My Life as a Police Person — In the Beginning
I was in the police a long time. A damn long time. It’s time I told my story.
This is the first part of an ongoing series about my time in the police service.
Welcome to the darkness…..
Introduction
“You bastard fucking son of a whore!” said Dad, chasing me from the house with a knife.
I’d woken up that morning to the ringing phone next to my bed.
It was the police calling. Unusual. Normally people called them. I told them I believed all coppers to be bastards. There was an awkward silence. I adjusted my man bits and waited. This could get awkward. They said my application to join the police had been successful. I told them I hadn’t applied. Turned out they were cold calling people who’d been bullied at school. I winced.
They offered an early bird offer — Join the police and get inclusive entry to the Freemasons. I agreed and sent compromising pictures to my old English teacher. I had insurance now.
They told me to wait at the end of the road and they’d pick me up. They didn’t mention getting dressed.
Dad cut the phone cord. He chased me out the house. I told the neighbours he made me wear my mums clothes. They punched him in the face and had him arrested.
The police minibus was at the end of the road. It was rammed full of new recruits like me. Some were from more rural parts, and picked fleas from each other’s fur. They were disconcertingly cross-eyed, and I suspected their parents were related by way other than marriage.
I was the only one not wearing anything. I asked the driver if I could cover my bollocks with his police helmet like they did with streakers at rugby matches, but he punched me in the throat and took my dinner money.
I fashioned a nappy out of a Tesco carrier bag. It seemed the right thing to do. Use of initiative is important in policing. Years later, during the Poll Tax riots, I worked out that the political wind was blowing against Thatcher, so I joined the rioters and smashed up a McDonald's. Using my initiative. Well, not literally. I used a Traffic Warden to smash the plate-glass window which got a huge cheer from the other rioters. And a surprising number of police officers.
I got on board, and we drove to the legendary police training school in north London.
On the minibus, the driver started to tell us some old war stories, about how fucking hard he was, but I remember thinking why he was driving a minibus then and not using the Sus Laws. I’d meet a lot of Walter Mitty’s during my career, but he was the first. There was actually a PC called Walter Mitty who was banned from giving evidence in court, so he had to change his name by deed poll. I think Pinnochio ended up as a Chief Inspector somewhere down south. Rumours about him wanting to be a real boy.
We got to training school and were led off the bus with our legs manacled together. A row of police trainers lined up with shotguns to keep us in order. I muttered OINK OINK which gave them the opportunity they were looking for to give me a cavity search.
One of the guards put a bullet into one of the other recruits. Double tap to the back of the head. Thought he was lame. Turned out he was just doing a gangsta walk to impress everyone. We were so naive in those days!
The old lags were leaning out the windows above us saying they were going to enjoy getting to know us and that we were real pretty. My Tesco nappy drew some approving comments.
The lead Instructor appeared and paraded up and down in front of us, close enough for us to smell his manhood. He had a big moustache.
He looked us in the eye without blinking while he tested the firmness of our buttocks. One lad fainted and was dragged away by the old lags. They were like a pack of randy hyenas on an 18–30 holiday.
He was never seen again.
I was put on guard duty. The newest recruits got all the worst jobs. I had to stay up all night taking pot shots at the community activists who circled the compound.
A few months before I got started, a community activist bluffed his way in pretending he accidentally kicked his ball over the fence and just wanted to get it back.
He found his way into the locker room and wrote L and R on everyone’s boots. It was a double-bluff. He wrote L on the right boots and R on the left boots. That morning’s parade was a spectacular spanner fest by all accounts.
Shooting community activists wasn’t the worst outcome. The instructors had carried out due diligence checks on all the new recruits. It turned out that Nigel was actually a north Vietnamese time traveller. He was sent back in time and made to fight for the Viet Cong. I’d always wondered why he’d insisted on digging tunnels to sleep in.
The next morning I was left on guard duty. I hadn’t slept for three weeks, but it was okay. I was on crack.
The Lead Instructor came. I mopped up. It was another task for the newbies. He seemed to nod in approval. He was a man who enjoyed the benefits of rank, and expected submission, obedience and express enjoyment of his break dancing displays.
I finished mopping up, and had a toke on my crack pipe. The lead instructor was still standing there. I remembered I was now in a disciplined organisation, modelled on the armed forces, so I recognised that he was expecting some kind of formal acknowledgment.
I had no idea how to salute, and a body popping competition was out of the question — I’d loosed my bowels because of the crack.
I gave him the only respectful sign I knew — The Ted Rogers 3–2–1 sign. It went wrong. I gave him the bird. He bent forward to touch his toes without speaking. I’ll forever remember the straining of his trousers that day. He made it quite clear that if I offered such disrepect again, I’d be standing as a Conservative candidate in Glasgow.
The next morning someone blew the lead Instructor’s bugle.
We all lined up at the bottom of our beds for inspection. The drill Sergeant came in. He had a big ceremonial stick and wore his cap low over his eyes. Too low. He tripped over a chaise lounge.
We were all given numbers. The rural guys got 1–5 because they didn’t count so good. The lead Instructor tattooed our numbers on our inner thighs. He gently blew then dry.
Every morning we’d get to write letters to our sweethearts back home. Some of the rural guys couldn’t read and write too good but they could artificially inseminate chickens which was useful on talent nights. They sent pictures of themselves masturbating instead.
We marched across the yard. We’d never marched before, so did Irish dancing. It seemed the right thing to do. In years to come, my Irish dancing skills would come to my rescue a number of times.
Notably when being interviewed by Professional Standards.
The breakfast hall fell silent as we danced in, the stillness of our upper bodies contrasting with the mania of our legs. Our class captain, Big Phil Phallus, was in constant pain due to rhythmically whacking his penis.
We had heard rumours that undercover officer training was taking place. There were a number of post boxes eating bacon sandwiches in the corner. Years later, I put two and two together. It is amazing how a police officer can convincingly come across as a slice of bacon.
The riot police were in. Porridge slid down their visors. One had worked out how to spoon the food under the visor and into his mouth. He was a Sergeant.
We were the last in line to get fed. The cooks were big gangsters who enjoyed making police officers eat their slop. One of them winked at me. I winked back. He winked again. I gave him a really big children’s entertainer wink. He punched me in the throat. He had a twitch. I didn’t realise.
My policing adventure was beginning!
WATCH THIS SPACE FOR MORE MEMOIRS! COMIN’ SOON!
