tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180862542024-03-17T08:14:57.219+00:00World Weary DetectivePolice officer. Writer. Bloody comedian. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-10664130685051981162016-11-04T14:55:00.000+00:002016-11-04T14:55:10.670+00:00I've got a website and I don't know how to use it!<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-51565072762085894392016-10-25T10:41:00.000+00:002016-10-25T16:36:17.251+00:00The One Punch Killer<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>This is another true story from my time on the murder squad. As always, reader discretion advised...</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Croydon. A place of broken dreams, a barren heartland to the south. A place to get proper pissed. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Our victim had taken a bucket load of drugs, which he’d blended with a lovely selection of seasonal wines, beers and spirits. The lab are still analysing his blood samples some fifteen years later. The initial scientist on the case was driven to madness and became a hermit living in a cave. In Birmingham.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Our man had been asked to remove himself forthwith from a licensed establishment by large gentlemen in formal wear after spitting at the chap who tries to spray you with aftershave when you're urinating. Offering unparalleled service, they carried him from the bar to save fatigue on his legs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As one does when properly bingoed, he sought out the hardest man in Croydon to have a roll around with. He met Big Geordie. Big Geordie was a big Geordie who sought to improve his physique and mental health through the use of steroids. He was a man on edge, and in no mood to debate with our victim when offered out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Rather than taking a chance on love and going for a kebab and maybe a glass of wine together, Big Geordie punched our unfortunate victim, knocking him off his feet. He feel to the floor, his skull crashing onto a kerb leading to his untimely death. A man was dead as our Detective Inspector, Robin the Destroyer of Worlds, was keen on saying, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The hunt was on. We gave Big Geordie a ring, but he wasn’t having any of it. He hung up straight away, even though we called him Mr Big Geordie out of courtesy. His real name was Adrian le Coq. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A surveillance team were mustered, but we couldn’t find them, so that was a non starter. Our Detective Chief Inspector, Mr Snugglepants, had taken the day off to go to the seaside, so Detective Inspector Uncle Scrooge was in charge. He came over to Croydon and pulled at his penis for the local press. It was one of his odd habits. His face twitched as well. When he got really excited, his face became a blur. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Norman was a Detective Sergeant who was in charge of the incident room. He arranged a seance. DI Robin the Destroyer of Worlds ended up pinned to the ceiling speaking in tongues. He told us that Big Geordie was working in a gym in some place called Newcastle, and wasn't from Geordie after all. After that he kept insisting he wasn’t Regan, and said ego te absolvo a lot. His head started to spin round, which was yucky, so we all slipped out, except Norman who had been glued to his chair, so he just pretended that nothing was going on and read the paper. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was chosen to travel to Newcastle. The DS who’s girlfriend looked like a man came as well. His name was Victor Willis, which unfortunately was the name of the policeman in the Village People, so he used the nickname Winnie the Pooh. We took the Crime Scene Manager Larry Mullen Jnr with us because he was an ace dancer and had been outside the M25 once. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Norman had seen a documentary about Newcastle on the Discovery Channel, and made the excellent suggestion that we took an interpreter. Uncle Scrooge instructed the office Glaswegian to travel with us in that capacity. His name was DC Liberace as his mum was a big fan. He took many beatings growing up, but was a fabulous pianist. He often played in the office while Mr Snugglepants sat on the piano and Larry Mullen Jnr did some body-popping. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As we were murder squad detectives, we got to fly EasyJet. The colour scheme matched Larry Mullen Jnr’s face. Uncle Scrooge told us not to buy peanuts or aftershave, and no jokes about hostage taking or explosives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We arrived in Newcastle and collected our hire car. It was a purple Lamborghini. Winnie the Pooh insisted on driving, and went nuts when Liberace sat in the driver’s seat when he was inside paying for petrol. We found the hotel, and settled into the honeymoon suite. I wanted to go to the petting zoo, but Winnie the Pooh punched me in the neck and said he wanted to go to fucking Jungle Jacks. We discussed getting recommendations from the bloke on reception, but he talked like Jimmy Nail on speed, so we gave up on that idea. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Mr Snugglepants phoned up, and we put him on speakerphone. He got really cross when nobody would admit to making the farting noises, so he shouted at us making Larry Mullen Jnr cry. We were told to go to the local police station and give it the billy big bollocks to the Geordie police. We all put on our sharpest suits and practised our Cockney wanker accents. Larry Mullen Jnr was in a Star Wars onesie as he was police staff, not a police officer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We found the police station, and were met by an enormously fat man who claimed to be the Detective Inspector. We went inside, walking like proper geezers to impress everyone. The language was strange, almost sing song. We saw some people in grass skirts peek out from doorways. One of them had a huge plate in his mouth. He was hiding from Sting. There was a dead DS glued to a chair in one of the corridors. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The DI took us to his office, and passed round the Newcastle Brown ale. We gave him some Prince Charles deely boppers and a pair of Chelsea Pensioner pants. Liberace tried to communicate with him, but it turned out they spoke a different dialect, so all we heard was 'whey hey!', with Liberace saying ‘I dinnae ken’ a lot. Luckily, Norman had called ahead, and arranged for the only English speaking officer in Northumbria Police to be attached to us for the duration of the stay. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We told the English speaking officer that we were looking for a large white bloke with a shaven head called Big Geordie. It turned out that this name was much more common than we’d suspected, and that being white with a shaven head was a craze sweeping the north east at that time. We were taken to meet the police Sergeant that dealt with informants. Unusually, he worked in full uniform, making him what I believe to be the only high visibility informant handler in England and Wales. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We were given the name and address of an informant to visit, which again was unusual. We fired up the wheels and headed off to see him. It turned out the informant was one of the hardest men in Britain, and didn’t give a flying fuck who knew he gave information to the police for money. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He told us to take our shoes off which we did. He then lobbed them into the neighbour’s garden to test our resolve. We all pretended we hadn’t noticed and just talked about the weather. He told us to take off all our clothes and slip into Teletubbies outfits. We had no choice - we needed his help. He took photos of us kissing. He said it was for insurance purposes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Despite the language barrier, we persevered. He kept talking about ‘Le Coq’, which got Larry Mullen Jnr really worried as he was Tinky Winky and the photos on the wall showed that he was our host’s favourite. It turned out that he was talking about Adrian Le Coq and wasn't intending to have his way with us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We drove back to the police station and found </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">the English speaking officer who was having a cup of tea with the bloke with a plate in his mouth. It was going everywhere. Some local uniformed officers were taking the piss out of our Teletubbies outfits, so Winnie the Pooh had a proper stand up with them. We told the English speaker what we'd learned, and he promised to do all our work for us so we could get on the piss. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The next day, the Geordie police arrested our suspect. He was found walking his dog on the green outside the police station. He responded straight away when they shouted 'Big Geordie!', so we were happy we had our man. He was given a skin full of steroids to keep him going, and we were escorted to the airport. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Uncle Scrooge phoned up and was really excited. I was told he nearly pulled his penis off. We told a little white lie and said we’d worked really hard. He said that he’d send up a couple of dull detectives to escort our man back to London, and that we could have a night out on him. We kept Big Geordie calm until the dullards arrived, then yelled out something about steroid users having small cocks as he was walking up the steps to the plane. The dullards went mental, as did Big Geordie, but they managed to bundle him onto the plane. They ended up having to make an emergency landing in Nottingham, but everyone was alright. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Big Geordie was sentenced to a long stretch in prison. He is in segregation because of his silly name. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-72489922950363640332016-10-22T16:12:00.003+00:002016-10-22T18:30:51.950+00:00The Darkness of the City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>It was the darkness that got to me. The creeping blackness that came with the downing of the light. The sun falling like a punch in the guts. The sewer crawlers sucking at the air, looking at the crescent moon and laughing. I couldn't get the noise out of my head - The sound of her dying. </i></div>
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The screams woke me. I was on the floor again, soaked in sweat. The naked bulb, swinging to the thudding from above. I shook the nightmares from my head. It wasn't real. I reached for a smoke. I had a burn on my chest where I'd left a cigarette when I'd fallen asleep. It wasn't the first time. I was numb. The mirror showed me the circles patterned across my chest. It looked like Shane McGowan. I pulled my shirt from the floor and wrung out the sweat. It pooled below me then sank into the floorboards. Evaporating like the dreams of youth. When you get someone pregnant. Outside wedlock. Your cousin.<br />
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The sweat dripped like a virgins tears into the shower below. A virgin who sweated alcohol. I would stand in that shower to wash away the grime of the city. The grime that corroded the bones and made my head feel like it was being squeezed in a clamp. By a muscular transvestite. I would piss. In the shower.<br />
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The thumping got louder. The place was cheap, somewhere to bury my head from the world. I had a bucket of sand in the corner. The bucket was too small. Too small for my head. I felt the tears coming. The pounding in my head. I'd not been concentrating. The trouser zip. My penis. I cried.<br />
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Her face. In the picture. I'd put the picture on the floor when I crashed through the door in the early hours. I tried to smash the glass with the heel of my boot, to put violence where there was love, to make hatred my desire. It didn't smash. It was plastic. It was scratched.<br />
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I felt emotion coursing through me - The anger that had taken me screaming into the night, into the darkness of the city. I took the photo from the frame and sat under the window. I found a pen, a gift from her. I drew a moustache on her picture, devil horns on her head. The pen was our time together. It had different colours. I'd clicked it to red. The red of my heart, the red of my hatred.<br />
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I wrote his name on the wall. Brian. I muttered his name. His name again and again. Bastard.<br />
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I heard the call from downstairs. The chance of a lift to school. No. I had a BMX.<br />
