The Last Night on the Beat

by Harry Morris

  Jackie Barnes

  …

  I’m reminded of a story about auld Jack, an alcoholic who was recovering from a liver transplant and went into his local hardware shop and asked for a bottle of methylated spirits. The shopkeeper looked at Jack suspiciously and said, ‘C’mon, Jack, I can’t give you a bottle of meths – you’re just out of hospital and have a serious drink problem!’

  Jack promptly assured the shopkeeper, he was doing some DIY in his house and needed it to clean his paintbrushes!

  ‘But, Jack, I can’t trust you – you have a drink problem!’ he said.

  Jack came storming back at him, ‘Look! If my wife came into your shop and asked for a bottle of meths, you’d give it to her, wouldn’t you?’

  The shopkeeper thought for a moment, then sheepishly conceded to Jack’s explanation, ‘You’re right, Jack. I’m sorry for not believing in you!’ As he bent down to pick a bottle from a shelf, Jack said, ‘Any chance of getting me one out the cooler?’

  The Wedding Party

  …

  A young couple from the East End of Glasgow were getting married.

  It was a lovely church wedding, followed by a reception at a city centre bar. Unfortunately for the couple, they both came from very rough backgrounds and there was a bit of an ongoing feud between their families.

  Inevitably, after the drink started flowing at the reception, things became heated amongst both parties and a fight broke out. The resident stewards at the bar/diner tried to defuse the situation, but to no avail and as a result, they summoned the assistance of the local police.

  The first cops to arrive at the scene, tried in vain to separate the bride’s brother and the best man, who were physically locked in combat, but found that the other guests on both sides were verbally encouraging them to continue with their fight. With no solution in sight, the cops called for more assistance, which resulted in the arrival of the support unit.

  This is a ‘crew bus’ full of uniformed officers and cruelly referred to as, ‘Rent a Mob’, but more often as, ‘Rent a Riot’.

  The city centre bar was engulfed by a sea of black uniforms, who quickly asserted their authority by force. However, they were unable to separate the two members of the wedding party still engaged in mortal combat.

  Joe Logan, the big sergeant, stepped forward to use his physical strength to pull them apart, but had great difficulty as the bride’s mother pulled and jostled him from behind and shouted, ‘Leave my son alane ya big bastard! He’s done fuck all!’

  The sergeant tried several times to fend her off, but some of the other guests became involved and could clearly be heard shouting, ‘Maw! Maw! Don’t get involved – they’ll gie ye the jail … Maw! Maw, please maw!’

  At that, the mother committed the most despicable of all cardinal sins, by spitting in the sergeant’s face. This was a real grogger, or as we say, a ‘soft poached egg’, consisting of all forms of slime in a glue-like substance.

  ‘That’s it!’ cried Big Joe the sergeant. ‘Jail the maw!’

  On hearing this command from the sergeant, two cops rushed forward and grabbed the bride’s mother, ushering her outside to the waiting police van. Not the dignified exit she had intended, as she ended upside down at the door with her knickers in the air, screaming blue murder.

  The sergeant finally arrested the two men at the centre of the disturbance and conveyed them to the city centre police station to be charged and detained in custody.

  However, he was shocked on his arrival when he saw a large number of people, waiting at the charge desk. It appeared that all the guests of the wedding party had been apprehended.

  ‘What are they all doing here?’ asked Joe, the sergeant.

  ‘We were ordered to arrest them all!’ replied a young cop.

  ‘Who gave the order to arrest them?’ enquired Joe.

  ‘You did!’ replied the young cop, with a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘What do you mean I gave the order?’ said Joe, now panicking.

  To which the young cop replied, ‘You did sarge! You shouted out –“THAT’S IT, JAIL THEM AW!” ’

  Joe quickly corrected him, ‘I gave the order to, “JAIL THE MAW!” ’

  (‘MAW’ being a Glesca term of endearment for ‘Mother’)!

