by Harry Morris
Whilst in the process of taking us somewhere, I heard the driver answering a call and saying, ‘I have the Detective Inspector and the Detective Sergeant in the car heading for…’ and he gave our location.
‘Affirmative, Inspector Cohen will rendezvous with him there!’
The driver then informed us that the Shift Inspector and Sergeant, wished to meet with us and take us for something to eat and drink. Good one, I thought promotion and a bevy. That will do for me!
We met up with our new escorts, who drove us to a quiet little Greek kebab shop. As we entered through the front door we were shown to our table at the rear of the shop and out of the view of the public. We sat down and the Inspector introduced us to our host, as very important Detectives from Glasgow.
‘We bring our guests here all the time.’ He said, before ordering up four large brandys and four Special Greek Shish Kebabs.
Within a short time, more brandy arrived, followed by our meal as we all sat there talking about the usual police stuff. However, I was aware that the Inspector and Sergeant, had their food served up to them in box cartons, while our meals were on plates.
The Inspector then explained, ‘Well, we’re going to leave you to enjoy your meal. Duty calls and all that. I don’t have to tell you what it’s like!’
They both got up from their seats, drank down the remainder of their brandy and said, ‘We hope you enjoy the rest of your night!’ As they left the shop, Big Joe ordered up another two large brandies while I concentrated on eating my scrumptiously delicious kebab.
‘Do me a Rodney Laver and eat up a bit faster big man!’ I said.
‘Why?’ Joe asked, sitting back in his chair with his brandy in hand, enjoying the ambience of our back shop surroundings. ‘This is brilliant, so why rush it?’
‘Because that pair of fly bastards, left without putting their hands in their pockets to pay for this lot and I’m certainly not going to pay the bill for them! So gub it down faster, while I think of something!’ I replied anxiously.
Joe paused for a moment, then it sunk in, ‘Pair of bastards, they’re trying to hump us for a free drink and a free meal?’
‘Exactly!’ I replied. ‘Now just say nothing and leave me, to do the talking!’
I then ordered up a bottle of their Keo Brandy to take away in a carry-out and then I picked up a card for the kebab shop and asked to use the telephone (no mobile telephones in those days). I then contacted our escort driver and asked him to pick us up. Then, closely followed by Big Joe, who was carrying the newly acquired bottle of Keo Brandy, I walked out to the front of the shop and stopped at the serving counter, before presenting my hand and shaking the owner’s, ‘What a meal Stellios, it was absolutely brilliant, Inspector Cohen knew exactly what he was doing when he brought us in here.
‘Anyway, just to let you know, I’ve just spoken with Inspector Cohen on the phone there and he said, to let you know, he doesn’t want us paying anything towards the meal and that he will return before you close up to square you up for the entire bill, so let me say thanks again for a really good night!’
‘He is going to pay bill?’ Stellios asked, slightly bemused. ‘But he say you will pay!’
‘Well, change of plan!’ I said, continuing with my bluff. ‘He’s changed his mind Stellios and has insisted on paying for it, he’s got loadsa money and it was his treat, so he wants to pay it all, so you’ve to prepare his bill!’ I said before continuing. ‘That’s why he told us to order up a bottle of Keo Brandy. He’s joining us afterwards for a drink!’ I said convincingly.
Turning to Big Joe, I said out of the side of my mouth, ‘Quick, there’s our lift outside, shake his hand and let’s GTF.’
We then left the shop, entered our car and were driven off.
‘Good food in there, but it’s a bit expensive.’ Our driver commented.
‘It certainly is.’ I replied, with a wry smile.
‘Where to now sir?’ He asked.
‘Could you take us to a good English-style pub where we can get a decent pint of best bitter?’ I responded.
‘There’s not too many still open at this time of night, but I’ll see what I can do for you.’ He then drove us to an area where he got out of the car and told us to wait, while he checked it out for us. He then walked up a narrow lane, returning moments later.
‘Right, it’s closed, but I’ve told him who you are and he’s willing to let you in for a few beers!’ Our driver explained. ‘Now, walk up the lane until you see a red door on your left and give it a good bang. The owners name is Ranjid, he’ll let you in the back door and when you’re ready to be picked up again, get him to call me on this number.’ He then handed me his calling card.