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<a class="twitter-timeline" href="https://twitter.com/WearyDetective" target="_blank">Tweets by World Weary Detective</a> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-18149136774472263452016-10-19T09:34:00.005+00:002016-10-21T07:06:34.571+00:00The Big Man from the North East<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This is the true account of a real life murder investigation. Don't have nightmares. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was a murder squad detective. Dark days. Dark places. Staring into the depths of the soul, reaching for life but finding death. Everywhere. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We were based at a secret location in south London. There was swingball in the yard. The boss was a Detective Chief Inspector. The Senior Investigating Officer. He was Mr Snugglepants. He had a painting of Helen Mirren as The Queen on the wall. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There were three Detective Inspectors. The first was Mr Scrooge who deputised when Mr Snugglepants was on a sleepover. Scrooge was old-school, with a twitch and a habit of yanking his penis. The second DI hadn't been seen since 1988. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The third one used to sit next to you and stare at the side of your head without blinking. He used hypnotism. Once, I heard his fingers click, and everyone was staring because I’d been doing chicken impressions. If you ever laughed at anything, he’d come running out of his office and then just stare until everyone went quiet. He’d then say, ‘A man is dead,’ before buttoning his jacket and walking back to his office. His name was Robin the Destroyer of Worlds. Unusual surname of, I believe, Scandinavian origin. He had spent many years working for Special Branch. Just prior to his move to the murder squad he was deep undercover as a street sign to Great Yarmouth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Detective Constables had three offices. One was the Major Incident Room which sounds really exciting, but actually looked like one of those offices you sometimes get a glimpse of in supermarkets. This was run by a Detective Sergeant called Norman who was a right Norman. The boring DCs were made to sit together in one of the rooms and do all the work. They were called the Mormons because they were all religious Americans. I think. I called them the Mormons once and got punched in the face by the smallest one, so used their real names after that. He was called Bashful, or Dozy or something like that. It was a long time ago. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bashful’s claim to fame was that he was in a phonebox once making a dirty phonecall to one of his old primary school teachers, when a couple of lads got into a fight outside. One of them ended up stabbing the other one to death right in front of a bona fide murder squad detective. He finished himself off in the phonebox, and managed to force his way out. The dying lad was propped against the door, so it took some doing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One morning, Mr Snugglepants called us all together and kissed us all on the cheeks as we walked in. I thought he was going to have one of us executed, but it turned out that we’d been given a new murder case to investigate. It turned out that there were places called Public Sex Environments. During the day they were known as parks. People called men sat in bushes and did sex things with each other. It seemed that there was no expectation of formal introductions before they indulged, which I was quite surprised about having been brought up properly. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some poor chap had been kicked to death. One of the other park users had called the police. I will call him Steve because that was his name at the time. I’d imagine it still is. The case was treated as a homophobic attack because it was a homophobic attack. It really isn’t rocket science this murder investigation lark, despite all that Inspector Morse nonsense on the telly. If anyone tried to listen to classical music in a police car they’d be nicknamed Graham LeSaux pretty damn quickly. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Each Murder Squad has trained officers to act as liaison with the families of the deceased. They are called Family Liaison Officers so the families know just what they’re getting, unlike PPI. They will take along the Senior Investigating Officer to meet the family during the early stages of the investigation. The SIO will hand over a letter on police headed paper saying how sorry he is. This is done so the SIO doesn’t well up and embarrass himself. Mr Snugglepants was a teary sort, so was often left in his car seat with the window a little bit open while the FLO handed the letter over. FLOs are told never to touch family members unless an emotional spouse is trying to drag the body away during the viewing at the undertakers. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The death in the park was given an operation name to make it sound all sexy for the press appeals. It had to be snappy and not offensive to anyone at all. Norman’s mum was used to quality assure operation names for us. She was a very pious woman. Mr Snugglepants would have caused national outrage by talking about Operation Manshake on Crimewatch. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Although not a trained FLO, I can do this funny wobbly thing with my eyes, so DI Robin the Destroyer of Worlds got me to interact with a male friend of our victim. He did this by the use of simple mind control. This chap told me a long sad tale of his intimate relationship with our deceased. I was somewhat taken back when he revealed that they met on a National Front march in the late 1970s and had sex in a pub toilet after the parade. I remember thinking that a young virile male seeking to make the beast with two backs with a fellow chap would probably be playing quite a high risk game by doing so on an NF march.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One morning I went to work rather than bunking off. Norman was already there. I never saw him leave the office. His trousers had been glued to the seat, so he was too embarrassed to stand up in case they ripped and he had to go home on the bus with his Spiderman pants on show. Norman beckoned me over so I flicked the Vs. He couldn't come after me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I spent the morning reading the paperwork. This was in it’s raw form. One of Norman’s roles was to summarise and sanitise everything for Mr Snugglepants so nothing put him off his lunch. If Norman found anything that was of note, but possibly on the icky side, he’d tell DI Robin the Destroyer of Worlds whose pupils would turn black. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I managed to find a suspect for the murder. I’d spent around six years in the CID by that time, and had never found a real suspect before. I’d come close, but it turned out the suspect was one step ahead of me, and I ended up arresting the pillow he’d left under his duvet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The suspect had turned up at the police cordon on the night of the murder driving a white Vauxhall Astra. The officer on the cordon asked what he was doing, so he said he was looking for action in the park. She told him she wasn’t that sort of girl, and anyway she was working until ten. She then asked his name, and he refused to give it, so she wrote down his registration number. This quite often annoys people, unless they have personalised number plates when they’re really pleased as they’re getting something back for the £10,000 they paid to have </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">INN1T on the back of their motor. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It turned out the person who owned the car was already known to the police for leaving shopping trolleys in disabled parking spaces. He also lived in Coventry which sealed the deal. I rushed through to tell Mr Snugglepants, but a thought ray from DI Robin the Destroyer of Worlds told me that he was feeling a little sensitive that morning and was listening to Simon Bates’ Our Tune.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Everyone got together for an office meeting. Even the Mormons came out. The one who punched me gave me a glare, and stared right at me for the whole meeting. DI Robin the Destroyer of Worlds had brought cakes in as it was his birthday. He was levitating at around ceiling height. Mr Snugglepants came in doing his Brucie thing, so we all gave it the 'to see you nice' bit to keep him happy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Norman did the music. Norman was starting to look at bit rough around the edges. I hope the person who glued his trousers had a good long look at themselves. When we moved offices, the removal men had to carry Norman down on his chair. He went in the back of the lorry with all the desks and stuff. I remember the look of shame and anguish on his face as the doors crashed shut.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was decreed that I would travel to Coventry to arrest our suspect. Robin the Destroyer of Worlds summonsed up a DS everyone had heard of but had never actually seen. DS Bono only ever came out for double time. Bono insisted on his best friend DC Edge coming as well. DC Clayton was sent with us even though he was mentally ill having had a breakdown and telling a bereaved mother at the Old Bailey that her son deserved to die because he was a bastard. He was moved to the paedophile squad to aid his recovery which didn’t really help, so he ended up with us. A Crime Scene Manager came as well. His name, unsurprisingly, was Larry Mullen Jr. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We set of the next morning. It was Sunday. Bloody Sunday I thought. It was a Beautiful Day though. We drove around to collect DC Clayton but he took ages looking for his keys. He said he Still Hasn’t Found What He’s Looking For when we hurried him along. DC Edge said ‘He’s a One!’ DS Bono said, ‘We’re going, With or Without You!’ So DC Clayton came out and jumped in the back. We got to Coventry Where the Streets Have no Name so took ages finding the police station. DS Bono stopped the car and told me to stop making fucking U2 jokes. He took the opportunity to do his tai chi to calm himself down a bit. That turned some heads in the middle of Coventry I can tell you. He Moved in Mysterious Ways. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We booked into a hotel, and commenced enquires. No we didn’t. We went to the pub. We ended up in a nightclub where DC Clayton said he was feeling down and wanted to end it all. He disappeared. It was his round. Funny that. Larry Mullen Jr got on the dancefloor like an epileptic spaniel. He ended up getting off with some old granny with hair on her chinny chin chin. We all found our way back to the hotel where it seemed like a really good idea to have more beer. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Larry Mullen Jr met us there after kissing his date goodnight on the steps of the care home. After a couple of pints, someone slurred something about DC Clayton who we’d remembered was suicidal. We called his room, but there was no reply. We all trooped upstairs and banged on the door, but again there was no response, so we kicked the door in. The noise woke DC Clayton who came out from the next door room to see what we were doing. Luckily the room occupant was deaf, so had no idea what had happened. He stayed asleep while the emergency locksmith fixed the door and DC Edge had a slash in his sink. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We set out to arrest our suspect the next morning. Two local uniformed officers came along. They pretended not to notice that we all stank of stale beer. We had to travel into a notorious housing estate. Built in the 1960s, it was the stained legacy of failed ambition seen across the urban landscape of Britain. Desperate families lived alongside vicious drug gangs. If your face didn’t fit you were a dead man. The police worked with the community to keep tensions from boiling point. The local community officer had recently been awarded for the creation of a youth club. It was burnt to the ground the day after the ceremony. We acknowledged that our presence on the estate would cause issues for the local police, and may have stirred up tensions, so we dressed up as pirates to try and blend in. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Much to our surprise, the suspect was at home. As I informed him he was under arrest, he popped his false eye out and polished it with his t-shirt. Larry Mullen Jr was sick. We took him to Coventry Police Station where I told the local Custody Sergeant what had happened. He said he was very sorry for Larry Mullen Jr, but was more interested in the one eyed man we had arrested. The eye got added to his property record along with some coins and a tissue. DS Bono and DC Edge slept together in our car in the station yard. The suspect said he didn’t do anything, so we dropped him home and went back to London. </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-78509611351895175842016-10-17T09:04:00.002+00:002016-10-21T07:07:18.507+00:00Polishing the Truncheon - The Secretive World of Police Training<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QPnmlrinYe8/WASRVsxxlTI/AAAAAAAAAaM/apjWBnRwoIQ23HBQD9hPaCdWTyyBZrfLgCLcB/s1600/Rescue-Humor_Funny-police-76.