  Gentlemen Joggers

  …

  One particular night about half past twelve, I received a call to the Cathkin Braes, an area which was becoming more and more frequented by many gay men. The complaint was, as usual, men acting suspiciously, or as we would refer to it, ‘grown men sword-fencing on the Braes!’

  As far as I was concerned, if they were up in the Braes, they were well out of the way of the public, however I attended and parked the police car and was having a look around when I saw the figure of an elderly man in his late fifties, dressed in a vest and pants, in the grassed area, among some trees.

  I beckoned him over and enquired what he was doing out at this time of night, dressed in his underwear, socks and shoes.

  Quick as a flash, he responded, ‘I’m a jogger out jogging!’

  ‘It’s a bit late to be doing that, sir!’ I said. ‘And you’re not exactly sporty-looking or dressed in sportswear, are you?’

  ‘Well, I am and I run like this all the time and no one has ever complained before.’ he responded.

  ‘Well, sir! The complaint I have is not about joggers – it’s about grown men acting suspiciously. D’you know what I’m saying, sir? This is an area renowned for men engaging in homosexual activities.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you, officer, I haven’t seen anybody like that tonight!’ he replied unconvincingly.

  I looked at him, trying desperately not to laugh, then asked, ‘Tell me, sir, do you always go out jogging in your underwear, Burberry socks and a pair of polished brown brogues?’

  ‘Why? Is it a crime to run in my shoes now?’ he replied indignantly.

  ‘Certainly not sir, but your vest and pants are not normal!’ I said. ‘In fact, you look like you have come straight from Marks and Spencers underwear department, rather than Greaves Sportswear!’

  ‘Well I can assure you I run like this regularly and have never been stopped yet by any of the police in Hamilton!’ he replied.

  ‘Hamilton?’ I said surprised. ‘Are you telling me that you’ve run all the way from Hamilton to here, dressed like that?’

  ‘And why not?’ he responded. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  ‘Certainly not, sir’! I said. ‘But I’ve put up with enough of your crap, so get back in there and get your clothes on now!’

  ‘Are you deaf?’ he asked. ‘I’ve already told you, I’m out for a jog and you’re keeping me late. My wife will be worried sick!’

  ‘So you don’t have a car parked nearby either?’ I asked.

  ‘Definitely not! I’ve already told you several times, I ran here and I’ll run all the way back home as well!’ he replied.

  Now, normally this guy and his sexual preferences would not bother me, but he was becoming a pain in my arse, so I told him to occupy a seat in the rear of the police car, while I checked out his personal details. While doing this, I noticed he was repeatedly looking at his watch, checking the time, so, being the good public servant I was and, ignoring his protest about wishing to run home, I insisted that I give him a lift a few miles along the road, shortening his journey towards Hamilton. This was to make up for some of the time caused, when I had inadvertently detained him and also to prevent his wife from getting too worried about him arriving home late!

  He protested vigorously about holding me back from my other more important police duties, but I insisted. When I finally stopped the car and let him out, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing at his fancy sport attire and his futile attempt at jogging.

  It also wasn’t a particularly warm October night to be out running in your underwear.

  However, later that evening while on my patrol, I did observe a very smart burgundy BMW motor car parked un
attended in the Braes car park all night long, with, I might add, a neatly folded brown pin-stripe suit placed on the rear seat inside!

  Guess who owned that, then?

  The Mimic

  …

  One day while out driving with my four-year-old daughter Samantha in the rear seat, a van driver came racing up on my offside and swerved in front of me, causing me to take evasive action to prevent a collision.

  Receiving such a fright and forgetting for a moment about my young passenger in the rear seat, I reacted by shouting out at him, ‘Away ya stupid bastard!’

  Suddenly, I received a sharp reminder of her presence, when she uttered, loud and clear from the back seat, ‘Daddy! Don’t call the man a stupid bastard!’

  Fighting Fire With Fire

  …

  In order to get results sometimes, certain cops would take matters into their own hands and deal out their own summary justice. Such was the case in the early hours of Sunday morning, when a silent alarm was activated at a village post office that was being broken into.

  With all haste, officers attended at the location, arriving in silence in order not to alert the persons breaking in, and conscious of the fact that one of them was performing as a look-out, on the roof of the post office.

  As they approached on foot, under the cover of darkness and totally unnoticed by the lookout, they discovered an extending aluminium ladder at the rear of the building, leaning against the wall.

  Quietly, one of the cops, big Jimmy Doyle, climbed the ladder to the roof, where he saw the male lookout at the front of the building, armed with a metal shovel, looking up and down the street for any unwanted persons approaching. He also noticed a large gaping hole on the roof, where they had burst through to gain entry into the post office.

  Unseen by the suspect, Jimmy tip-toed up behind him, safely negotiating his way around the new opening on the roof and tapped him on the shoulder, frightening the life out of the suspect. Jimmy then put his hand up to his lips and signalled him to keep quiet, before relieving him of the metal shovel he was armed with.

  He then whispered to him, ‘How many of your pals are inside the post office?’

  The suspect whispered back, in a Liverpudlian accent, ‘Just the two.’

  ‘Just the two of them?’ Jimmy repeated. Good! Are they armed with any weapons on them?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask them yourself!?!’ replied the suspect.

  At which point, Jimmy whispered. ‘So you’re not going to tell me?’

  ‘No way, I’ve told you enough already!’ He replied, getting louder as he spoke.

  ‘OK, then.’ said Jimmy, pointing towards some high-rise apartments in the distance. ‘See that block of houses over there, all lit up?’ The suspect turned around to look at what Jimmy was pointing towards.

  ‘Yeah! What about them?’ he asked with a certain amount of interest, when all of a sudden, – CLANG! – Followed by loud screams of excruciating PAIN! – Followed by a really sickening THUD!

  Jimmy had walloped him on the back of the head with the shovel, knocking him clean off the post office roof onto the concrete ground below, where he landed in a proverbial heap!

  As a result of the squeals of pain heard coming from their accomplice, the others within the post office popped their heads out of the hole in the roof to check what was happening and were promptly confronted with Jimmy, standing looking over them, armed with the shovel.

  ‘Don’t tell me.’ Said Jimmy. Let me guess! You’ve an urgent Giro you needed to cash and couldn’t wait until Monday!’

  Summary justice, expertly handed out by big Jimmy!

  You’re Not Dead!

  …

  My eighty-year-old mother is sometimes lacking in subtlety.

  One day whilst walking around the local ASDA shopping store with her, we bumped into my uncle John, whom she hadn’t seen or heard from for some time.

  ‘Crikey John. It’s that long since I’ve seen you, I was sure you were dead!’

  To which my Uncle John replied, ‘Not at all! Doctors Whyte and MacKay are looking after me Flora.’

  My mother then repeated it again just in case he didn’t hear her first time, ‘That’s the honest truth – I thought you were dead!’

  ‘Well,’ said my uncle John, ‘As you can see, I’m not, but then again, he paused for a moment, before continuing, ‘I am looking for directions to the spirit section!’

  Friends Re-united

  …

  I was asked recently if I had ever gone online and visited the Friends Reunited website, to find out the whereabouts of, and maybe recognise and correspond with some of my old schoolfriends from the past.

  I responded by saying I had no need to visit the site, as I worked in crime intelligence for years and had first-hand knowledge of where most of them were!

  Hughie’s Tortoise Room

  …

  While growing up, I shared a room with my younger brother Hughie.

  Both of us, I might add, were not exceptionally house-proud when it came to housework, particularly if it coincided with a game of football.

  My long suffering mother, (wee Flo) gave up on us and refused to enter our room again to collect any washing until we got our act together and cleaned it up. We had so much lying about you would have struggled to see the floor carpet. I kid you not – Lord Lucan could have been hiding out in our room for years and we wouldn’t have known.

