the entrance.

  We were all becoming so frustrated with her, so much so, we were seriously considering rushing the door as she opened it this time.

  I also suggested we forget about our wanted person and just arrest her instead! Jokingly, of course!!

  Eventually, we gained entry to the building and guess what? There was no trace of our suspect!

  I just wonder how he knew we were coming!

  Soft Hands That Do Dishes

  …

  The makers of Fairy Liquid are making a new advert for their washing-up liquid and it’s to be filmed in the Gorbals, Glasgow.

  Here’s a sneak preview of the script, written in typical Glesca dialogue.

  ‘Hey Maw, how’s yer hauns sae saft?’

  To which the mother replies, ’cause I’m only fucken thirteen ya eejit!’

  It’s Good Too Talk

  …

  A newly promoted superintendent arrived at his appointed sub-divisional office, to take up his new tenure.

  Like all promoted officers, on the first day at a new station, he was eager to make a quick impression with the office staff.

  As he sat down at his desk, he took time to survey all around him.

  Suddenly, there was a knock at his office door. He quickly picked up the telephone on his desk and put it to his ear, whereby he then called out, ‘Come in!’

  The door opened and in walked the elderly duty desk sergeant.

  The superintendent placed his hand over the mouthpiece and said, ‘Be with you in a minute, sergeant. Just wait there!’

  The following, is the one-sided conversation that took place.

  ‘Yes John, [the name of a former chief constable] I’m settling in fine, thank you! What about you? How is retirement? Good, I’m glad to hear it, because, I know from talking to Willie [the new chief constable] you’re going to be a very hard act to follow!’

  The elderly desk sergeant stood patiently waiting, looking around the room uneasily and tapping his foot on the floor!

  ‘Anyway, John, I’ll have to go now. I’ve someone desperately waiting to see me – you know what it is like at the top – so I’ll speak to you later!’

  At that point he replaced the telephone handset and looked up at the elderly sergeant, who was still patiently waiting.

  ‘Right sergeant, what can I do for you then?’ he asked.

  To which the elderly sergeant replied, ‘It was just to let you know, sir, that the engineer from British Telecom is here to re-connect your telephone … When you’re finished using it!’

  The Taxi

  …

  One morning a policewoman colleague overslept for her early shift duty.

  Quick as a flash, she jumped out of bed and whilst pulling on her uniform, she called for a taxi.

  Several minutes later she made her way downstairs and was standing just outside the front door to her house, awaiting it’s arrival, when a Vauxhall Cavalier motor car, was driven into the street, stopping outside her apartment block.

  Closing her front door, she ran over to the car, opened the rear passenger door and got in.

  Once inside, she noticed old newspapers, empty Coke cans and chocolate and sweet papers strewn about the back seat and floor.

  Annoyed about the untidy state of the car, she said, in a rather indignant voice, to the driver, who by this time had turned around to look at his passenger, ‘I think it is about time you had a valet done and washed out the back of this taxi, it’s absolutely filthy!’

  At which point the rather bemused elderly driver said, ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you hen, but this isn’t a taxi, I’m only here to collect my son for work!’

  Exit a rather embarrassed policewoman!

  What Do You Mean?

  …

  Whilst spending a few days seconded to the traffic speed radar squad, I was
asked if I had brought a sandwich with me for my lunch or did I need to buy something from the local city baker’s.

  As it was, I had nothing with me so I opted to go to the baker’s with Eddie Weldon and John Campbell, two members of the squad.

  We all entered the shop together.

  ‘Yes m’dear, what would you like?’ enquired the stoutly built female shop assistant.

  ‘I’ll have a hot pie please.’ I said.

  The female assistant opened the hotplate cabinet and, picking up a pie, she placed it neatly onto a white paper napkin, before returning to the counter, where she asked, ‘Would you like a wee poke with that?’

  To which I immediately responded with, ‘Not just now, hen, can you no’ see I’m still working?’

  Eddie and John almost choked at the thought and spent the rest of the entire day, relating the story to everybody we met!