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QPnmlrinYe8/WASRVsxxlTI/AAAAAAAAAaM/apjWBnRwoIQ23HBQD9hPaCdWTyyBZrfLgCLcB/s320/Rescue-Humor_Funny-police-76.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I trained to become a police officer. We were taken to a secret location and made to wear big pointy hats and flares. We were each given an en-suite room. In the old sense. Nowadays it would be described as a sink. Most of my class were on the same floor, so we would shower together and iron each others trousers. We also leaned to ball our boots, an expression which still makes me chuckle in a schoolboy fashion. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Study notes were known as ‘white notes’ due to the revolutionary use of white paper to print them on. They made liberal use of pen sketches to aid learning, and came across as something better suited to a junior school which includes profanity in the curriculum. One of my favourite characters was called Sprake. He was used to illustrate offences under the Public Order Act. At the start of the week he was using mild profanities in the hearing of a police constable. Later in the week, he was shirt off and tooled up. We were all restless in anticipation of his next move. By Friday he was organising riots and conspiring to bring down civil society. If only that first policeman had had the ability to give him an old fashioned clip around the ear it would never have happened. Manacled by political correctness. Even in the white notes. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some of the guys had sweethearts back home. Every Friday we’d get to write letters. Some of the rural guys couldn’t read and write too good but they could artificially inseminate chickens which was useful on talent nights. Those guys tended to just send pictures of their genitals. The rest of us had to get the letters through the censors so we didn’t give away our position or operational movements. These censors had been doing the job since 1945, but nobody had told them the war had ended. At first it was a laugh, but after thirty years it was decided that they may potentially have breakdowns or sue the Met leading to a series of high profile and corporately damaging employment tribunals so they were left in post. They both had senile dementia but worked hard. Here is one of the letters Big ‘Phallus’ Phil sent to his sweetheart by way of example:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dear &%$£,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I wish you were %&R£$ you %$&*. I heard you %&*&^& with ^*&%* and gave him a &%*^%*& on stage. If that’s true I’ll *&^%&^%^ him and &%$%£ you. I mean it. I $%$%& with %&$£ and now I’ve got a dose of %$^££$. He got it from you. I now %$%£ when I go to the toilet. Training is %$£%^ and I have to wear a big helmet. The class are a %$$£% of %$£%£. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Anyway, love to your mum and give the girls a big kiss from me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Love Philly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Those of us who could read purchased a weighty tome known as ‘Butterworths.’ This was used to seek obscure detail around law and police procedure to make the instructors promise to find out an answer and head off to the staff room so we could have a cigarette. The instructors were known as staff. The worst ones were the physical trainers. We wore white t-shirts with our surnames etched down the side so they could scream at us while we were pinned to the floor. They taught us all the best methods of hitting and beating people with bare hands or with sticks. We were coached intensively in hula hoop. We also had new rigid metal handcuffs which we could twist to inflict more pain. Everyone was very excited. They also carried out beastings, whereby they’d make you run around and hit each other until you were sick. My class were beasted twice one day having been accused of referring to a female instructor as a lesbian. The accusing instructor disgraced himself at our leavers meal when he </span>vomited<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> all over a Superintendent. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Each intake of students was called an ‘intake’ and was given a colour. These colours were worn with pride, and there was a clear hierarchy, with the new ones having to wait until last for their dinner, and to hand over our conkers when asked. I once told a member of a senior intake to piss off in a joking way while hanging out in the smoking room. The pause between the comment and the acceptance of the humour was enough to get the old heart racing I can tell you. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Much of the learning was practically based using role plays. We would take turns playing the policeman or criminal. I steered clear of using accents as I always end up sounding Indian. This was frowned on, even in those days. My Glaswegian is very good though. I’m not sure if my memory is playing tricks, but I’m sure a disproportionate number of role plays involved someone being locked in a toilet cubicle trying to get you to push your warrant card under the door. Not really sure what that taught us, but to this day I have never forced my warrant card under the door of an occupied toilet cubicle. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Another occasion saw us dealing with a rowdy group in the bar area. Our instructor had got a group of his old CID mates to come and role play for us. They were of a certain age, with beer bellies and mustaches. They had been drinking since midday to assist them getting into role. I went straight in and demanded that they leave. They saw this as the cue to give me a right old hiding while my colleague stood by the door with his arms above his head in apparent surrender making funny little yelping noises. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">After eighteen weeks, you took part in a passing out parade. We got to wear our flares and march in a long line. We were drilled by an ex-army bloke with a big stick and a hat with a brim over his eyes. He also dealt with lost property. I was at the front of the parade for most of the practice sessions until one morning, after a particularly heavy session in the Peel Bar, I began marching like a duck and was sent to the back. My one stab at immortality and I blew it. There is a video somewhere of the parade in the pouring rain. There is also a video somewhere of me dresed in a female officer’s uniform as part of a role play around sexual offences. Matron. After marching in the rain we went inside with family and friends to listen to Douglas Howe’s wife talk about herself for a very long time. Some of us tried to go back outside and march around until she had finished, but the Inspector wouldn’t let us pass. After the parade, people drifted off and away we all went into the real world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">About half of my class remain in the police twenty odd years later. One got sacked for sculling six pints of Stella then driving into Essex to have a fight with the local constabulary. Another left after a misunderstanding about a legally held shotgun he forgot he was holding when he went outdoors to address some local youths. They haven't caught up with me yet. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-45358936303708286852016-10-16T12:41:00.002+00:002016-10-16T15:29:05.029+00:00A Man is Dead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>I was a real life murder squad detective once. Which was nice. I still have nightmares. Please read on, but be aware this is based on real life. This is the real deal. This is a rough draft from my forthcoming book. Sleep well. </i></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> A Man is Dead</span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">If you are murdered you get a team of elite detectives on the case led by a Detective Chief Inspector who is known as the Senior Investigating Officer. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">SIOs are issued with half-moon glasses to peer over. They sit in dimly lit rooms late at night. It is a little known fact that SIOs are also responsible for feeding the electric meter, hence the low level of lighting like on the telly. Most prefer to spend the money on drink which they imbibe in their single bedsits where they’ve lived since their wives left them because they were married to the job.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I joined the Murder Squad as a Detective Constable. My first SIO was a rather large chap who looked like a Welsh farmer with trapped wind. His name was Mr Snugglepants. He once confided in me whilst in drink that he didn’t have a clue what he was doing and should never have been promoted above the rank of Sergeant. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I recall attending a case conference at the Old Bailey chaired by a Queens Counsel who was prosecuting the murder case for us. She was a remarkable Barrister who grasped the smallest detail with ease. Our SIO, wearing his best pair of thick spectacles, seemed somewhat lost from the moment we sat down. For some reason, he kept his suit jacket fully buttoned up, making him red faced with a glaze of sweat across his brow. Every point the QC made was met with a shouted, ‘I concur’ from our leader. I don’t recall him saying anything else, even when the barrister asked him if he was OK as he’d started to go cross eyed and started swaying. He retired a few weeks later. To his credit, he was the only one of his generation that I met who expressed any regret about the miners strike. No wonder he should never have been promoted. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He was replaced by one of the Detective Inspectors who was promoted to DCI. His name was Mr Scrooge. I’d been plaguing this officer with rude e-mails for several weeks. I had yet to learn the valuable lesson that to leave any computer unlocked in a police building will automatically lead to other officers sending e-mails to management on your behalf. The new SIO was of a different stock. He was comfortable in his rank, and slipped easily into the stock brown raincoat. I learned a lot from this SIO and his new DI, even when I accused them both of being senior Masons in the pub one evening. My new SIO had a rather fetching way of showing he was losing interest in you. Firstly his face would start to twitch and he’d start focusing on your forehead. If you failed to stop talking, he’d grab his penis and give it a good tug. His first appearance on Crimewatch saw us all glued to our TV sets as you’d imagine. Sadly, he appeared to have invested in some tighter pants which stopped the old chap needing to be adjusted so often.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The SIO would direct the investigation. Or he would go to see a uniformed Superintendent, be rude enough to get suspended, then go renegade and start chasing a suspect through an abandoned warehouse on his own. I never personally knew of this happening in real life, but I’m sure it has. Even though if anyone acted like that they’d more than likely end up getting sacked for ruining a perfectly good murder investigation. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One of the Detective Inspectors would have day to day control of the investigation. If the case was more simple, the DI could call themselves the SIO which was a really nice treat for them. It was made quite clear by the real SIO that it was just for that case though, and not to get too big for their boots. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Murder Squad DIs fall into several camps. Some pretend to be mavericks, and do outlandish things to demonstrate that they are unbalanced. They will boast of previous indiscretions, and tell tedious tales of their time on the Flying Squad. They will have had several failed marriages, and will sometimes get into punch ups in the office. Others think they are one of the lads, and lead all the arrest enquiries. They model themselves on DI Burnside from The Bill. Interview rooms in police stations are eschewed, as the DI tends to prefer to interview in the back of cars with his hands around the suspect’s neck. They will sleep under their desks and scare the shit out of the cleaners each morning. The third DI will never have been seen by anyone on the team. It is likely they were left behind in the last office move. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Under the DIs sit Detective Sergeants with a team of Detective Constables. My DS was very angry. All the time. But I think he liked me, even when I mistakenly said his girlfriend looked like a man. </span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nobody was allowed to interview murder suspects other than the senior detectives. The lead interviewer on my first murder team had spent thirty years in the police preparing to become a black cab driver on retirement. He sustained his large girth by fried breakfasts and nightly adjournments to the local hostelry. His interviewing techniques were legendary however, and were spoken of in hushed tones. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">One day, more through lack of alternatives than choice, I was offered the opportunity to sit in on one of his interviews. The suspect had been arrested on suspicion of kicking someone to death in an unprovoked attack outside a pub. I made the preliminary introductions for the tape, as the lead interviewer prepared himself. I then watched in awe as he started his interrogation. This saw him say, ‘You did it didn’t you?’ to the suspect about fifteen times before calling him a liar, switching of the tape then leaving the room. A masterclass.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-49104405400016473822016-10-13T07:26:00.000+00:002016-10-13T07:26:49.846+00:00Death Message<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i>What's it like to tell someone of the death of a loved one? </i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You don't want to do it. Nobody does. You were called in. Not suitable for the radio. Nobody else can be expected to do it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You sit down and read the text of the message. Dry words. Dry words with a great meaning. A life-changing meaning. The briefest details and a contact number. The barest indication of what has happened.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You drive to the road. Try to distract yourself by thinking about other things. </span><em style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Thank fuck it isn't a kid.</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The drive to the road is the slowest you've ever done it. Want to make sure you are fully prepared on the way. Think through all the scenarios. Hope they take it alright. What if they don't? What do I say? What do I actually say?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You pass the address and park up a little way down the street. More time to think. Get out the car. Straighten the tie. Put on the hat. Pick up the bit of paper. You hold the paper like a comfort blanket. The paper knows the truth. The paper will help you. Hat on or hat off?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You stand in front of the door for a few seconds longer than normal. How do you find out whether the person behind the door is who you want? Do you speak in the past tense straight away? First names? Mrs? Miss? Sir? Christ.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You see the curtain twitch. You flinch and ring the bell. It starts now. Time moves back to normal speed. What do you say? What do you say? What is...what WAS his name?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The door opens. You are looking down at the paper. The words swim around, mocking your feeble attempts at composure. Who is it? Who is this person at the door? How do you find out?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You stand and stare. (Don't say '</span><em style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">nothing to worry about!') </em><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A uniform stands on the doorstep. Her eyes scan across your face. Her raised eyebrows start to drop. The corners of her mouth, raised in welcome, shudder downwards, ever so slightly.</span><br />
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<em style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">'Yes?'</em><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">What do you say? Can't ask someone to start identifying themselves on their own doorstep! Hat off. Hat OFF!. '</span><em style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Can I come in?' </em><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Don't say her name. She will help you. She is there to help isn't she? Don't they say </span><em style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">'Is it about him? It is isn't it!' </em><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Door swings open. The angel of death steps into the house. Quick glance around. She stands there staring. She knows. She knows. You want her to say it for you. Why won't she say it for you? What's the MATTER with her? Oh Jesus. Hope there's no kids. Can't cope if there's kids. Why didn't they send someone who doesn't have his own kids?</span><br />
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<em style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">'What is it? Can I help at all?'</em><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">She isn't getting it. She really isn't getting it. Get her to sit down. No, it's her house! She needs to sit down. Take your hat off!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You blurt it out. You have some bad news. She needs to sit down. She doesn't sit down. She just stands there holding that bloody tea towel. She looks at you. Her eyes don't believe you exist. Her lips are moving but she doesn't speak. Screams hide behind her expression. NO NO NO. She knows. She bloody knows. Why won't she just say it? Her eyes. Her eyes cling to that last hope that none of this is real. You aren't really there. This isn't happening.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The spell breaks. She sits down. You notice you're in the front room. You tower over her. You sit near her. What do you say? What do you say now? This is the moment. What is it? Is he dead? Has there been an accident and he's dead? Has he passed away? Why won't she tell you the easiest way to do it?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">HE'S DEAD (HE'S NOT COMING BACK) I'M VERY SORRY (YOU WILL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN. HE'S DEAD. HE IS DEAD.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">She gets up and starts pacing around the room, wringing the towel between her reddening fists. She asks questions. All questions.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You can't answer. You are the angel of death. You are standing in the place of a loved one. Your presence is etched into her head for ever and ever. You can't bring him back. You want to. You really really want to.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">What do you do now? You pass the scrap of paper with the contact number over. You offer tea, knowing she will refuse. You offer to drive her somewhere. She refuses.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">You want to go. It feels like you have been there forever. She hasn't given her leave. What do you do now?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">She suddenly shakes her head and apologises. You must be very busy officer. You are really very sorry. You are outside in the street again. You are sitting behind the wheel again. You drive away. You drive away out of her life.</span><br />
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<a class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false" href="https://twitter.com/WearyDetective">Follow @WearyDetective</a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-65635826130198804212016-10-12T09:12:00.002+00:002016-10-13T08:56:30.154+00:00The Legend of the Village Bobby<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i><b>A sentimental story with a sting in the tale</b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Constable pushed his bicycle down the path towards the little wooden gate. He brushed past the </span>blossoming<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> lavender, buds catching on his freshly pressed trousers. The spring morning saw mists clearing across fields of swaying crops as birds soared from the ancient trees at the bottom of the meadow. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Constable leaned his bicycle against the dry stone wall which </span>separated<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> the police house from the Post Office next door. He tightened the chin strap under his helmet, and ran his fingers across his sideburns. His fingers ran down his tunic, checking each shiny button one by one. A last glance up and down the street and he set off.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">An approaching tractor lifted dust from the roadway, the low roar of it's engine joining the sound of the cattle being moved between fields beyond the village boundary. The farmhand gazed at the cycling Constable who waved good morning. The farmhand drove on, offering his middle finger in reply. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Constable remained in a different era. His was a world of calm, of tradition, dubious morality and serial inbreeding. The country was a world apart, and his job was to protect the values of his forefathers. Crime was the blight of the big city. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The morning was spent directing traffic. It was holiday time, and the Constable was charged with making sure nobody that looked foreign be allowed to stop in the village. This took most of the morning, and became tiring, but the Constable was cheered by the support of the cross eyed youths at the bus stop who yelled abuse at everyone he instructed to keep moving or fear arrest. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Before lunch, the Constable helped old Mrs Morgan across the road to collect her groceries. He nipped in for a lovely cup of tea, and ate her food for lunch. They shared a nip of sherry as he passed her the pen to sign the will showing the Constable as the sole beneficiary. 'Good day Constable!' said Mrs Morgan as she closed the door behind him. 'Silly bitch' muttered the Constable under his breath before whistling a lively tune and mounting his bicycle for a a quick spin before going to the village school. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rosy cheeked youngsters in baggy shorts listened in growing horror as the Constable told tales of child abduction and rape from his time in the CID before he was busted back to uniform for taking cocaine in the office. As the last child was led away sobbing, the Constable smiled in satisfaction, and sauntered off to collect his kick back from the headmaster who ran a brothel from the flat above the newsagent. </span></div>
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The afternoon and early evening saw the Constable's bicycle propped against the wall of the village pub. Inside, warmed by the log fire, the Constable drank his fill of local ale and fine whiskey. He shared tales with the old men at the bar until he became angry and abusive and one by one they all sidled off home. </div>
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As the evening drew to a close, the Constable left the empty pub to return home, the sounds of owls hunting the only noise to break the perfect silence. Stars filled the sky, as moonlight showed the way. The Constable sighed with delight, stripping off to slip into his tight leather pants and thigh high boots. As the music took him, he danced the night away to the slavering delight of the slack jawed farmers who watched through the scullery window. </div>
