The Last Night on the Beat

by Harry Morris

  “I always wanted to be a Polis”!

  At which point, I turn my head around to look at Hughie and Hughie said under his breath, ‘Lean your head forward as if to pick up your pint and I’ll just hook him.’

  As it turned out, he was quite a nice lad, although slightly demented. Also, apart from the barbed wire wrapped around his arms, posing as some sort of modern jewellery, he had a set of motor vehicle battery jump leads tied in a neat knot around his neck like a fashion statement.

  ‘Why the jump leads around your neck?’ I asked him.

  ‘I forgot that you needed to wear a tie tonight and these were all I could find in the boot of the car!’ He replied.

  ‘Awright!’ I said. ‘Well you better not “start” anything in here!’

  Hughie then spotted the buffet being uncovered on the display tables by Big Andy Hunter, nick-named Billy Bunter, he was enormous and rumour had it that he was originally a triplet, but he ate the other two. When he was at school, his favourite instrument was the dinner bell.

  Hughie moved swiftly to the front of the queue and shouted over to me, ‘Harry! Do you want toad-in-the-hole wi’ some salad?’

  ‘If you don’t mind Hughie, I’ll just have the salad, I’ve been towed-in-the-arse once and didn’t really enjoy it!’ I responded.

  The assembled queue of drunken bus drivers laughed in unison.

  Much later, after the buffet was cleared away and many, many more whiskies were consumed by yours truly, I was summoned to the pool table to play my first game.

  ‘Right Harry,’ said the organiser. ‘You’re on this side with the rest of the OMOs here.’

  ‘Ho!’ I said, taking great exception to this remark. Then Hughie explained what he meant by OMO – One Man Operator – bus drivers and not HOMO as in a sexual preference.

  Surprisingly, with Hughie’s coaching skills, I win it very easily. My next couple of games go the same way, as I find it all so easy. The balls as they say are running kindly for me and are never too far from a pocket to pot them into.

  I’m playing like Stephen Hendry, minus his plooks and before I know it, hey, I’m in the semi-final stage of the tournament and I find it very hard to believe, because I can hardly see the pool table, never mind the coloured balls. Anyway, my opponent breaks off and I’m bent down, lining up my cue for my first pot at a ball.

  ‘Hold it Harry!’ Hughie said, ‘Pot this one first!’

  I looked over to see one of my balls covering a pocket and just perfect for potting.

  ‘I never noticed that one, thanks Hughie.’ I replied.

  The game continued in this vein for several shots, me bending down to line up a pot and Hughie changing my mind by pointing out a much easier pot to take on. ‘I must have drunk more than him!’ All the time Hughie was talking one load of utter pish to my opponent, who was having to use all his concentration skills just to understand what Hughie was saying to him. As for me, I’m closing one eye and trying to focus on my cue ball as it appears to be moving about the table on it’s own and I’m thinking to myself, ‘I wish that bloody white cue ball would stop moving!’

  Then just as I am about to take my shot, I clearly see a hand lift up one of my balls and place it in front of the pocket. I straightened up and composed myself, because I decided, I must be seeing things, balls don’t move about by themselves and even in my rapidly drunken state, I couldn’t ‘piss this mot.’ I mean I couldn’t miss this pot!

  Then I realise why I’m so good at pool all of a sudden. My brother Hughie was talking to my opponents and while distracting them he was placing my balls over the pockets for me to pot them, as well as ‘potting’ a few of my balls into his own trouser pockets.

  I wondered how some games seemed to be over very quickly … I was only potting half my quota of balls, compared to my opponent’s full quota.

  Being a conscientious police officer with a reputation for being honest and upholding the law, I couldn’t handle the fact that I was in the pool final due to the behaviour of my brother, Hughie, who was blatantly cheating. With this preying on my mind, I did the only honourable thing available to me!

  No I didn’t own up, are ye daft? I was winning. I just compromised.

  I told Hughie I didn’t want his help in the final because I was good enough to win it on my own. Suffice to say, I didn’t win the final and to rub salt into my wound, I played total crap and was completely whitewashed. Come to think of it, even when I play sober, I’m total crap. Which, in retrospect was probably a fair result for me. However, Hughie reckoned I was extremely lucky to get nil! Which was hurtful, because I do have feelings you know!