  Both being footballers, we had dirty football strips, socks, boots and minging jockstraps all lying about the floor. We even offered to pay one of my younger sisters to tidy it up, but she refused to enter the room without the required tropical injections needed for abroad.

  Finally, my father big Freddie intervened, ‘Both of you get into that room and don’t come out until it’s clean and tidy and doesn’t require to have a health warning sign on the door before your mother goes back in!’

  Not about to argue with the big man, we entered our room, armed with washing basket, Hoover, dusters, survival pack, garden strimmer and flamethrower.

  Several hours later and umpteen black bin bags packed to the hilt, we discovered we had a carpet fitted to the floor. The room was beginning to look spick and span, apart from the disgusting stale smell which was still circulating.

  Two rose bouquet aerosols sprayed into the room with the door closed, made absolutely no difference. It was still bowfin’! We even tried burning some incense sticks, but to no avail.

  What could it be causing this rancid pong? Then Hughie said, ‘Maybe it’s Torty! Maybe his bed needs cleaned!’

  ‘Excuse me, but who is Torty and where did he come from?’ I asked, thinking he had taken in a lodger without telling me and denying me my share of the rental proceeds.

  ‘He’s the school tortoise.’ he replied, ‘I volunteered to look after it during the hibernation period.’

  ‘Since when?’ I enquired, totally unaware of this arrangement.

  ‘Since the summer holidays!’ Then he added under his breath. ‘Last year!’

  ‘Last year?! And where is it now?’ I asked, trying to remain calm.

  ‘Well, it was under my bed the last time Ah looked,’ he replied.

  At that point we both got down on our knees and looked under his bed, where we found an empty shoebox that used to house Torty the tortoise.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked a surprised Hughie.

  ‘He probably couldn’t stand the smell of us two and buggered off months ago!’ I replied sarcastically.

  ‘Torty! Torty!’ called Hughie, as we both started to look for him and it wasn’t long before we found him, or should I say, found the remains of his empty shell. Torty was stuck to the floor in the corner, underneath Hughie’s bed, like a British Rail pork pie, (A hard shell with no meat)!

  He had obviously decomposed over the previous months and hence the disgusting, rancid smell. I was just delighted that it wasn’t any of us, although there was a time where it was touch and go!

  As fo
r Hughie, He was never again asked to look after a school pet.

  Well, if he was, he never cracked a light about it to me!

  Chap at the Door

  …

  Lately since I left the police, I have been trying to modify my way of chapping or knocking on a door, for the following reason.

  One night, whilst on duty, I received a call to attend at a certain address. I made my way there and on my arrival I knocked on the door, as I would do normally.

  There was no immediate response, which prompted me to knock on the door again, this time more loudly, whereby a female voice cried out, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I bloody heard you the first time!’

  Moments later, the door was opened by a small, frail, grey-haired elderly woman, who, on seeing me standing there, in full uniform, said, ‘Do you big bastards get taught to chap doors like that and deliberately frighten the life out of us old people?’

  Superglue The Locks

  …

  There used to be an arrogant shopkeeper occupying a licensed grocer shop next door to the police station where I worked.

  The previous owner was a very nice man who had a good relationship with the police in the area and refused to sell to anyone appearing to look underage – in fact you had to look twenty-one years of age and over.

  He even refused to stock or sell the likes of Buckfast tonic wine and some of the other cheaper designer drinks.

  However, the new owner was in complete contrast and was prepared to sell to anybody. He also, very early on in his occupancy of the shop, showed a total disregard for the police nearby and displayed a blatant anti-police attitude. This made him very popular with the local neds and very unpopular with the local parents. It also did nothing to enhance his relationship with us.

  Within a very short time the complaints arrived at the office in writing and by anonymous telephone calls, that many of the local underage neds were purchasing their ‘Buckie’ and cheap White Lightning cider drinks from Warners off-licence shop.