  Nurses Can’t Be Trusted!

  …

  I had occasion to visit my partner Eddie O’Reilly in the Southern General Hospital, where he was admitted and placed in traction after a serious road accident on his police motorbike.

  Whilst on duty, I was allowed to call in and see him, outwith normal visiting times available to members of the public.

  On this particular day it was not long after the patients in the ward had been served their lunch and they were all settling down for a quiet period and the usual afternoon nap.

  While sitting alongside his bed talking, O’Reilly interrupted me and said, ‘Is the man in the next bed sleeping?’

  I leaned forward on my seat to look at him.

  ‘Aye, he’s sound asleep.’ I replied, unaware of what was coming next.

  ‘Right!’ said O’Reilly, ‘reach over to his bed locker and grab a handful of his paper tissues!’

  ‘Whit?’ I said, surprised, while sitting there, decked out in my black leather police motorcycle uniform. ‘No way! He might just waken up while I’m doing it and catch me in the act!’

  ‘He won’t waken up – they give him strong medication to make him sleep.’ replied O’Reilly reassuringly! ‘Now, stop being a drama queen, Harry and get them for me!’

  ‘Let me get this right – you want me to steal some paper tissues from an unconscious patient on strong medication?’ I asked him!

  ‘I’ve told you, it’s no’ stealing, you’re only borrowing them for me, ’cause I don’t want to waken him up and ask him!’ O’Reilly replied convincingly.

  ‘Well okay,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But if he does waken up, you can do the explaining!’

  I then leaned over, making certain he was asleep, before grabbing hold of several paper tissues, which I handed over to O’Reilly.

  I was somewhat puzzled as to why he wanted them, but oh boy, was I in for a shock? Taking hold of the tissues in one hand, he then reached up with his other hand and grabbed hold of the metal traction framework above his head. He then pulled himself up from his hospital bed and with the hand clutching the paper tissues, he put them behind his back. Whereby, to my utter disbelief, he wiped his bare backside with them!

  He then produced the brown soiled tissues for me to view and said, in total disgust, ‘I knew it! That bloody young nurse, isn’t wiping my arse properly!’

  He then tried to hand the soiled tissues to me to dispose of, but, by this time, I had buggered off down the stairs, mounted my motorcycle and was half way along the Govan Road before you could say Andrex.

  However, having borrowed the paper tissues, like he said he was doing, I often wondered if he ever put them back.

  ‘YUCK!’

  Watch Yer Car Mister?

  …

  On football match days in Glasgow, it was the normal for motorists parking their cars near to the stadium, to be surrounded with a posse of young boys who immediately offered their services to the drivers, ‘Watch yer motor for you, mister? It doesn’t cost much.’

  Each and every individual car owner would be offered their safeguard services.

  The practice was, to agree to their request and give them some loose change from your pocket and promise them more on your return. This would make sure your car was safe, for the entire duration of the football match.

  On this particular match day, a new Vauxhall Frontera jeep drove up and out got two well-dressed male occupants.

  As usual, the posse descended on them, offering their services to the driver.

  ‘Watch yer motor for you mister?’ they asked.

  ‘No thanks, boys. No need for you – Rolex will watch it for me!’ the driver replied smugly, pointing to a large Alsatian dog, sitting in the rear of the jeep, which began barking ferociously and baring its teeth at the young boys present. ‘He’s a watchdog!’

  Both males then walked off hooting with laughter.

  Two hours later, you can picture the look of horror on their faces when they returned to find their Frontera jeep, sitting up on concrete bricks with Rolex still inside, but minus four expensive alloy wheels.

  Under the front windscreen wiper, there was a note which read,

  Ye’re right, mister, it is a watchdug. It watched us while we blagged yer wheels, ya big diddy!’

  Who Are You – Pinnochio?

  …

  One Monday morning, while working dock duty at the High Court, in Glasgow. I was having a cup of tea, when I looked up and saw this pretty young policewoman, coming towards me.

  ‘Hi Uncle Harry, I bet you’re surprised to see me?’ she said.

  It was the daughter of one of my closest friends. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked her.

  ‘I’ve been assigned here for the entire week!’ she replied.

  She sat down and I introduced her to the other cops present – some of them knew of her dad.

  After exchanging some updated gossip with her, I went to see the duty officer and arranged for her to work with me for the rest of the week, as she was a nice, quiet, reserved girl.

  I then phoned her dad at his CID office and told him I was working with her and I would make sure, she would be all right.

  Later the same day, we had just come down from the court for lunch and as usual, had to pass a cell full of accused prisoners due up in the court that day.

  As we were passing, one of them shouted out, ‘Hey sweetheart, gonnae sit on my face?’

  Quick as a flash, she responded with, ‘Why? Is your nose bigger than your penis?’

  The other prisoners burst out laughing at this impromptu reply and, as we walked on, he was being pelted with verbal abuse from his other cellmates!

  Needless to say, I phoned her dad and told him that I thought she’d be okay!

  The Pink Slip

  …

  A regular occurrence on a Wednesday morning at the police station was being inundated by members of the public claiming to have lost the cash from their state benefit Giro cheque – on their way back from the post office to the shops!

  They never, ever lost their Giro cheque – it was always their money, immediately after they had cashed their Giro cheque.

  The common practice was, should this unfortunate incident occur, to call at the local police office and make a loss report to the police, then obtain a ‘pink slip’ receipt confirming you had reported the loss. Thereafter, you would attend, with your pink slip at the local DHSS office and receive a crisis loan, for the amount of cash you allegedly lost.

  Whether anyone ever repaid the crisis loan is another story!

  Due to this continual practice, the cops and station assistants were becoming more frustrated and infuriated, in particular with the same old faces presenting the same set of circumstances, every other week, as to how they had inadvertently lost their Giro money.

  One alleged loser, came up with a novel excuse, which just has to be shared.

  Having called at the police station, under the influence of alcohol, he reported he had lost his Giro cheque cash.

  When I asked him where he had lost it, he supplied me with the following accoun
t, in a slurred and drunken Glaswegian voice.

  ‘Right big man, I’m gonnae tell ye the whole truth, right!’ (Well that’s a good start!)

  ‘This is absolutely genuine big man. Ye’re never gonnae believe it. Just wait tae ah tell ye this! See, I’ve cashed my Giro, right? And I had a right dose o’ fucken’ toothache. Oops! Sorry for swearing, big man – just a wee slip-up! Know whit a mean? Anyway, ah had a right dose o’ the effen toothache!’

  He then put his hand into his mouth. Pulling it open and pointing with his other hand, he said, ‘That bastert right there! Well, it’s no’ there noo, ’cause it’s oot, but I’m telling ye exactly whit happened, big man, as God is my – hic! – judge! Right, so ah said to mysel’, “Dentist, my man!” ’ He paused for a moment to think, then repeated, ‘Dentist?’

  He screwed his eyes up and scratched his head while talking to himself. Then he snapped his fingers!

  ‘Ah mean, “Dennis, my man.” Forgot ma fucken name there for a minute! Oh, sorry, man, jist slipped oot again! Sorry!

  ‘Anyway, Ah said tae mysel’, “Dennis, you need to go and see the dennist! So ah made my way up tae the Dental Hospital, right? And yer man, the dennist says tae me, “Dennis! Ye’re needin’ a few o’ yer munchers out, son, so, I’m gonnae gie ye a wee dose o’ gas, OK?” Noo, Who am I tae argue wi’ the dennist, he knows the score and he’s a big b-ba-ba—-’

  I interrupted him before he repeated it. ‘Dennis!’

  He continued, ‘ba-balack guy, so Ah said tae him, “You’re the boss big man. Fill yer boots, but jist don’t shrink my heid! Right?” Well! when I’ve woke up, my gub was full o’ blood and I was feeling like I’d just smoked some right heavy Moroccan wacky backy, ’cause ma heid’s pure dizzy, right? And this is whit Ah think happened.