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<a class="twitter-timeline" href="https://twitter.com/CanteenCulture1">Tweets by World Weary Detective</a> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-1835325977876927272016-10-11T12:14:00.001+00:002016-10-11T12:53:56.489+00:00Through the Eyes of a Child<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>This is a short story for World Mental Health Day</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I held up my coat by the hood. Mummy was running her fingers around the seams. It was long. The bottom nearly reached to the floor. It covered nearly all of my school shoes except for the ends. My school shoes were new. They were black and had my name written on stickers on the inside. Mummy was having a no cuddles day. Some days she would cuddle me all day and make me late for school. Other days, she’d flinch when I held her hand so I knew that was the sign that it was a no cuddle day. My little brother Jimmy didn’t understand this as he was still in nappies and only went to nursery. He’d grab at her clothes which really made her mad. Once she pushed him over. Luckily he banged his head on the rug and not the hard wooden floor. She got really upset about that and screamed for a bit. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy was sweaty. Her eyes were all red and glossy. I could feel her pulling down on the coat. It was hard to keep holding it even though she kept telling me to. She pulled it out of my hands and went into the kitchen with it. She had the small scissors from the top drawer and was picking at the stitching along the bottom of my coat. It was my new winter coat that Nanny Jean had bought for me after we went shopping in town. Just the two of us and we had coffee afterwards. I had an apple juice and a chocolate flapjack. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The front door was open. There was a draft coming in making my arms go all shivery. I had goose bumps. I told mummy that I was cold. She’d got the white padding stuff out of my coat and was pouring water all over it. In the sink. She told me to get my old coat from the pile in the garage. I could unlock the garage door on my own but not the back door into the garden. The key was super stiff. Last night mummy and I had gone through all my clothes to see what was too small for me and what could go to the charity shop. Daddy said he would take everything around when he got in from work. He said he’d take Jimmy with him so mummy and I could have a chocolate biscuit without him seeing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The bag was ripped open. It was a black bin bag I’d got from the big roll under the sink. The small green ones were for the food recycling bin where we put our banana skins and apple cores when we’d finished with them. Jimmy kept trying to eat the whole apple so I had to show him not to eat the bit with the seeds in or the long stalk on the end. All the clothes were out and ripped up. They were all over the garage floor. My old coat was there. It had a tear down the back. I put it on as I was still cold and the wind came in under the garage door. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I went back into the house and locked the garage door by turning the key. I pulled the handle down to make sure it was locked like daddy does. Mummy took my hand and pulled me out of the house. She was making those funny humming noises that make Jimmy laugh. Daddy had told her she didn’t even know she was doing it, and she got cross and shouted at him. Mummy stopped walking and pulled me against her leg. There was a postman sitting in his big red van. He was on the phone. Mummy turned and made us cross the road behind the van. Then we went the other way. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy started to walk really fast. I had to start running next to her. We had PE at school and I had my new white trainers to wear. They were in my PE bag which you had to leave at school on your peg. I had a tray for all my work as well. You kept things at school if they weren’t finished so you could work on them later in the week. I had got a certificate for good behaviour from Mrs Webb. Daddy was really pleased and said I could chose a toy at the weekend. We couldn’t go to the shops during the week because I had to go to school and daddy had to go to work. Jimmy still went to nursery and did half days. Mummy had to pick him up at lunchtime. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We stopped as the red post office van went past. Mummy was really squeezing me tightly. She was saying, ‘How do they do it? How do they do it?’ I asked her if she was okay, but I don’t think she was really listening. She was saying the same thing over and over, but doing her humming in between. I saw Jennifer with her mummy on the other side of the road. She had a pink scooter with purple wheels. It was her birthday party at the weekend. Daddy said he’d take me. We’ll get a toy for my certificate as well. Before the party probably. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I waved at Jennifer who waved back. Her mummy put her hand on the scooter and looked at us. I waved at her, but she didn’t wave back. She was looking at mummy. Mummy was pulling at her hair. Mummy had long blond hair which she’d let me brush. Daddy said it was like mine. We both have long blond hair. Jimmy has sort of dark hair like daddy. They go to the barber and mummy and me go to the hairdresser. I saw some of mummy’s hair drop onto the pavement. There was some more caught in her ring. It wasn’t her wedding ring, that was on her left hand. Daddy gave it to her when they got married before I was born. I’m not in any of the photos but I like looking at them as mummy wore a big white dress. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Jennifer’s mummy started walking again. I could see her looking back at us. We started walking again. I could hear mummy breathing. She was making a lot of noise like daddy when he comes in from one of his fast runs. He says he goes round the block three times as quickly as he can so he’s not away from us for too long. He calls me sausage and Jimmy is chicken. That makes me laugh. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We took the shortcut through the park. There were some people walking dogs. I like the small fluffy ones. I want to have a dog when I’m grown up and have my own house. I would need a big garden and lots of food for it. I’d call it Lucy. I might have a rabbit as well, but they’d need to be friends. There were some people sitting on the benches. Mummy didn’t want to go near them, so we went across the grass. It was quite muddy as it had been raining. The playground would be wet for Jimmy later. He didn’t mind. I don’t like going on the slide when it’s been raining because it makes my school dress all wet. Sometimes it gets muddy too and has to be washed. Washed overnight mummy calls it. Sometimes daddy has to do it because mummy has to go into her room and stay there. We hear her talking on her own. One time daddy went up to see her with a cup of tea. We heard him shouting. Mummy had used the thick black Selotape stuff to cover all the bedroom windows and daddy was really cross. Mummy was crying and doing her humming noise really loudly. Daddy said she needed help. He took ages to peel it all off. Mummy said she wouldn’t sleep in the room but went quiet when Jimmy and I came in. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy was looking at a man. He was sitting on the bench near to the gate where we go out. It was the closest gate to school. I saw a boy from my class with his big brother. I don’t know his name. I sat near him for lunch. Mummy said the man was the same one who had been in the big red van. We started to run, and squeezed through the gate in front of the boy and his brother. Their dad told us to slow down, but mummy didn’t hear him. She was looking back at the man on the bench. The man on the bench was on his phone. Mummy had thrown her phone away. Daddy had asked her why she did that, but she wouldn’t tell him. She said he knew exactly why. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The school gates were on the other side of the road. Mrs Kowalski was the lollipop lady. She wore a big bright yellow coat and made the cars all stop so we could cross the road safely. She came into the school sometimes to teach us all about road safety. She said good morning. I waved at her, but mummy didn’t say anything. Mummy was squeezing my hand really tightly, and I could hear her breathing really hard still. We had been running, so I was breathing hard as well. Mummy was humming. Mrs Kowlski asked her if she was ok. Mummy was looking at Mr Jefferies and Mrs Antonio who were standing on each side of the school gate. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy said I couldn’t go to school anymore. We had to get away from there, so we had to run off down the street away from Mrs Kowalski. We had to run through all the children and their parents who were going to school. They all stopped and looked at us. I had muddy legs. My hair had come loose and was getting in my eyes so I had to push it back behind my ears but it kept coming down again as we were running. Mummy stopped by a shop and looked back down the street. She said that Mr Jefferies and Mrs Antonio were coming, but I couldn’t see them. We had to run again until we got to the cafe. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The lady knows that we always have the same things, so she told us to sit down and we’d bring them over. I think her name is Gill. She looked at mummy, and I thought she’d ask if she was alright like Mrs Kowalski did, but she didn’t. Mummy didn’t say anything. Mummy was making humming noises still, but the radio was on, so the other people couldn’t hear her. She had a little bit of blood on her forehead. It must have been from where her hair had been. She still had some hair under her ring. I pulled it out and held it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I told mummy I needed a wee and she looked at me. Her eyes were all watery, and she looked like she did when daddy made her cry. The blood was running down her forehead. The bottom bit was going into her eye, but she didn’t seem to mind so I didn’t say anything. When people are crying you shouldn’t say things that might make them even more sad. I knew it wasn’t a cuddle day, so I didn’t give her a cuddle. I told her I needed a wee again as I was starting to jiggle. Daddy tells me off when I jiggle as he says I’m a big girl and should be able to go to the toilet when I need to go and not sit around jiggling like a baby. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy was looking out the window. She was talking about the people at the school and the man in the park. And the man in the big red van. She was mumbling. I’m told not to mumble, but as mummy was sad, I didn’t say that. Mummy sometimes asks if I’m hungry when I get all grumpy after school. Sometimes I get cross with Jimmy. Mummy says it’s because I’m really hungry and that school takes it out of me. That was last week or the week before. Mummy hasn’t said that this week. She does her humming. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I went to the toilet because I really needed a wee. I knew where it was because we came here all the time. I always have an apple juice as that’s my favourite drink. Sometimes daddy lets me have the froth off the top of his coffee, but mummy always told him off which made him laugh. Jimmy was only allowed water. The toilet door was by the counter where the lady was standing. She was looking at mummy. I could see she had a cup of tea and my apple juice on a tray ready to take over. The big silver thing was called an urn and it was making a lot of noise. I could smell toast and bacon. Bacon sandwiches are my favourite breakfast at weekends. In the week I have Weetabix and hot milk. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I had done a wee I washed my hands. I used the soap from the blue bottle. You had to put one hand under the tube and press the top with your other hand so the soap would come out. You had to remember to turn on the cold tap before you did this otherwise you wouldn’t be able to because you had soap on your hands and it would be too slippery. It was the tap with the blue top. The other one was really hot. That’s why it had a red top. I took one of the folded green paper towels from the top of the pile and used it to dry my hands really well. I could hear mummy shouting and screaming, so I folded up the towels and put them in the bin. There were lots of other scrunched up towels in the bin. Daddy would say it needed emptying. We laugh at daddy because he’s always emptying the bins at home. He says it’s all about hygiene. Mummy used to say he was something beginning with N. A long word. She was still shouting. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I went out and mummy was shouting at a man who was sitting at the little table by the door. We never sat there because it only had space for one person and you couldn’t use the high chair for Jimmy because it would block the door. The man at the table had a computer with him. He had been typing on the keyboard. He was there when we went in. Mummy was shouting that he was writing down what she was thinking. She was yelling at him and standing next to him. He had a cup of coffee next to his computer. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The woman had come out from behind the counter. She had left our drinks on the counter. They were still on a tray. She had put a spoon and some napkins on the tray as well. She had a cloth in her pocket which she used to wipe the tables before she put people’s drinks down. She was telling mummy to calm down, but mummy wouldn’t. Mummy grabbed the man’s computer and threw it across the cafe. I heard it smash. It sounded like when she tipped the TV over at home but wasn’t as loud. The TV made Jimmy cry. I cried as well until Daddy came in and mummy was crying too and told him it was a mistake and she was sorry. It’s good to say sorry when you do something wrong, even when it’s an accident. I say sorry to Jimmy when I push him over, and he says sorry to me when he pinches my arm which he does a lot. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The man stood up. He knocked his coffee over, and it went all over the table and the floor. There wasn’t much so I think he must have nearly finished. When I finish my apple juice I take out the straw and tip the carton up so I can drink from the hole. I get all the apple juice that way. Daddy doesn’t like us to waste things we’ve bought especially food or drink. The man had knocked his coffee over by mistake so he’d have to say sorry to the lady from the cafe. He would need to ask her for another one once she had cleaned up the mess with her cloth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy slapped the man across the face which made him sit back down really quickly. She was screaming a lot. That made my ears hurt. Daddy had arrived with the car outside. Some people were looking through the window. Some had their phones up like you do when you take photos. I saw daddy shouting at them as he got out of the car. He slapped a phone and the person dropped it on the floor. I bet daddy said sorry, but I couldn’t hear because mummy was still screaming at the man. He was holding her wrists. I think she was trying to hit him again but he didn’t want her to so he was holding her wrists. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Daddy came into the cafe and started cuddling mummy from behind. Daddy always has a black coffee and one of the little biscuits that come wrapped in plastic which he breaks in half and gives to me and Jimmy. Daddy was telling mummy that the school had called him because they were worried. Mummy had stopped screaming, but she was crying. She was crying a lot, but it was much quieter and didn’t hurt my ears as much. The man let go of her wrists, and daddy cuddled her outside where she got into the car. Daddy </span>leant<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> over and put the </span>seat belt<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> on her. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I went out so I wasn’t left in the cafe on my own. The woman in the cafe wasn’t a stranger, but I was supposed to be with either mummy or daddy or both of them unless I was at school or with nanny Jean. Mummy was still crying. Daddy started shouting at the people who were pointing their phones at her. Some of them were laughing, so I don’t think daddy was making them sad. Daddy slammed the front car door. He lifted me into the back and put on my straps. Ally the purple alien was next to my seat so I gave him a cuddle. I was a bit sad and he made me feel better. A bit. Daddy drove off really fast. He said he was going to drop me with his mum. He meant nanny Jean, but he called her mum because he’d been in her tummy once like I’d been in mummy’s tummy. He said he was going to take mummy to a special person who would be able to help her at the hospital. They would make her better. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mummy didn’t say anything. She wasn’t even making the humming noise. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I told mummy I loved her.</span></span></div>
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<a class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false" href="https://twitter.com/CanteenCulture1">Follow @CanteenCulture1</a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-82106391014599639612016-10-10T09:21:00.002+00:002016-10-13T08:56:30.160+00:00What happens when you get arrested?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C6PbPWUVQ90/V_pnWsNOlpI/AAAAAAAAAWc/0H62YGklm6Ux0DVIZrbaGeKcAI6yl5FYwCLcB/s1600/download%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C6PbPWUVQ90/V_pnWsNOlpI/AAAAAAAAAWc/0H62YGklm6Ux0DVIZrbaGeKcAI6yl5FYwCLcB/s1600/download%2B%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>"Please Sir, what happens when you get arrested?"</i></div>
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<i>"That's an interesting question Timmy! Why do you ask?"</i></div>
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<i>"I have questionable Internet habits so it's only a matter of time Sir!"</i></div>
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<i>"Ah."</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Timmy, There are many ways to get arrested. You can go straight for the money shot and punch a policeman in the face. Don't go for a fat one or they might not catch you. Or you could get along to the Changing of the Guard and shout, 'Bomb! I've got a fucking bomb!' Some people prefer the convenience of the Internet with the option to either hack the Pentagon or simply call your girlfriend's mum a slag on Facebook backed up with a picture of your penis."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Or I could put my football kit on and headbutt a police horse!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Yes, Timmy, that's the idea! Anyway, if you come up with a plan, stick with it. Show some backbone. If you do go ahead with your plan, it's highly likely that people called Police Constables will turn up. Have you heard of them?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Only in books Sir."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Yes, well, they might be a bit rough. They'll likely truss you up, bend you over, and do whatever they need to do to make you comply with their wishes."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"My best Internet friend Father Colin says that's what he wants to do to me! He says it's a special secret game that two best friends can play together and never ever tell anyone! Is it a game Sir?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Sort of Timmy, sort of. Now listen. What happens next is important. The policemen who arrest you should caution you. They might not, but will say they did in court. They will tell you not to say anything, and some other spiel that goes on forever. Ignore this. If they put you in the police van, you must, and this is important, you must spend the whole journey telling the police officers exactly what you think."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Oh, I get it Sir! Something like 'Great uniform - It'd look great at the foot of my bed'? or, 'That's a mighty fine flashlight you got there sweetcake?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Well, sort of. I was thinking more along the lines of, 'You don't know me! You don't know me bitch! I'm gonna fuck you up! You fuckin' know it. I gonna fuck you up cunt. I'm gonna get my dog fuck your mother bitch.' Something along those lines. You can pep it up a bit with some spitting, maybe smash your face on the floor. If </span><span style="font-family: "courier new";">you take that line, your journey to the police station will be much faster, and you'll get a lot of those Police Constables to carry you into the station. Then you get to meet the Custody Sergeant. The Custody Sergeant will ask the Police Constables why you've been arrested. This is called the 'grounds for detention'. The Police Constables have to think really fast, because you've had a right hiding."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Sir, is that because I've probably failed the attitude test?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Yes, Timmy, that's exactly it. Anyway, how are we so far?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"I'm trying to do my best Sir. I feel safe sitting on your knee"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Good. What will probably happen is the Custody Sergeant will think you're a right prick, so he'll decide that you're on drugs. He'll then get the Police Constables to take you to Cell 13 and take off your trousers and look up your bottom. After that they'll all lie in a pile on top of you. You get the opportunity to talk about their mothers again. After that, they play a game whereby one by one they'll leave the room until only one Police Constable is left on top of you. You can wrestle each other to try and get out of the cell first. If you don't win, you have to spend the night trying to kick down the cell door until the early shift come on and ask how many sugars you want in your tea."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Do I have to do a poo and smear it all over the walls?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"No Timmy. That's advanced stuff. You're in for assault on police. Keep it simple. You won't get the chance anyway because you're what's called 'kicking off'. The Custody Sergeant will order something called a 'probationer.' This is a baby policeman who gets to sit on a chair and stare at you for a long long time. If you're kicking at the door like I suggested, he'll watch you through binoculars from the end of the corridor. Someone that smells of drink will turn up and tell the probationer to 'piss off son'. This is what's called a CID officer. They'll tell you not to bother with a solicitor because it'll only waste time. They might offer you a cigarette or a swig from their hip flask before they ask you to sign for a long list of addresses. These are what's called residential burglaries which you will be helping the CID officer to 'clear up'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"So I can help the police as well as offering to mate my pet dog with their mothers? I like that Sir! I like the police!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Yes, Timmy. If you sign that long list you'll make everyone in the police station very happy indeed! The CID officer will disappear for a long time, and will come back sometime in the mid-afternoon. He'll make you say things, and record them. Don't worry if you get it wrong the first time, he'll smash up the tape and let you have as many attempts as you need. After that, you get to meet the Custody Sergeant again." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Oh! Will it be the same one?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"No, during the day it will be a new Sergeant who does all the work while the real Custody Sergeant is down at Ladbrokes. The CID officer will say he wants to charge you and keep you in so he can get a detection. This means that you might have to spend even longer at the police station. The Custody Sergeant will pretend to listen to what you have to say. He will then agree with the CID officer. The CID officer will then go off to claim lots and lots of overtime while he's down the pub watching Chelsea. At this point, you need to tell the probationer who's staring at you that you're fucking mental and you're going to kill yourself. He'll run and tell the Custody Sergeant who will throw you out of the police station with your trousers. And that's where the story ends Timmy. Does it all make sense?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Oh yes Sir. Thank-you ever so much. When I joined the High Potential Scheme they told me that I must never ever go into the Custody Suite or have anything to do with Police Constables. You really are my favourite Borough Commander in the whole wide world!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"And you, Timmy, are my favourite Chief Inspector. Good night sweet boy."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";">"Night night Sir."</span></div>
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<a class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false" href="https://twitter.com/CanteenCulture1">Follow @CanteenCulture1</a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-41983178752262949882016-10-06T13:13:00.000+00:002016-10-24T06:06:40.334+00:00An Introduction to the Police <br />
<b>This is a quick guide to the different roles within the police. </b><br />
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The police contain two sorts of people - men and women. I have worked with both during my career. Police officers can be readily identified by other police officers. The trick is to look for the ones balancing a silly pointy hat on their head. Others will have a variety of pips and crowns or stripes on their shoulders designating rank. The higher the rank, the higher the level of self-regard. You are promoted by people with even higher levels of self-regard than your own.<br />
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In London, the rank structure is slightly different to elsewhere. We have Commanders. Nobody knows what Commanders do, but they all live together at headquarters. Above Commanders are Deputy Assistant Commissioners, Assistant Commissioners and the head honcho, the Commissioner. All these people want to be the Commissioner, so they spy on each other and tell the Commissioner tales to get one up on each other. Commanders and above get their own cars with a driver. When they get promoted, they are given a shiny catalogue and model cars to push around to help them choose. The cars are fitted with blue lights hidden in the front grills and two tone horns in case anyone ever needs a Commander on the hurry up. Nobody ever needs a Commander on the hurry up.<br />
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Each London Borough has a Chief Superintendent in charge. They are known as Borough Commanders but are not Commanders. They just like the name because it is the best one. They are in charge of the Senior Leadership Team which consists of Superintendents and Chief Inspectors. The Chief Inspectors all want to be Superintendents so make the tea all the time and are the designated drivers at Christmas and birthdays.<br />
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The Senior Leadership Team used to be called the Senior Management Team (SMT) but they were often mistaken for the Safer Neighbourhood Team (SNT) so this was changed. Senior officers are far too important to deal with dog poo. The SLT meet every two weeks in a secret location where they wear flowing robes and blame Inspectors for everything. </div>
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Police officers also wear different coloured helmets in public order situations. If you want to lob a brick at an Inspector, aim for the red helmet. He’ll be well behind the lines, so have a good throwing arm. You’ll need some kind of projectile launcher if you wish to hit a more senior rank. They will be surrounded by runners and advisers though, so if hitting a sycophant is good enough, you’ll have quite a wide target area. Be careful not to hit the fire brigade by mistake. It might wake them up. </div>
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Some police officers don’t wear uniform. Some are engaged in deep level covert undercover work, so even a small piece of uniform can lead to disaster. Shoulder epaulets on white shirts are a dead giveaway in gang circles. Standard plain clothes work is somewhat different. Here, an officer will don a North Face jacket, blue Levi jeans and Timberland boots. White faced and with cropped hair, they will then stand outside Brixton tube station wondering why nobody is offering them drugs. </div>
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Police conduct surveillance in plain clothes. It would be silly not to. Lower level more amateur levels of surveillance are easily compromised. A colleague spent ten hours in the back of a van watching a drug dealer’s address. Exiting the van after seeing no activity of any sort, he was surprised to see ‘POLICE SURVEILLANCE VAN’ spray painted across the side. The van remained in use for another two years as no one could agree what budget a complete re-spray should come from. </div>
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On another occasion, a suspected car thief was arrested and taken into an unmarked police van by officers in plain clothes. His somewhat novel defence at court was that they claimed to be members of the Provisional IRA who were going to kneecap him. His argument was that pretending to be members of a proscribed terrorist organisation rendered his arrest unlawful. This was his lawyers argument in reality. The defendant was of very low intelligence and slept with his mother as we discovered when raiding his house one morning. His defence was found to be ridiculous, and he was convicted. No police officer would ever act in this way. Even for a laugh.</div>
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We once tried a new technique of overt surveillance when following a Northern Irish paedophile. He had been asked to leave Northern Ireland by concerned local citizens in balaclavas, so had moved to London and changed his name. We followed him for most of the day, peeking around corners then ducking back when he turned, talking into our armpits and walking around shops directly behind him. He called 999 on several occasions telling them that he was being followed by the police. A juvenile and silly operation, but at least he wasn’t sexually assaulting children or being shot by Republican terrorists. </div>
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About an eighth of the Met is made up of CID officers. In this role you attempt to charge people with crimes or write off the crime if you can’t find anyone to charge with it and pretend it didn’t happen. You will be shouted at when you don’t charge someone that has been left in a cell by a uniformed officer who has gone home. You used to have to get people to admit to a long list of crimes they may or may not know anything about. This practice has ceased until something less obviously open to corruption is found. CID officers used to smoke roll up cigarettes in the office and start drinking at 1pm. These practices have also ceased. The CID used to be an attractive proposition. Now it is made up of officers forced to work there. </div>
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There are a number of specialist detective squads who are known as ‘squads.’ The most famous is the Flying Squad. They used to take blaggers with nostrils over the pavement. Now they are mainly concerned with silly teenagers nicking cash from Group 4 trucks. </div>
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The murder squad never close a case. They just forget about the ones they haven’t solved. The more wooden officers get to go on Crimewatch and say ‘Yes Kirsty, that’s right’ for no reason. Murders are categorised as A, B or C. Cat C murders are where someone kills someone else then wanders to the police station to tell them all about it. The suspect will be locked up and ready to go before the HAT car is called. The HAT car is the Homicide Assessment Team. They come out and suck their teeth like a cowboy builder before deciding whether the case is glamorous enough for the murder squad. The proximity to the weekend is also a factor when all the detectives will be on double time.<br />
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Cat B murders are where the murderer is known, but we don’t know where he is. He can often be tracked down by someone dressing up as a postman and knocking on his door. If you do it in police uniform he’ll hide in the loft. Cat A murders are where the press film everything and the Commissioner has to use a Commander to go on the telly next to the Scotland Yard sign. Nobody will ever have seen this Commander before so the press can’t ask awkward questions about expenses or why he’s got blue lights fitted to his Range Rover. </div>
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The Counter Terrorism Command used to be the Anti-Terrorist Branch but have softened in recent years. Their work is covert and highly specialist. Such is the need for secrecy nobody knows what anyone else is doing. Even their mums. They often phone people up but won’t say who they are so it is assumed they are selling something and get hung up on. They listen to the police radio when a member of the public reports a suspicious package. They lose interest when the attending officer kicks the package and doesn’t lose a leg. Sometimes they speak to foreign people who have been arrested, but never use their real names. They got this idea from Spooks on the telly. </div>
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Operation Trident used to target black people but stopped when someone said it was racist to target black people. Now they target people who like the kudos of being targeted by Operation Trident when their mates only have Safer Transport after them for a dodgy Oyster card. </div>
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The Directorate of Professional Standards target corrupt police officers. Whenever a DPS officer visits a police building everyone sits silently and carefully deletes their Internet history. If the DPS can’t gather sufficient evidence to prosecute someone, they will use other methods under the discipline code. Hence you will see officers being sacked for having a shit haircut or photocopying their face. The DPS play the long game and consider corporate risk and reputation. DPS officers sleep soundly at night knowing they are not as unpopular as Traffic Officers. </div>
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Other specialist units include the helicopter where it is essential you can talk in a fuzzy upper class accent. They spend most of their time chasing young inbreds on mopeds going across fields. The helicopter does not go up in rain, fog or in the dark. Or on a Sunday morning if the pilot has had a big session the night before. If the helicopter is over West London for more than an hour Heathrow Airport shuts down and everyone gets very upset. </div>
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The dog unit are a breed apart. Dogs are chosen following rigorous selection. The real nutters are sent to the army. Some kinder souls apparently decide police work is not for them and are sold to kind people in kind houses. The remainder get to drive around and bite people for running away or hiding in mattresses. </div>
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Mounted branch stroll around central London pooing on the road. </div>
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The Territorial Support Group are the riot police. They are made up of people who are particularly adept at wearing big riot helmets and standing in lines occasionally hitting people. In the hierarchy of people who stand in lines, they are number one. They are Level 1 trained which means they can run around with little round shields and break into peoples houses where the occupier is really really not keen on the police. Level 2 officers are one level down from this. They get to wear helmets, but not all the time. Level 3 officers are not allowed to wear riot helmets at all. Level 3 officers wander about aimlessly, and get to stand next to police tape. Each group has views on the other - Level 1 officers see themselves as highly trained experts in their field. Other people see them as bellends. </div>
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Armed officers come in several versions. You can be in Royalty Protection standing outside Windsor Castle where you have to tell American tourists whether the Queen is at home or not. You have to have a grey beard to do this job. Stick on beards are acceptable for female officers since 2012 when they were recognised as an underrepresented group in Royalty Protection. Other armed officers protect diplomatic premises. They stand still for two hours and do not speak to the occupants of their embassy. They are swapped around every two hours to make sure they haven’t had a stroke. They also cover Downing Street and every now and then almost cause the Commissioner to resign by alleging a Cabinet Minister called them a pleb. </div>
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Officers at airports are given guns which they use to indicate where Gate 17 is before going for a lie down. Specialist Firearms Officers are top of the tree. They get to drive around in enormous military like vehicles and wear balaclavas. When they are good, they get to wear their own clothes on a Friday. They get special holsters to carry their guns under their North Face jackets, and side pockets to carry their Andy McNab books in.</div>
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Then there is Traffic. They wear white hats so the pigeons know where to aim. They deal with fatal road traffic collisions and harass innocent motorists. They also make lorry drivers hand over this little plastic disc things which stops them driving for the rest of the day. Traffic is for a certain sort of person.<br />
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When I received my long service medal, each recipient went forward to be presented with the medal by a very senior police officer. Each received a round of applause expect the traffic officer who was booed, much to the surprise of his parents. And there were officers from the Directorate of Professional Standards there. Strange world. The undercover officers had to wear blue blankets over their heads to prevent identification. They had to hold hands and be led up to the stage where they shook hands with the senior officer and had their photos taken. Unusual, but I’m sure you can understand that their safety is paramount - they are also entitled to a free photo like everyone else to mark the momentous day even though they were under a blanket. Like a child molester. </div>
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<b style="text-align: start;"><a href="http://worldwearydetective.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/cease-and-desist-world-weary-detective.html" target="_blank">(This post led to a cease and desist letter from a lawyer!)</a></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-26744119008212534682016-10-05T07:05:00.000+00:002016-10-05T07:05:12.874+00:00Resurrection I tell you!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Hello! He screamed like a man possessed, a renewed man, a man of the people. </div>
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I've decided to start blogging again. Whether that is a good thing or not only time will tell. As people change over time, so will this blog, I've not been through my old posts as I imagine some are a little embarrassing or ill thought out. I've left them there though. </div>
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The main reason to start again is purely selfish. I'm writing a book about my up and down career in the police which I'd dearly like to publish, so I need all the help I can get. I'll be putting extracts on the blog in between other inane ramblings so you can be rude about them. I imagine most of my dear old followers have gone on to pastures new, but you never know! </div>
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Keep marching fellows...</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-90871694798001659312011-04-30T14:45:00.000+00:002011-04-30T14:45:32.261+00:00A Common Faith in Humanity<img height="307" src="data:image/jpg;base64,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" 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Night comes, and the world turns. There is something profoundly different about the inner city. The nocturnal emerge, the moral compass switches, police and thieves mingle with the drunk and drugged. Street lights illuminate the swaggering hoards pouring from the buses and trains into the pubs and clubs as the hooded stare from the shadows. Those in the care of the community scuttle between traffic, watched by the sexual predators muttering 'mincab? minicab?' to groups of tottering teenage girls.<br />
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A row of shops off the high street, graffiti stained shutters reflecting the glow of escape from the late-licence drink emporium. He came from the doorway, an easy pace covering a drunken sway. Crossing the road, he stepped carefully towards Alfie sitting in the shadows of the housing offices. Alfie was a smackhead, topped up with the drink. He lived on the street. The man saw that Alfie wasn't moving, and called across to the others. Gradually they started to come over, frightened, looking around them, spreading across the road.<br />
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Alfie wasn't moving.<br />
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The group gathered together as the man reached forward and shook Alfie by the shoulder. Alfie slid forwards, his head cracking off the wall. The man pulled a mobile out of the hand of the woman they called Shaheen and dialled 999.<br />
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And so they came, the flashing of blue lights bringing the people in the flats to the cracks in their curtains, the road blocked as police pushed back the crowd eager to gawp and gaze at the paramedic astride Alfie, pumping at his chest as another forced oxygen into his mouth. A doctor arrived and took over, Alfie lifted onto a stretcher and into the ambulance out of sight, the saviours summonsed by 999 working and working.<br />
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The summonsed police stood with the gathering, taking details, checking accounts, asking about Alfie, who he was and where he came from, who would miss him and what did they know. No-one knew about Alfie, or if they did they wouldn't say, until one policeman did a check on his radio, and another somewhere else recognised the name, and Alfie was a rapist of children who had only just been released from prison for raping an eight year old girl. The policeman made a note, and whispered to a colleague as the back door of the ambulance opened and Alfie was dead.<br />
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The blue lights were switched off, the fluttering tape removed, the road was opened and the liveried vehicles drove away, off to the next case of human tragedy, until the next night when it would start all over again.<br />
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The man joined the group back on the bench and they laughed together, pooling their money for the next round of beers from the off-licence as the world turned and the night went on in the inner city.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-45713068957891258882011-02-22T15:38:00.000+00:002011-02-22T15:38:13.157+00:00February 1981<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p5EqPbQAoEk/TWPXiVUwsrI/AAAAAAAAAMo/stZQCtTlS68/s1600/untitled.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p5EqPbQAoEk/TWPXiVUwsrI/AAAAAAAAAMo/stZQCtTlS68/s1600/untitled.bmp" /></a></div><br />
Early on the morning of 11th February 1981, a cleaner at work in St Mary's church, in Thorpe, Surrey, was surprised to find a smartly dressed woman kneeling in a pew. Not wishing to disturb her, the cleaner went about her work quietly until, sometime later, she realised the woman hadn't moved. She told the vicar, who called an ambulance. A closer inspection found that the woman was dead. She had no identification, was not known locally and her identity - as well as the cause of death - remained unknown.<br />
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(FT39:24)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-38683487799992308732010-12-14T17:49:00.002+00:002011-02-01T15:21:58.931+00:00The Lost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_n09r5IqpLXY/TQeol2lPLWI/AAAAAAAAAKc/UBAgnZltOHU/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_n09r5IqpLXY/TQeol2lPLWI/AAAAAAAAAKc/UBAgnZltOHU/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Take a look at these pictures. These are human beings. These are two people who were found dead, possibly following suicide. The pictures were commissioned by police in an attempt to identify them. They remain unknown. All deaths outside hospitals are investigated by police to a certain degree. The main thrust of any investigation is to identify the person, and inform their next of kin. There are currently around 700 people on police databases who have never been identified. That's seven hundred. Seven hundred people who have never been missed, who have not had friends or family report their loss to police, who have never had a landlord or employer wonder what has happened to them. It is desperately sad that there are people in this country who are driven to suicide, and that the first person that cares is an anonymous police officer charged with tracing their lives. Here is the true story of one who was identified. Too late. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Donald grew up in Manchester. He lived in a nice stable home, with a close knit family. He did well at school, and secured a place at university, the first in his family. Unknown to anyone, Donald had developed a drink problem. Rather than face the embarrassment of confessing to his family and friends, Donald disappeared. Donald's family reported him to police, however in those days police did not take reports of missing adults. The family made all the enquiries they could to find him without success. Donald's sister ended up marrying his best friend. They stayed living in the family house in case Donald came home. Twenty-five years later, they received a visitor. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tara grew up in London. She was the apple of her father's eye. A model student, Tara excelled at school, and finally attended a good university. Her father noticed something though. Through her late teens, Tara began to act oddly. It soon became apparent that she was going through the first stages of mental illness. University saw her final descent, with drug taking and alcohol abuse speeding her journey. She dropped out, and returned to London. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tara was supported by her father. She became a regular user of mental health services, and was detained for treatment under the Mental Health Act at one point. Upon release, Tara engaged less and less with support agencies. Her drug taking became worse, and she turned to prostitution to feed her habit, roaming the streets of London, defying all attempts by nurses and her family to make her well again. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tara met an older man. He was nice, and they used to drink together in his bedsit. He didn't abuse her, and she used to visit him often. They would sometimes row, but there was no violence, and the arguing usually descended into a drinking binge. Tara and Donald were a couple. One night Tara went to Donald's flat. She was shown on CCTV entering the block, then coming out an hour later. She tried to sell Donald's phone to a local shop. She then went into a phonebox and dialled 999. She told the operator Donald had been murdered. Donald was found in his flat stabbed to death. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tara was arrested for murder. Her father came to the police station to see her, and act as her 'Appropriate Adult' due to her mental health issues. I remember the tears in his eyes as he was escorted out later the next day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Donald's family were traced, and a police officer went to see his sister. Twenty-five years after Donald had disappeared he was found. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tara was charged with murder, however was found unfit to plead. She was detained without limit of time under the Mental Health Act. Donald's family attended the hearing, and watched as Tara was led away. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18086254.post-3616049967130038242010-05-22T16:09:00.003+00:002010-05-22T16:28:25.007+00:00One More Tale from the Scrapbook<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_n09r5IqpLXY/S_gBzwcz8XI/AAAAAAAAAFA/rIYe1m5ipWk/s1600/4316094259_7a116622e7_m.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_n09r5IqpLXY/S_gBzwcz8XI/AAAAAAAAAFA/rIYe1m5ipWk/s400/4316094259_7a116622e7_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474127335759540594" /></a><i>Many many years ago, when I was a true blooded constable and believed what they told me, I loved my job. This is one of the reasons why.</i><div><br /></div><div>A restaurant owner from a neighbouring borough had closed his business and driven home. His name was Mike. He lived in a house overlooking a park area. As he locked his car, he heard what sounded like muffled screams coming from the park area. He paused, looked at his house, then thought he should investigate. </div><div><br /></div><div>This decision would save a life.</div><div><br /></div><div>He went into the park, and saw what appeared to be a couple with the male lying on top of the female. He called out, asking if everything was okay. The man yelled that she was his girlfriend and told Mike to piss off. Mike still felt that something was not right. He noticed that the woman appeared to be struggling - it looked unusual. He asked again if everything was okay. The woman said, "Help me". </div><div><br /></div><div>Mike moved forward as the attacker got off his victim. He saw that the man was muscular, tall and clearly his physical superior. He was also armed with a lump of wood. Mike stood his ground as the man again told him to fuck off and threatened to kill him. Mike stood his ground as the lump of wood was swung in his direction. The man then turned and ran through the park, away from Mike's house. Mike gave chase. He knew he could hardly recognise the man again, and wanted to get some indication of where he went. He lost sight of him shortly afterwards, and ran back to where the woman was. She had gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mike went back to his house and called to police. We attended minutes later, and took a brief account. We drove straight to a hostel which overlooked the other side of the park. Staff there told us that a man fitting the vague description given my Mike had just run in. They told us his room number. With no time for niceties, we ran up and kicked his door in. He was there trying to climb out of the window. He resisted arrest, but we managed to handcuff and arrest him for rape. He was taken off to the police station by other officers, and we searched his room. I found a bus pass belonging to a white female behind his chest of drawers. This was very likely his victim, but at that time we did not know who or where she was. </div><div><br /></div><div>As we got back to the station, we were informed that a woman had turned up at another police station with her father stating she had been raped. Her name matched that on the bus pass we had found in his room. We had the bastard. The feeling cannot be described. </div><div><br /></div><div>It turned out that the victim was a middle class girl from a nice area nearby. She had been for a night out with friends, and ended up in a pub near to the park. There she had been charmed and chatted up by our rapist. He seemed cool, and she took more drinks from him than she probably should have done. He seemed nice, so she was happy to stay with him when her friends left. At closing time, she thanked him for his company, and gave him her phone number. She then left the pub to catch a bus home.</div><div><br /></div><div>The rapist had other ideas. He obviously felt that he was entitled to more than a phone number. He followed her from the pub, and dragged her into the park where he brutally raped her. During the ordeal she was strangled. Medical evidence presented at the trial showed that she was close to death at the time Mike intervened. </div><div><br /></div><div>The rapist pleaded 'not guilty' all the way through. The case went to the Old Bailey where he was found guilty and sentenced to eight years imprisonment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mike got a Borough Commander's Commendation for bravery. His restaurant was burgled the following week. The police have yet to bring anyone to justice for that. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975146424011539190noreply@blogger.com8