We carried out the driver’s instructions to a tee and were invited in by this young Asian guy named Hamed. We walked through to the pub/lounge area and … ‘Shockeroony!’ It was packed full of our Asian brothers. There must have been about twenty-five or thirty of them inside and guess who they were all staring at? You’ve guessed it! The unknown pale face dudes who have just gate-crashed their local hostelry. Fortunately, they couldn’t understand us and most of them assumed we were probably the latest consignment of refugees to arrive in London. Especially with me still carrying my wee bag!
‘Bye the way, what is in the wee bag?’ Joe asked again.
‘I’ll tell ye later!’ I replied. ‘Now order up the Don Revie!’
With subtlety and the aid of sign language, Big Joe ordered up our drinks, ‘Ho, Rancid! Give us a couple o’ pints of yer ‘breast butter’, if you would!’
I quickly intervened, ‘Sorry Ranjid! He means two pints of your best bitter, please!’
With all eyes on us, Big Joe said, ‘Let’s show these boys how it’s done!’ He then uttered, ‘Cheers for the beers and here’s tae the queers. Bottoms up!’
He then gulped down half of his pint, only stopping to breathe, fart and burp out loud, all at the same time I might add. Talented boy or what? Then all hell broke loose!
‘Fucken hell Rancid! I think a cat’s pished doon yer beer pipes!’ Big Joe blurted out, while dribbling from his mouth.
‘It’s Ranjid!’ I said, correcting him regarding our hosts name.
‘You’re telling me it’s ranjid!’ He replied. ‘I’ve just fucken swallowed hauf o’ it.’
He then held his pint toward me and said, ‘Fucken taste that pish yersel’. It’s bowfin and you know me Harry, I’ll drink my beer through a wean’s shitty nappie!’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’ I asked him.
‘Fucken tell him. You’re the DI efter all, I’m only the DS.’
Undeterred! He then takes another gulp from his pint glass, just to confirm it was ‘rancid’. ‘Madras! I can fucken taste curry as well as pish!’ He said out loud, spilling some of the liquid contents over his shirt and trousers. ‘Look at that! It’s even taking the colour oot my basterting new shirt! Ho! Hamheid, check this out.’
‘Right Joe, cool the beans, it’s Hamed, so enough! Drink up and let’s GTF.’ I said, sensing an uncomfortable atmosphere amongst our new friends, with Joe slagging off their best amber liquid.
‘Drink up?’ Joe replied in disgust. ‘Are ye fucken mad? I’d rather drink my ain urine. Anyways, I’m putting my name up on the board, I want tae play a game o’ pool wi’ Hamheid and some of his ethnic soul brothers.’
I responded by whispering in his ear, ‘If you don’t keep yer voice down a bit, we just might end up floating upside-down in a pool, courtesy of Hamed and his soul brothers. Now follow me and let’s go. Now!’
I turned to Ranjid and asked him to call the number on the card while Joe paid for our beers, which were extortionately over priced.
‘Excuse me Rancid! But did I order drinks for everybody at the bar? Cause I think you’ve fucken jist charged me for them.’ Joe said angrily.
‘Forget it!’ I told Joe. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
‘Forget it?’ An irate Joe replied. ‘
Well why don’t I drop my trousers and let him park his rickshaw’ between the cheeks o’ my arse as well?’
‘Rickshaws are Chinese ya big diddy!’ I said, correcting him.
‘Well chapati then!’ He responded.
At that, Ranjid enquired in a snide manner, ‘So boys, did you enjoy your beers then?’
‘Definitely!’ I said, ‘Very mucky indeed with a distinct taste of keegh to add a bit of body, in fact, it was full of it, obviously a blend of your own special brew. I presume it’s popular!’
He stared at me with a vacant look on his face, totally oblivious to what I was talking about.
As I shook his hand, I said, ‘Well thanks for that Ranjid and, as we say in Scotland, you’ve been an absolute tadger of a host and a real douche bag, so you and Hamed have a nice day!’
We then left by the back door and fortunately for us, only our driver was waiting outside to meet us, at the entrance to the lane, so at this point, I decided we would head for our overnight accommodation and enjoy our bottle of brandy, acquired at the expense of Inspector Cohen and his sidekick Sergeant.
Next morning, I arose early and after I had showered and shaved. I went to Big Joe’s room and found his door unlocked, so I entered. With the windows closed all night, the room smelt worse than Ranjid’s Best Bitter. Big Joe had also visited his toilet during the night and forgotten to flush the contents of the pan.
Sitting on his dressing table were his two bottles of Grolsch beer, for his hangover cure. I quickly removed the tops and poured the contents down the sink. I then filled them up with lukewarm tap water, before replacing them. All the while I was in his room, Joe slept like a baby, interrupting his snoring with the occasional loud bout of flatulence!
His suit was lying on the floor, where he had discarded it the previous night and he was still wearing his shirt in bed.
I then went back to my room to get dressed and put on my clean shirt. With my teeth brushed and my tie straight, I put my soiled shirt and toiletries back in my overnight bag and knocked loudly on Big Joe’s room door before opening it.
‘Rise and shine big man or you’re going to be late for your breakfast!’
‘What time is it?’ He enquired, in his drowsy hung-over state.
‘It’s now eight o’clock and we are getting picked up at nine, so you’d better get yer arse into gear and I’ll meet you downstairs in the restaurant.’
‘Right! Right! I’m coming!’ He shouted back.
Having enjoyed my cooked English breakfast I was relaxing with a cup of coffee, reading the morning newspaper, when an apparition appeared before me. It was Big Joe, standing there in his soiled shirt and crushed suit, with his hair tousled and sticking up. He was totally minging and dressed like a burst bin-bag! He then spoke with a deep sincerity, ‘I hope we get the same train back up the road!’
‘How come?’ I asked.
’cause that wee bastard Dai serving at the buffet bar, sold me two bottles o’ fucken warm water, the wee Welsh Twat!’
‘You’re kidding?’ I said, trying to appear surprised.
‘Naw, I am no’ kidding!’ He replied. ‘The wee bastard. I’ll fucken ‘Dai’ him. He then looked around the breakfast tables. Anything for drinking here, I’m choking for a hair of the dog. I’d even drink a pint o’ Rancid’s stale pish!’
‘Get yourself a glass of milk!’ I said condescendingly.
As he stood there looking at me, looking back at him, he let his eyes focus upon my bag at the side of me, then, the penny dropped.
‘I presume that’s your over night bag with a clean shirt, toothbrush and a razor?’ He enquired dejectedly. I nodded my head and grinned like a Cheshire cat.
‘I suppose I look like a bag o’ shit, right?’ He asked.
Definitely!’ I replied, nodding my head.
‘I’m gonnae look more like your prisoner than he is!’ He remarked.
I nodded again, still grinning, confirming his statement.
To which he responded rather disconsolately by looking me straight in the face and saying, ‘BASTARD!’ ‘Sorry, DI BASTARD!’
Bloody Witch Doctor!
…
Whilst on traffic patrol duty one night with my partner we had occasion to stop a car being driven erratically by a young male in the city centre. We pulled him over and, as suspected, he was under the influence of alcohol, so we arrested him and conveyed him to the central police station where we carried out the procedure pertaining to a drink driver.
During this procedure, the young male driver, who turned out to be a student at one of the local universities, was given the opportunity of providing a blood sample, which would be taken by a doctor, or urine. The young student opted to provide blood and the police casualty surgeon was contacted to attend.
Now, the police casualty surgeon is a qualified GP who has a practice but is also on call to work for the police in any situation where a doctor’s expertise is required.
As we sat in the doctor’s room in the police station awaiting his arrival, I was completing the necessary forms required and the young student, who by this time had sobered up quite a bit due to the shock of being arrested, was informing me that he had been to a students’ union party and genuinely didn’t intend to drink and drive. We were still chatting when I was informed of the arrival of the police casualty surgeon.
I remained with the student while my colleague left the room to see the doctor. As it turned out, the doctor was reasonably new to the police system and one of the first black doctors who was to become a regular, on call with the central police station, named Dr Mutu.
Moments later, the door opened and in came Doctor Mutu, whereby on seeing him the young student immediately sat upright in his chair and his relaxed facial expression changed to one of total apprehension.
‘Hello, I’m Dr Mutu the police casualty surgeon and I am here to examine you and take a sample of your blood, which I’m informed you have agreed to provide.’
To the complete and utter surprise of everyone present, the student said, ‘Not on your life Sammy Davis! You’re not taken any blood from me!’
‘Calm down now.’ Said Dr Mutu, ‘I’m a doctor! You won’t feel a thing!’
‘You’re darn tootin I won’t, ’cause you’re no’ touching me, now do a drum roll and beat it – I want a proper doctor, not some refugee as black as two in the morning who’s just arrived here in a banana boat!’ blasted the rude student.
As he sat back down on his chair with a genuine look of extreme fear on his face, I tried to calm him down. ‘C’mon, big man, cool it and don’t start acting stupid. You’ve been fine up until now!’ I said reassuringly, but he interrupted me. ‘Aye right up until he came in! I mean, how do I know he’s a doctor? Let him prove it!’ he said, with his voice quivering with genuine fear.
‘I am a doctor!’ answered Dr Mutu.
‘Well, prove it, then, let’s see some medical certificates, I mean, I’ve proved to the police I’m a student – I gave them my university student ID card and I also gave them my driving licence to prove I’m a qualified driver. So let me see your ID!’ demanded the young student, becoming more nervous.
‘But, I am a doctor!’ reiterated Dr Mutu, annoyed by the fact his qualifications were being called into question. ‘Now I’m here to take blood from you!’
‘Aye, right, with a bloody big spear! I don’t think so, “chief” – away back to your village and shrink a few more skulls for the tourists!’ cried the student, who by now had lost the plot and was petrified. He continued, ‘Just climbed down out a tree and thinks I’m going to let him stick spears in me, or is it darts you’re using tonight, chief? No way, big man, I’m not letting him near me!’
Now, by this time, Dr Mutu was visibly shocked by this reaction from the student, but is still trying to plead his case, ‘But I am a real doctor!’
At which point, my partner and I are in pain, trying not to laugh outwardly at the antics of them both, particularly the quiet una
ssuming student of fifteen minutes ago, who is now acting as if the police station had become Rorke’s Drift and we’ve been surrounded by Zulus.
I was trying to restrain the student and calm him down, but he was still rambling, ‘It’s alright for you two, saying calm down, but you’re not the one being faced with him!’ he said, almost crying with fear.
Meantime, Dr Mutu is still reiterating, ‘But I am a doctor.’ He then looked at me for some kind of confirmation, emphasising his words, ‘Tell him, officer, I am a doctor!’
‘Aye, a bloody witch doctor!’ replied the student. ‘Show me some proof, then. Let me see your medical certificates! C’mon then, show me. Can’t do it, can you?’
‘I don’t carry my medical certificates about with me,’ said Dr Mutu. ‘You just have to believe me when I tell you that I am a doctor!’
‘Sorry, chief, not good enough!’ replied the student.
Finally, with all the commotion from the student and Dr Mutu, coupled with the now hysterical laughter of my partner and me, the door opened and in walked the duty officer.
‘What the hell is going on in here? You can be heard all along the corridor.’ he yelled.
‘Idi Amin here is blowing smoke signals out his arse, as well as his ears!’ responded the student.
‘You just keep quiet.’ I said. ‘You’re in enough bother!’ I then stepped outside with the duty officer and explained what had taken place. Fortunately, he had a good sense of humour.
However, the student continued to refuse to give blood and was detained in custody, pending his release later the following morning, for report.
As for Dr Mutu, he went home after a cup of coffee and probably prescribed himself some Valium medication, for the rest of the week, to help get him down off the ceiling.
Later, while sitting discussing the hilarious antics of the student, and particularly Dr Mutu, the duty officer remarked, ‘It’s only been a matter of time, I’ve been waiting for it, from some drunk, but I didn’t expect it from him – he looked a fairly decent educated young man! Mind you, he’ll definitely think twice about drinking and driving again!’