  In the meantime, during the evening, Hughie had also been helping the committee by handing out the drink raffle tickets as well as helping himself to several sheets for doing it. He had also arranged with the girl behind the bar to allow us to trade them in for a carry-out and had placed an order for a bottle of whisky, a bottle of rum and two dozen cans of Red Stripe lager. Just in case we got thirsty on our road home.

  I decided we should go for a Chic Murray (an Indian curry) and told Hughie I was going outside for some fresh air, while they were clearing up the tables. Unfortunately, I forgot to mention to him about going for the Chic Murray.

  While sitting on a wall outside waiting for Hughie, a police panda car pulled up alongside me.

  ‘Hi Harry,’ said the passenger. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh hi Davie!’ I replied. It was a friend I had been to college with. I continued, ‘I’ve got this theory, Davie, that the world revolves on an axis, so if I wait here long enough, my house will pass by and I’ll get hooked up by the wife!’

  ‘Don’t think so Harry, why don’t you jump in the back and we’ll give you a lift? He said.

  ‘Okay Davie.’ I said, getting into the rear of the car.

  ‘Could you drop me off at the Noor Mahal Indian restaurant in Shawlands, I feel like a wee Chic Murray afore I go home.’

  ‘No problem Harry!’ replied Davie and he promptly drove me to the restaurant dropping me off outside the front entrance. As I entered I was shown to a table for two as I had told them that my brother Hughie would be joining me here.

  All I remember after that, was the waiter nudging me and saying, ‘Excuse me Harry, but we are wishing to go home now and I don’t think your brother is coming!’

  I looked around me and the restaurant was empty, apart from the staff, still clearing up.

  ‘What time is it Zaffar?’ I asked the manager.

  ‘Very late Harry, quarter-to-one in the morning, you have been sleeping for ages!’ He replied.

  While all this was going on, Hughie had come out of the club looking for me, couldn’t find me and organised a small search party of his friends to help him search the nearby golf course, just in case I had fallen into a bunker. Having no success in finding me, he then flagged down a ‘fast-black’ taxi and went to my house, where he informed my wife as follows, ‘I’ve lost him, I’ve lost Harry. One minute he was there and the next minute, “Poof” he was gone.’

  Mind you, ‘Poof’ I think was the wrong choice of word to describe my disappearance from outside the club.

  He continued explaining, ‘I’ve been up and down the golf course next to the club looking for him in case he fell into a hole!’

  ‘Some of the guys helping to look for him nearly shit themselves and ran off when they saw me dressed in white coming towards them in the darkness!’

  All the while, my missus stood with her arms folded, listening to this pathetic tale of woe from my drunken brother and totally unconcerned.

  Poor Hughie, he was completely demented and unaware, that I was wrapped up, as snug as a bug in a rug, in the spare room of my parent’s house and snoring away like the proverbial pig, with my runners up medal for the pool competition along with a crisp twenty pound note tucked away in my breast pocket.

  Roll on the next games night on the buses!

  ‘Fares Please’!
<
br />   And Finally

  A Festive Treat……

  Harry’s Whisky Mince Pie Recipe!

  1 pint of filtered water

  2 dessert spoons of sugar (or honey)

  4 nobs of butter (or one big lump)

  1 big skoosh of lemon juice, hand squeezed

  6 large free range eggs. (Caged if you can’t find them)

  1 packet of cashew nuts

  2 cups of dried fruit. (anything lying about the fruit bowl)

  2 bottles of Whyte and Mackay whisky (Or more).

  Having ticked off everything required for the recipe, we’ll start off by sampling the whisky in a large glass just to check the texture and the quality of the mature blend, making sure it’s not ‘corked’.

  Take a large bowl from the cupboard and before you do anything with it, just check the quality of the other bottle of whisky, this is very important (a second opinion always helps to guarantee you have made the right choice, so just try it again).

  Pour yourself a good measure and swallow it straight down.

  Oh, lovely! What a good choice Harry … Thank you Harry. (Talking to myself already).

  Right! Switch on the electric mixer. (Remembering to plug it in first.)

  Beat up 8 ounces of butter in a large fluffy bowl … No problem for me!

  Add one teaspoon of cake essence, before setting about it again with your whip … Sorry, whisk … Sounds like whisky!

  That was a wee prompt, so at this point, it is advisable to check that the whisky is still okay, so pour yourself another good measure using the same glass.

  Turn off the mixer thingy and break two legs before adding to the ball and chucking away the dried fruit. (Whit a lot o’ pi** …pith!)

  Pick up some of the dried fruit from the floor and … do what you want … you can eat it as part of your fifteen a day! Apparently, it’s good for your bowls.

  Mix the turner on, and if anything gets stuck in the beaters, use a drew scriver to pry them loose. Hic!

  Oops, sorry about that. Hic! I think I’ve Hic! Got the Hic! I have Hic!

  I better open the second bottle of whisky again to check its tonsisticity, (That’s easy for you to say). Now hold your breath for 30 minutes, then sift two spoonfuls of salt … Salt? Where did the salt come from?

  Actually, I think it means malt! … Talking about malt, I better check the whisky again … Don’t want it going off in the heat!

  Shift the lemon juice and sprain your nuts, before adding a table!

  Add a drop of sugar, or was it salt? … Wimp to a paste or whatever, I’m not very sure, but hey it’s ‘Christmas wine, thistletoe and slime’ … Burrpp! … Ooops, sorry about that one! Wee bit o’ windy pops slipped out there.

  Make some toast. That’s it … Toast! Make a toast, so pour yersel’ another hauf … Let’s make it a double this time, we’re all friends after all … Cheers!

  BUMPPP! Oh ya bugger. Who left that cupboard door open? That was sore, but … Hey … ‘Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again!’ Cheers!

  Right! What have we not used yet? Oh, ah can’t remember …

  However … at this point, it’s a good ikea to pour yourself a wee goldie!

  Oh, hold on there, I remember now, you greash the oven and burn the cake tin to 360 degrees, trying not to fall over, ’cause it’s very slippy in there and I’ve already got a big lump on my napper … Hic!

  Crikey … ! Would you look at that … There’s rabbit shit all over the bloody floor … ! Where did the rabid comfy?

  Cancel that! False alarm … Ah’ve just tasted it … It’s only raisins, but a good likeness … You could be easily fooled, like me!

  Right! Whit noo? … Oh aye, very impotent. Add a desperate spoon of whisky to the stuffy mix in the bowel.

  Now, if you haven’t got a spoon … just spit in about a mouthful, but not a full mouthful. Ye don’t want to waste guid whiksy. Ah mean to say, it’s only a bloody cake after all.

  A bit of advice here. Don’t eat any of the nuts before you do this, ’cause it’s a waste of ‘Catch-ewes’! And makes one a helluva mess … Looks like some pebble-dash has been spilt all o’er it. But more importantly, you don’t want floaters in your whiksy grass.

  So, remember, it’s almost a mouthful of whiksy and gargle it first.

  Don’t want tit to be too wet! … So swallow some of it for good luck.

  Now for goodness sakes, don’t forget to thingy, you know, ’cause every bugger I tell always forgets to do that … Even me! And it’s my recirpee, Hic! … That’s they bloody hiccups back again … Ah need a fright! … Where’s the mother-in-law when ye need her! Ah call her the exorcist. Cause every time she comes o’er for the weekend, by the time she leaves on the Sunday: There’s no’ a spirit left in the hoose!

  Right, where was I? … Oh aye … Presentation time … The finale!!

  Finally, pour the fish bowl through the window and finish off the reminder of the booze and make sure ye stuff the oven in the dishwasher before ye pass out on the floor!

  Ye now what wormen are like if ye leaf a mess in their pre, pre, pre … How do ye spell precious? … In their kitchen.

  PS, I’ve newer massaged to cake a make yet, but it sounds lick somethink I’d really enploy! In saying that, can a sujgest you buy one from Arsda or SAintberrys … much chipper and lesss messi … Wee Messi! He’s good in’t he boys?

  CHERRY MISTMAS VERYDOBY! HIC!!

  And a Harry ‘F’ word to Goradon Rasmay … Get oot my kitchen … Ya big diddy!

  Well that’s it for this shift …

  EVENING ALL!

  PS, Look out for The Best of Harry the Polis, ‘The Last Night on the Beat’ Volume Two… … . .Coming soon.

  THANK YOU

  THE END

  Copyright

  …

  First published 2012

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2012

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 506 9 in EPub format

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 507 4 in Mobipocket format

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 456 7 in paperback format

  Copyright © Harry Morris 2012

  The right of Harry Morris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay