Bodge it

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Fun in the dark

An ever expanding (number - not waist size) group of us used to meet regularly in the village pub. A good bunch of guys all intent on having a bit of fun in life as well as a few beers. As friendships grew, so did the opportunity to take part in some practical jokes: George was the first victim. He should never have told us his holiday plans. He used to live way out in the country and at the end of an unlit path at the foot of the hills. A great house and garden, and the perfect place to sabotage his return from holiday. We knew that he would be returning after dark, and that there were no street lights. We reckoned that as he got out of the taxi, the interior light would ruin any 'night vision' he had and he would be almost blind walking up to the front door. We on the other hand would arrived much earlier and be safely ensconsed in his front garden, hidden from view, as our eyes became accustomed to the dark. The plan was set and all that remained was to get there, hide our cars and wait. True to our plans, the taxi duly arrived and the interior light came on. George got out and started walking towards the front door, dragging his suitcase behind him as he fumbled for his house key. Meantime the taxi turned and dissapeared into the shaddows. Seconds later, there was a shout of 'Bastards!!!' as he arrived at the door. Huge burst of laughter ensued from the garden as we all made ourselves known. What we had done, was to go up there earlier in the day and use concrete blocks to 'brick-up' his front door. Priceless shennanigans.

Please wait to be seated

Shift nights out can be a hoot. Hair gets let down by those with enough to let it down and generally much beer is consumed. Christmas shift nights out are all the better. There have been meals and drinks, drinks and meals, drinks, meals and more drinks, organised party nights, fancy dress, worst Hawian shirt and Casino adventures. Every one of them a belter in their own right.

One such Christmas party night was at the Earl Grey Hotel in Dundee.  We all met in the nearby 1970's theme pub and after a skinful wandered over to the Hotel where we were directed to a waiting area/foyer just outside the function suite. There we found a small bar and a lecturn manned by a lovely young lady, who would escort us to our table. The sign on the lecturn read ''Please wait here to be seated''.

At that time, no-one thought anything of it, but by the time we had finished the 4 course meal accompanied by assorted wines, beers, and cocktails it was time for a smoke, so some of us retired to the foyer and some comfy chairs... oh and the bar. (in those days civilisation still prevailed and smoking indoors was allowed).

Luxuriating in the large arm chairs beside the aforementioned lecturn, we had a clear and uniterupted view of the ladies toilet. Let me add this was not a factor in our choice of seating location, just a coincedental placement of the most comfortable chairs.

However, it is quite apparent when seated there, that the female party goers would visit the toilets with great regularity and at times, a small queue would develop, such was the need to use the facilities.

What better than to cause some additional yet unneccesary queuing by simply moving the sign from the lecturn. During a quiet spell, the sign was carefully positioned on the door of the ladies toilet. After a few minutes, the first ''customer'' arrived and duly stood waiting ''to be seated''. Soon a queue built up with the ones at the back unable to see the sign and assuming there was just a ''rush on''.

Finally, one lady could hold it in no longer and rushed headfirst into the empty ''gents'', quickly followed by half the queue until someone had the common sense to check the ladies and discover it had been empty for the past 10 minutes.

Simple things amuse simple people. Well we found it funny.

Fiat fun

In 1997, during a normal nightshift, we happened across a suspicious looking Fiat Cinquecento. It turned out to be perfectly in order, but the subsequent radio message to the control room caused much hilarity.

Details of the vehicle registration number were passed and the control room operator responded (unable to pronounce Cinquecento):

Thats a blue Fiat Chinka.....

a Fiat chentey......

a choontee.......

a sinchee.......

a honkachinty......

oh whatever.

For the next few hours, we scoured the streets for another Cinquecento and radioed the same operator:

Thats a red Fiat chempa......

a chankachinty........

a sintacoonie

oh hell, I cant pronounce it.

What's next we thought? Well the best place to find another Cinquecento would be at the local Fiat dealership. Every registration number was noted and over the next few days, when the same operator was on duty, we would have a supply of suitable vehicle to check out. Every one hit the same problem;

A Fiat chantysinta.....

a soonkwykwento..... etc

until the penny dropped and the response came back:

oh bugger, its a Fiat 500.

End of Fiat fun.

Wind up 80's style

Know anyone with a car stereo that still plays tapes? Want to wind that person up? Try recording 10  minutes of silence on a cassette tape, followed by a siren alarm, then by an official-sounding voice saying THIS CAR WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN TEN SECONDS. 

Now rewind the tape, place it in the car stereo, press play, and turned off the engine. When the car is started the tape starts playing silence until suddenly, about 10 minutes into the journey the alarm and announcement is made. Causes consternation in their soul and an abandoned car, much to the amusement of everyone watching.  

Pisses on the cat

Many years ago I heard a story of a young primary school kid. Like I did in my day, this child had to write a diary each day and the teacher would "check" it.

One day, the teacher was shocked to read the entry. It read - " each night my dad comes home from the pub and pisses on the cat."

Worried, the teacher called the child aside and asked him what he had written. Unperturbed, the boy repeated his words:  " each night my dad comes home from the pub and pisses on the cat."

Fearing there might be at least animal cruelty, possibly something more sinister,  the teacher referred the matter to the headmaster who read the diary and asked to speak to the boy. Nonchalantly the boy maintained his story:  " each night my dad comes home from the pub and pisses on the cat."

Worried that the school might be implicated if they took no action, the headmaster called the RSPCA who sent an officer around.

After much discussion, the RSPCA officer suggested the police interview the boy. A constable duly arrived and in the presence of the teacher, headmaster and RSPCA officer, asked the boy to explain what he had written. 

The boy innocently claimed that when his dad comes home from the pub, he bends down, clicks his fingers at the cat and goes pus, pus, pus, pus, pus.

Matron's jotters

I have to admit I had never heard this expression until a foreign bike trip when John would arrive for breakfast each morning and declare " thats me in Matron's jotters". What are you talking about?

The explanation was that whilst at boarding school, Matron would ask all the young boys each morning if they had managed a bowel movement. Those who had were ticked off in "Matron's jotters". Those that hadn't were given cod liver oil.

My good lady and I now use the expression daily so as to politely advise the availability of the toilet.

This morning, we are both in Matron's jotters!!

Steves smoker. Part 1

"I'm getting married" he announced. "Have you mentioned anything about this to Louise?" I replied.

That was the start of the planning, preparation and subsequent piss poor performance. 

Naturally, the first and most important job for the groom is the arrangement, or have arranged for him, the smoker. Or if you are from anywhere but Scotland (where ironically there are more male deer than anywhere else) the stag.

Nominations were sought, votes cast and Steve's smoker was to be inflicted on Wales. The country, not the marine mammal - although in Dundee the pronunciation is generally the same. 

Roll forward a few months and my alarm sounds at 05:00. Time to rise (it'll take a few more hours to shine, that's for sure), don the kilt and grab my small pre-packed holdall for the weekend in Caaaadif - as they say. A lift to Camperdown park in time to see the last of the doggers heading home and I arrive at the pick-up point about 10 seconds before another suited and booted kilted eedjit whom I'd never met in my puff, but who would become a best friend (for the weekend). By the time we had introduced ourselves, several more attendees turned up and soon we were all happy with each others company and the weapons had been put away. I'm only joking...... We held onto them for a while longer. Reaching into my holdall, I "found" a bottle of whisky, some plastic cups, and a small bottle of water. With practiced ceremony the bottle top was removed and discarded, accompanied by the words "well we'll not be needing that." Suffice to say the ice was well and truly broken by the time the bus arrived.

It had started its journey at Steve's house and picked up a few waifs and strays on the way. When the doors opened, we realised there was a typical Scottish smoker underway. Suitcases and overnight bags were moved to reveal an assortment of beverages ranging from crates of tinned beer, vodka, whisky, water, after eights and ........ Yes after eights. I know it was barely 5:30, and I have to agree, eating after eights at that time of the day just isn't cricket. It's not rugby or football either. No, it's eating after bloody eights. Now don't get me wrong, I like after eights. I can even cope with them within an hour of breakfast, but the indigestion caused by that Listerine taste at 05:30 mixed with cooking whisky isn't curable with "Zantac". The box, crate and bottles were finished by the first toilet stop at Longforgan (I jest.....It was actually Inchture), and we made it to Edinburgh airport with plenty time to avail ourselves of the bar area. 

Such was the hospitality and company that we didn't hear the first call for the flight and had to make a swift run to the security area with the pre-printed boarding passes. Now if any of you have passed through a security screening whilst wearing a kilt, you know how long it takes. Boots off. Belt off. Disentangle sporran straps from belt loops and try to undo the kilt pin. Putting everything back on is an even longer process. Well imagine our consternation when the first boarding card check announced that Steve's use of Tesco Value ink cartridges had failed to produce a readable bar code and we would all have to go downstairs to the check in desk and get proper boarding passes. This from a guy who previously missed a boys weekend away by virtue of forgetting his passport!!!!!!

Running like the very wind from which we were suffering, we made it onto the plane. Just. It turns out we were scattered around the plane. I wondered if it was a deliberate airline ploy to keep a potential rowdy and drunken group from causing bother. It actually served to spoil the trip, not for us, but for everyone that we were seated beside.

Caaaardif airport came all too soon and the bus was waiting to take us to our hotel......" A stones throw from the city centre " they said. Yeah, you could tell that cos all the windows were broken! 

"Stevie's smoker - the introduction to Wales" follows soon...............................

After the intermission..............................

When I can be bothered.

Steve's smoker. Part 2

Arriving at the hotel, it was shut!!! Well, when I say shut, I mean not open to us - at least not yet. Some lazy sods hadn't evacuated their ...... rooms so we had no rooms to occupy. Didn't they know we were coming? Didn't they know who we were? The answer to both is yes. We had booked and (very wisely on their part) had also pre-paid. Yes, they also knew who we were, and (again quite wisely) didn't give a stuff. They weren't interested in our frivolity, just line up, check-in and we might consider allocating a broom cupboard for you to store your bags. Thankfully, either common sense, or more likely the draw of the bar - which was also shut, but due to open fairly soon, we waited, used the cupboard to dump our bags and in some cases change. After a few beers we were able to take our bags to our own rooms before heading into town. What was wise about that I imagine you are all thinking. .... Picture the scene. The time is 04:30 the following morning and 16 drunken, kebab laden, kilt wearing buffoons descended on the night porter demanding their rooms and stored bags!!! It would be bound to end in tears. After sorting out the rooms, it was back to the bar and after a few more beers someone had the great idea of some food. What? Food? On a smoker? Yip, the perfect and probably the last chance for everyone to sit down together at a meal. The normal fayre of these establishments is pretty good, but after an early rise, a skinful of beer and whisky, I doubt there was a man there who would have settled for anything less than an elephant between two mattresses. Or a giraffe's neck. What we wanted was red meat and plenty of it. You can keep the green things, but bring more meat. "How would you like your steak." the young waitress asked. "Just cut off its horns and hooves and wipe its arse" was the reply. Steve nearly died. The waitress nearly died. Hell, I nearly died until they brought some food. By the time we had finished eating, I could have happily lain on my front and rocked myself to sleep. Thank you to the kilt maker who added adjustable buckles. The walk into town, wearing kilts, drew a lot of wolf whistles. Unfortunately, they were not from the local ladies, but from the prisoners leaning out of the windows at the local prison.

 First stop was a miserable pub with a dart board and a clientele whose could be described as welcoming, but not rowing with all their oars in the water. After another few, and the most bizarre game of darts ever, we hit the town and probably every pub in the centre of Caaaadif. Not least of the disclosable evens included the constant availability (though no-one knows how) of after eight mints, literally clearing a pub by the horrific dulcet tones of the entire group attempting to sing something entirely unmemorable and then being asked to leave, almost clearing another pub by virtue of combined flatulent effect of the ensemble and the threatened closure of a nightclub due to the manic dance steps of the groom to be who was by that time suffering from bottle fatigue.

For some unexplainable reason, the evening entertainment didn't involve strippers and casinos, but a trip to a drag bar. Thanks Dan. Like most of the guys, I have to admit being a little reluctant at first, but it turned out to be one of the funniest nights of my life. The bouncer on the door was built like the proverbial brick shithouse,......... but wearing a sequinned dress. He was about 6' 4" tall in his bare feet, so you can image he was very visible in his 6" stiletto heels. He was sweating so much I swear his tattoos  were sliding down his arms.  Inside the club there were an assortment of misfits, vagabonds, whores and comic singers. This seemed to be THE place to have a stag or hen night. The place was jumping, the comic was one of the funniest ever. Clearly not a graduate of the diversity university! I have no idea how he got away with some of the things he said. Oh, and the music was just awesome. A great end to a great night, well at least for me and some of the other geriatrics there. By that time my scratcher was beckoning and my ageing bones could hear its call, so it was hotel bound for me.  For others it was more "dancing" at "Walkabout" where they tripped the light fantastic until 04:00, when the last of a very battle weary motley crew slowly made their way back to the hotel in dribs and drabs. The late finish wouldn't prevent an early start the next day..

Whilst I felt like death warmed up the next morning, (you could say that liquor mortise had set in), some of the guys looked like they'd been eaten by a monster who was now wearing their skin. 

It's well documented that the proverbial "hair of the dog" is the best cure for a hangover, but some found that one of the most difficult beers they've ever chewed.

Did Malcolm and I (two of the more mature "smokers") sit there and suffer like the youngsters. No, we went to church. I kid you not.

Traffic driving course

Reputedly, there was an officer at the Scottish Police College Traffic Division from the highlands of Scotland. Apparently he was, before joining the police, a sheep farmer. Early on in the course, he was driving when the instructor asked. "Can you make a u turn?" To which he replied "I can make its eyes water." Allegedly.

Stewpots Junior choice

For some strange reason, it wasn't uncommon for the office banter to include a game of song lyrics. Spontaneously, someone would start singing, or just saying the first line of a song (generally old ones to try to catch everyone else out) and see if others could carry on with the words. One such effort saw Dave provide a great deal of hilarity that was to repeat itself until his sad departure from the department. It also proved his lack of understanding of a particular hit from the 1950's. Does anyone remember Ronnie Hilton's "A windmill in Old Amsterdam?" You might not recognise the title, but the lyrics should be instantly recognisable to anyone over the age of 40? Clearly Dave didn't listen to Stewpot's Junior Choice like the rest of us must have. Someone started with: "I saw a mouse." Someone else responded with: "Where?" Followed by another: "There on the stair" And: "Where on the stair?" Dave interjects (obviously having heard the Golden Oldie, but not quite having remembered the words or understood the concept of our "game"), trying to add to the lyrics with: "Did it have clogs on?" Despite much explanation and repeated attempts to perfect the flow of the song, Dave failed to "get it", so a new set of lyrics was born...... and in a strange way better than the original. Bet you all fail miserably to get this tune out of your heads for the next few hours!!

Surreal conversation no 861

With apologies to those suffering from or related to anyone suffering from, or dealing with anyone suffering from any of the following: Sat at the piece table with an ex gaffer, the conversation turned to medical and psychological issues. A controversial, serious topic spawning a protracted in-depth and unusually frank conversation, nae, debate for all of 10 seconds. The very mention of schizophrenia led to the response...... It doesn't make you a bad people. Trying to return to the serious side of piece room debating, the subject of paranoia was raised...... Just because you've been diagnosed as paranoid doesn't mean the bastards aren't out there trying to get you. Ex gaffer says nothing, stands up from the table and walks out shaking his head....... Oh, you want to talk about Parkinson's disease? No reply was the answer. Cue surreal conversation 862.

Dundee apprentice

I once heard an (apocryphal) tale of a young apprentice plumber working with Public Works in Dundee. Allegedly, on the first morning, the young lad was given a quick tour of the office and workshop, and taken to his first job to "watch and learn".  Come morning tea-break, John the journeyman asked the apprentice if he had brought anything to eat. Not being wise in the ways of tradesmen (and I use that term very loosely) the apprentice admitted he hadn't. "No worries" said John. "Neither did I. Here's twenty quid; nip around to the local shop and get me a black pudding roll.... and while your at it, get something for yourself." 

About 20 minutes later the apprentice came back, handed over the black pudding roll and 54p change. "What the hell is this?" john asked. "thats all the change there was" replied the young laddie. "What the hell did you get?" 

 "A tee-shirt" said the apprentice. 

Operational name

Let me make this sound exciting by portaying it as a very very long time ago. From time to time, we would be given different roles to carry out. Last centruty, as a beat cop at the time, I was to be part of a small initiative to detect various crimes and offences local to where I worked, the details of which I won't go into. Is that not your normal job I hear you think? You're right I reply. The brief we had was to use the local resources as best we could and carry out the required surveillance, obtain warrants and go knocking on doors. Nothing new. Nothing special. Just a dedicated team to seek out some of the less desirable in our part of the City. The best of the best (those not off on "the sick" or annual leave) would be temporarily abstracted from the various shifts and drawn togeher to create a crack crime busting team. We would be ready !! (does this sound a little sarcastic by any chance?) Normally, any "headquarters" sanctioned operation would be given a title by some anonymous person in a Headquarters office, but this was to be a locally run matter and left very much up to us. In essence it would be a relatively low level, low key and nameless operation. No-way we decided. It deserved to be recognised and ought to be titled. A lot of thought was put into giving the job a name. Various options were put forwad and rejected as totally unsuitable and unprofessional. Ultimately, it became known amongst us as Operation Polyorchid. After it's alloted 3 month existence, the reports were submitted showing the results and high praise was lavishly lavished by the lavishers from where it needs to be lavished onto those who deserve it lavished upon them. Well I assume that was the case. Certainly bugger all appeared at our door. Not even a well done you lot. What was enquired about however was the unofficial naming of the undertaking. Polyorchid. We always managed to avoid explaining the origins of the title until well after the operation was closed down. What did it mean? Well think about the word poly meaning many, and orchid being the medical term for a testicle. Well the result is polyorchid, or many testicles. In other words....... a load of bollocks.

Northern lights

Firstly let me reassure you I have not developed dyslexia and nor am I trying to confuse you all. What I am trying to do in this post is to portray the broad Aberdonian accent that Dave and I encountered one day at the mouth of a less than intellectually endowed loon.

 Read it phonetically is about the best I can suggest, but bear in mind the difficulty this created with autocorrect trying to change just about every written word.

One day, whilst patrolling the extremities of our geographical boundary, we got a call. The jist was a guy from Aberdeen was driving towards Dundee following a van which was towing his trailer that had been stolen from him a few years previously. Eagle eyed car driver had spotted the minor but unique alterations to the expensive and commercially available Ifor Williams trailer whilst driving behind said trailer and had called the police. (Actually it was his passenger wife who called, so forget the wise ass comments about us booking him for using his phone whilst driving.)

Stopping the offending van was swiftly achieved. What happened next took quite a while. It also took a long time to recover from before we were in a fit state to drive on.

The van driver was out of his vehicle like a shot and back to our patrol car with that indignant look of "what?" He could be described as deceptively quick. He was slower than he looked.

May I take time here to describe said driver.

No stranger to the fish supper.

Greasy lank hair

36 hr shadow - not designer

Glasses that were last cleaned 10 years ago when first supplied to Cosmo Smallpiece of Les Dawson fame.

Long since white t-shirt emblazoned with tea, coffee, egg and various other recent and maybe not so recent culinary experiences.

"It's about the trailer."

"I never stole nae trailer lads"

Dave and I look at each other in amazement.

"We never said it was stolen. How did you come about it?"

"I bocht it at a rowp."

"A what?"

"At a rowp"

"A   w h a t ??"

" A   r o w p."

"What the hell is a rowp?"

There then followed a protracted explanation as to the less finer dealings within the farming community where commodities are bought and sold in a less than professional manner. In effect, it is a car boot sale for agricultural tools and equipment and a resetters paradise.

"How much did you pay for it?"

"Thurty pownd."

"Do you have a receipt?" (Not really expecting one.)

"Nah lads I've nae got nuhin lik at."

Full details of our criminal mastermind were already noted, so whilst background checks were carried he was sent back to his van having left the ignition key with us. 

Registered keeper check. Fine - it was his van.

Insurance - Valid

MOT - current

Criminal records - oh my giddy aunt. This guy has seen the inside of more police cells than a Gideon has hotel bedrooms.

Check with Grampian police and yes the trailer is stolen and our hawk-eyed car driver the true owner. One further check with the owner confirmed the nature of the alterations and after an examination of the offending trailer, it was unhitched from the van and reunited with its rightful owner.

Back to the van driver:

"Have you got any ID?"

"No lads eh've no got nae eh dee. Oh hang on a wee minitae. A've goat my bunk card."

Said bank card was duly produced confirming the name but it was pointed out to him it was not signed.

"Sorry lads, a've mihbee goat anither. Hang oan anither wee minitae"

Another bank card was then produced, also in his name and not surprisingly it wasn't signed either.

Off he went back to his van determined to find ID and prove who he was.

After some time, and just after we managed to update the control room our intrepid trailer resetter came bounding out of his van. A beaming smile contorted his face ( or was it just wind he was suffering) and flapping like a bird was something in his hand....... Settle!!!

"Look. Look. Eh kid prooove it. Eh kid prooove fa eh um."

As he approached the patrol car, he turned over the item in his hand and declared

"Ere's a photae oh ma young lad!!!"

To say we were amused is the biggest understatement of all time. Had it not been for the steering wheel I reckon Dave would actually have fallen out of he car, and I had to just drop my notebook and phone as I bawled with laughter which lasted long after our teuchter (pronounced tchoochter) chum was allowed away, to be reported in due course. 

The Northern Lights? More like the Marlborough lights.

Bio or non bio washing powder?

Common throughout the policing world is the trust you have in your work colleagues. You could leave your wallet or money in the office and no-one would touch it. Leave your piece (food) and it would be fair game. Buy a hot meal and abandon it on the table to respond to an emergency call and expect it to have been scoffed by someone else before you returned. Forget to put your notebook away at the end of your shift and be prepared to find a " line'' when you next started duty.

Making the mistake of leaving items of kit lying around the station was asking for trouble. Apart from the general untidyness it created, any kit not locked away could and would be tamperd with.

One police hat left lying around was adorned on the inside with the words  ''if found please return to Cunninghams fancy dress hire.'' The inside of police caps would be smeared in black shoe polish. Cap badges would mysteriously turn upside down and shoulder numbers on epaulettes rearranged. The opportunities were endless and ''all done in the best possible taste''  (okay - who remebers that phrase from 1980's tv? If so, what was the character's name?)

Its not that long ago that police unform was smart and recognisable. It comprised a white shirt, black tie, black trousers and a black tunic.  So why the hell were we known as the boys in blue (rhetorical)?

Back in those days, traffic cops also wore a yellow vest. Nothing like the modern one piece equipment holder with EU approved high conspicuity reflective tape around the body and sleeves, but a simple yellow coloured tabard with a police sign stitched on the back by our ever helpful tailoress and, if you were Lucky, some vaguely reflective iron on tape that came off in the wash.

In the summer, during short sleeve order, the vests were always too big, and in winter, over every layer of police issue clothing you had, they appeared to have shrunk, took on the appearance of one 3 sizes too small and invariablý didn't fasten at the front. Mind you the velcro fastening didn't last long anyway.

Having inadvertantly left my black tie out one night, I returned the next day and couldn't find it. Despite much searching I was no closer to being reunited with it until a colleague started the hotter/colder routine as I wandered aimlessly around the office. After much cursing and blinding my tie was to be found. Unfortunately it was temporarily unusable. Someone had rolled it up and placed in the midst of an ice cream tub filled with water and left it overnight in the freezer. Wow - a solid snow globe. Easy solution, drop the ice block out of the window and release my tie from its glass like display case. Left to dry on the piece room radiator it would resume normal service in due course. 

Suspecting the culprit (and later proved right), I seized the opportunity for revenge when I found Neil's vest lying about. Adopting the same tactics, I was impressed at how compactible a yellow vest can be and so returned the favour allowing him to ''find'' his frozen vest the following morning. Little did I know that the boss, who normally never explores the depths of the freezer, should encounter the vest whilst in a particularly bad mood. During what was later to be described - by him -  as a ''sense of humour failure", he gave Neil hell for allowing his vest to become frozen, and went on the warpath seeking the person responsible.

Not until I arrived for lateshift did I know anything about the adverse reaction and on being warned of the boss's wrath I thought - best catch him off guard and march straight in there announcing my involvement. Well it worked. He was lost for words other than admit his over-reaction and sought my agreement that such childish behaviour would stop.

Having survived my ordeal, I returned to the duty room to be informed by Neil that although his vest was still drying, it was now the cleanest it had been since new. Despite numerous previous washes, none of which had removed the worst of the stains, the process of freezing had beaten the bio and non bio washing powders hand down.

Hope you can all find a big enough container and feeezer to use for your larger items of laundry? 

Help yourself to a breakfast roll...

The early shift routine started with breakfast. In those days we worked with four shifts, three gaffers and two bikers, known as LCI's. I'll let you use your imagination what LCI stands for but if I had to give you a clue, it would be..... leather clad idiots. They could be seen parading around office, wearing a few cattle beast and inevitably too busy to take any calls. Excuses included - Too cold. Too hot. Too wet. Too dry. Too sunny. I won't write too dark 'cos they never worked night shift anyway. However, despite my disparaging comments the various permutations of guys who manned the bikes were over the years great company, a brilliant laugh and the butt or source of many a joke, not least of which was " no wonder people take an instant dislike to ..... it saves time." They claimed to have generated the biggest caseload. Only because they never answered any calls.

The "breakfast" briefing was, despite the ungodly hour, always a source of fun and light hearted banter. The departing nightshift would regale tales of woe and we would plan the day, allocate follow-up enquiries and start the day with a laugh.  A plethora of rolls would materialise on the table along with the obligatory catering size pot if tea, all to be scoffed before the cars were checked and auto pilot set for the local 24 hr bakery for more tea and a choice of bacon/egg/black pudding roll. The fact I remained a slip of a lad had many wondering if I was nursing a 21 foot tapeworm!

Some mornings we were joined at breakfast by a guy who, whilst not police, was to work with us for the day in a regular joint operation. This guy had a particular enjoyment of our breakfast routine since he had the capacity to eat for Scotland and had a mantra of "nothing goes to waste". It seemed to us that after a few years of enjoying our hospitality it should have been his turn to supply the rolls, but no. To be honest, there would have been more chance of getting an invite to the Pope's wedding.

Time for a wizard wheeze! All but one of the rolls were lavishly spread in butter leaving the "judas" roll to be anointed with the strongest and most violent chilli paste known to man. 

Timed to perfection, and in walks our man. Timing couldn't have been better. Tea everyone? Help yourselves to rolls. We all knew which roll to avoid and being quicker off the mark left the chilli roll for him. As usual, it was munch munch without so much as a thank you until the chilli hit. Firstly his face reddened but not a word from him. Beads of sweat started to form on his brow followed by the stifled grunt of discomfort before a bellow and the downing of a full mug of freshly brewed tea, hot enough to melt plastic. The man must have an asbestos lined throat. Thankfully I'd finished my roll, or I've no doubt it would have been spat out whilst laughing at the failed attempt to pretend nothing was wrong with his scrounged breakfast..........

Incidentally, have you noticed how I very discreetly managed to maintain his anonymity by not naming Martin.

Car crash torquy

I mentioned some time ago that the car crash in Torquy was another storey.... Well it's time for just that storey.

During the summer holidays between primary 3 and primary 4 - I guess that would make me about 7 or 8, the family holiday involved a long car journey from Dundee to Devon. Apart fro the usual " are we nearly there yet", I don't remember much about the journey south, but what I do recall was the mind numbing boredom of mile after mile after mile, punctuated by fuel, food and toilet stops. With hindsight, I have to give full credit to my dad for such a long drive without complaint from him. The car; well it was a two tone green Vauxhall VX490, ATS 960B. Why or how I can still remember the registration number is beyond me, but perhaps I was destined from an early age to become a traffic cop. Maybe this crash was the reason that 40 years later I would become a crash investigator. Maybe it's just the way life pans out. 

The downward journey - let's refer to it as such, since maps are printed with north at the top, and we were definitely going down the map - was split into two legs, with an overnight stop at Weston Super-mare. The second and to those who know or care to check, was significantly shorter and by lunchtime on day 2 we were there. Arrived. 

Lots of fun in the caravan, since rain curtailed the outdoor variety but somehow I still enjoyed the week (or was it a fortnight), including the trip to Plymouth swimming baths - see post about the power of money - aug 2013.

However the lowlight of the holiday, and purpose of this post is the incident that happened on the way home. 

We decided to leave early on the Saturday morning, not wanting to spend any more time in the rain that had plagued the holiday, so packed everything up ( well mum and dad did) and set off for Scotland. As usual, I sat in the back if the car, behind dad and instantly began munching the sweeties I had bought with the money earned from "swimming" a length at the pool. 

Before we even left Torquy, we approached and started to drive through a crossroads junction (on a green light - I hasten to add) as another car completely ignored a red light and tried to cut across in front of us. This I learned after the event, cos I was hiding behind dads  seat not sharing my sweets with my sister.

The impact was significant and although I felt no pain, I went through a wired sensation and my immediate thought process was that we had hit a lamppost and we were now vertical. Don't ask me why my mind said that to me, but it did.

The next thing I was aware of, was turning around to look at my sister and her face turning white as she saw the mess I was in. Her scream frightened me more than the crash. 

At this point, I still have no idea what has happened, or even that I've been hurt.

Next, mum looked around and joined in the screaming. I thing I would have joined in too, but my jaw was broken and all of my bottom teeth had been flattened back, trapping my tongue so speaking  was somewhat problematic.

In what seemed like only a few seconds, an ambulance arrived and still with no real idea of what had happened to me, or just how injured I was,  I was whipped off to hospital along with the rest of the family. 

Thankfully mum, dad and Gill were relatively unhurt - bar a few cuts and bruises, but yours truly - thanks to the absence of rear seatbelts and the coming together of my face and the back of dad's seat, was in somewhat of a mess.

In the hospital, I was more concerned with not being at home for the arrival of my swimming certificate, but this message could only be conveyed by writing on the apron of the nurse that stayed with me till theatre was ready. I managed at one point to use the bathroom and sneaked a glance in the mirror. I wish I hadn't. Some people feel the same about looking at me now, but that's a different matter.

Well the surgeon worked wonders and fixed the jaw. He even put back all the knocked out teeth and held them in place with a metal brace which covered all my lower teeth - front to back and side to side. I was the original model for "Jaws" from James Bond.

After a few days in hospital, we all faced a long tedious train journey home - thanks to the car being written off - aware that most other passengers couldn't keep their eyes off this sad and sore looking little boy with a very swollen and bruised face who couldn't eat anything all the way home.

Over 30 years later I was working not far from Torquy and made a point of visiting the crash site. Nothing had changed. Still exactly the same - including the wall of the house on the corner that had been knocked down by the other driver after be rebounded from our car. Clearly ours wasn't the last crash there as the recent repair showed.

Drive carefully y'all.

Engineering porn

In the "piece room" at the station there was always an assortment of reading material, ranging from Federation literature, to car and bike magazines and, if we were lucky a copy of Machine Mart featuring very conceivable tool and piece of equipment known to man.

Being mechanically interested, we all had great pleasuring savouring the delights available at a fraction of the cost of other dealers. Does this constitute advertising, and if so, do I qualify for something free from these people?

After numerous (failed) attempts to install a working bike to bike radio system in our own bikes, JT and I scoured the Machine Mart catalogue - termed engineering porn at work - and decided on the tools and equipment we need. Time for a patrol of the town centre, culminating in a static check outside our favourite automotive retailer. Jings, crivens and help ma boab.... the shop was open. How could we waste such a coincidental opportunity?

Naturally, when you buy something it's commonplace to examine your purchases on the way home. So what's so different about checking out the suitability of our purchases on the way back to the station? None. That's what we thought.

Finding a suitable parking place, we set about opening the damned blister packaging with major frustration manifesting itself using the medium of swear words. After finding another use for a seatbelt cutter we accessed the tools and naturally had to make sure they were up to the job. That was  our first mistake. Taking that first screw out of the dashboard was the second, and before we knew it, the dashboard was a hairbreadth from being separated from the car altogether.

Why is that when car makers put the dashboard in place, they use screws that become invisible when removed and have to be replaced in order to prevent the dashboard squeaking for the rest of eternity?
On the upside, the tools were great and dismantling the dash let us see the wiring that helped us with the bike to bike radio project. Getting it all back together again was hilarious and thanks to our purchases completed before shift change.

Surprisingly and thankfully our vehicle dismantling morning remained a secret longer than the car was in active use.

De fumigating a patrol car.

Nowadays, smoking seems to have become somewhat of a lepers pastime. We are shunned from public buildings, denied the pleasures of smoking at work and blamed for every ailment on the planet, whether smoking related or not. Non smokers find us reprehensible and reformed smokers are even worse. They would have us publicly executed given a choice in the matter. Despite our voluntary spending subsidising the health service, education and planned manned missions to Mars - okay so that's a little bit of an exaggeration - but we do contribute significantly to the coffers of the treasury above and beyond income tax and VAT.

Back in the days when smoking was not just allowed, but was fashionable and almost expected, JT and I had the occasional penchant for the odd cigar. Now when I say odd, I'm not suggesting anything added. Just a shop bought innocent cigar. Stoggies.

The benefit of working in Dundee is that 5 minutes in any direction and beautiful countryside abounds. Seriously. Our daily patrol would include some of Dundee's periphery and naturally, being keen outdoorsmen - verging on the Ray Mears, we would stop and appreciate our surroundings. (Anyone believing this guff????)

Occasionally, such interludes were interspersed with said odd cigar. Just think about it...... No-one in their right mind would stand outside in hosing rain, so it's safe to assume we only partook of the tobacco log during climate weather, purely to keep the midges at bay. No other reason, just self survival in a blaze of biting wee buggers that frighten every other living animal on this planet.

Unfortunately, for reasons that escape my memory, it was decided that the outside was either too cold, too wet, too fresh, too close to recent muck spreading or something similar, such that the cigars were enjoyed inside the patrol car. One each. Simultaneously. With the windows closed. What??? Yes, the windows were closed. If I remember correctly, the initial decision to keep the windows closed was competitive. Which of us fine, upstanding, athletic, outdoorsmen would concede defeat? The answer will remain a mystery, but suffice to say neither of us were particularly fresh scented for the next call, green with tobacco smoke poisoning, coughing like drain and sounding like a Dalek. At least the last prisoner's fleas hiding in the rear seat were exterminated and the car subsequently well aired before returning to the station to hand over the car to the incoming shift.

To this day I still enjoy the odd cigar, but have to admit it is always outdoors, only after a good meal and most definitely accompanied by a nice malt.

The knife still had butter on it.

It wasn't uncommon, particularly during a busy late shift, for the local hospital to put out an emergency request for assistance. No we weren't available for bone setting, suturing or brain surgery - although heaven knows some people claimed the local cops needed brain surgery. We were to deal with some of the nastier patients who had created bother in the A&E department.

One such buffon had arrived there with substantial cuts to his face and hands, bruising all over and looked as if he'd spent half an hour in a fast rotating cement mixer whilst fighting a pride of wild lions. Apparently he wanted treatment from the ever caring staff there, but took umbridge at being asked how he had come by his injuries. 

Having started to huff and then puff, he blew for all he was worth until he started running around the department with blood dripping everywhere and caused quite a commotion. Naturally, the hospital staff didn't take too kindly to this galoot's behaviour and called the thin blue line to deal with the matter.

Being reasonably close, we duly attended to find this numpty shouting at the moon and clearly not rowing with all his oars in the water. After an intial stand off, he managed to produce a knife. Not a particularly menacing one, but a confirmation that he was a local guy, since the knife still had butter on it. A closer quick appraisal of the guy suggested he was from one of the better parts of town since his tattoos were spelled correctly. Could this be a violent murdered who was intent on slashing his way to escape? No on seeing our white hats and realising the traffic cops were there, he calmed down, completely unexpectedly owned up to having stolen a car and had crashed it - hence the injuries.

He presumably thought we had caught up with him for his earlier misdemeanours and who were we to burst his bubble. Accepting that he was now caught he calmed down, saw the error of his ways, and agreed to behave whilst treated by the doctors and nurses.

Apologetic, but handcuffed, he was quietly cleaned up, sewn back together and cleared as well enough for custody.  So Bell Street it was for for free bed and breakfast prior to appearing in court the next morning. Meantime, we had an evening of searching and enquiry to find the car, trace the owner and clean up the mess this wannabe Duke of Hazzard had caused.  

All's well that ends well.

The power of Veto.

I am NOT seeking to generate a debate here.

Being a proud expat I have no vote in next years decision making process; not that I would know which way to vote anyway. I'm not learned in the politics of Scotland's potential independence and whilst I consider it a wonderfully romantic notion, I don't have  an allegiance to either side of the argument.    

What I do find kind of strange is the lack of information by either side on the potential for an Independent Scotland being allowed to join the EU. The "YES" lobby claim entry would be for the asking! The "NO" lobby claim it would not be as easy as that, but neither mention what is probably the biggest stumbling block to membership.

I may be wrong, but surely if Scotland wins independence any application to join the EU will undoubtedly be veto'd by Spain. Why - to prove that they will always have a degree of control over the Basque Separatists who will inevitably press even harder for an independent state on the shirt tails of Scotland, especially if Scotland are allowed EU membership.

Just a thought.



Just a thought.

Who hit me?

Steve moved from the city centre to Downfield and thankfully joined our shift. A great guy, similar sense of humour and great fun to work with. Somewhat more rotund than I and bearing(in those days) a haircut that can only be described as similar to Tin Tin. We became great work friends.

That first night, we were doubled up and at chucking out time, made our way to the City Centre to help out as the nightclubs disgorged their drunken clientele. What sights to behold.

I should point out that at that time, Dundee City Centre had an assortment of nightclubs in an area bordered by Ward Road, South Ward Road and Lindsey Street, commonly known as the pubic triangle.  CCTV covered the area, providing elevated observations giving all the cops an early warning of trouble brewing and fights already started.

Allow me to give you a little biology/chemistry lesson here:- 

Take one mixing vessel - in this case a red blooded male between the ages of 16 and 24

Add large quantities of sexual frustration hormones compliments of uninterested girls inside the nightclub.

Add copious quantities of alcohol compliments of the very much interested licencee.

Result: uncontrolled build up of one of two hormones. 

1st hormone is called "if I'm not getting laid, I'm going to behave like a complete f&*#ing idiot"

2nd hormone is called " if I'm not getting laid, I'm going to have a fight".

Being eminently conscientious we duly sat outside one of the night clubs making sure everyone was safe and no one got into any bother. Okay, we were simultaneously rewarded with the best view in the house.

As Steve and I sat there swapping stories of past encounters, a big stramash broke out about 30 yards down the road.  Instantly, we are out of the car and running full tilt towards the melee, being passed on the way by the section van. Unfortunately, it screeched to a halt short of the trouble, just as Steve was right behind it. Now any of you who have studied physics will know that mass multiplied by velocity equals momentum. I have already alluded to Steve's mass and have just stated we were running full tilt. Yes, his momentum led him straight into the back of the now stationary van. Ouch. With hindsight, maybe that was the cause of his temper rising as I grabbed one of the protagonists.

Instantly, this drunken buffoon took umbrage at me stopping his Friday night entertainment and put up a bit of a struggle to get away, during which, and completely out of no-where, your truly gets an almighty smack in the mouth. Nonetheless, with Steve's assistance, this "spanner in the toolbox of life" was overpowered,  arrested, trussed up like a Christmas turkey and popped into the back of the van for the short trip to HQ along with a few of the other idiots that didn't get a girl at Fat Sam's so decided to have a fight instead.

As Steve and I walked back to the car it was clear I had a rather sore face. Steve came to the rescue. No - he didn't dress up like Florence Nightingale and get the bandages out - he had a better idea. Since he was familiar with the CCTV system in town, he reckoned he could review the tapes and identify who had punched me. If it wasn't one of those already jailed, we might still manage to find him hanging about outside one of the fine catering establishments open at that time of night generally for the benefit of those who are no strangers to the fish supper. No wonder Dundee seagulls are so damned big, with all the dropped and left over kebabs abandoned to them on the streets of Dundee over a weekend.

Off Steve and I pop to HQ and whilst waiting our turn with our prisoner, nip up to the CCTV room and find the tapes. Perfect.  Yes, the entire episode was captured in glorious Technicolor and clearly showed Steve rear ending the van (if you'll pardon the John Cairney). Thankfully, it also showed yours truly getting a smack in the mouth. Was it our prisoner? No. Was it one of the other prisoners? No. Would I be able to recognise the culprit from the CCTV and find him again? Yes...... It was Steve !!!

As he came breenging into the melee  he tried to grab our prisoner around the neck with what can only be described as a pretty good right hook, landed perfectly on my fizog. Oh well. His time came when I was experiencing particularly bad flatulence. Being the driver, I was able control the electric windows and thus prevent Steve getting any fresh air. Touche.

Lucky Dave

After years of riding motorbikes and enjoying day trips away with friends, the group began to grow. Mainly work colleagues, but the odd (in some cases very odd indeed) civvy aswell. All were welcome. The only stipulation was you had to have a motorbike. Surely there can be nothing worse than standing at a bus stop wearing leathers and carrying a crash helmet, just to get to the pub to talk about an imaginary bike ride whilst claiming to be a member of the biggest baddest motorcycle gang to emerge out of Lochee. Okay, well it wasnt the biggest, and certainly wasn't the baddest, but arguably the best.
On the return leg of a trip up north, we stopped near to Dunkeld and the converstaion turned to a foreign trip. How frightfully exciting, jet set and urbane. We were all up for it and enthusiasm reigned supreme. Agreed. We would go and share our biking abilities with the rest of Europe and bring back hitherto unseen treasures and glory. Women would fall at our feet and we would be world travelling heroes. Okay, a slight exaggeration but a damned exciting prospect.

Since JT and I worked together and were great mates, we would do all the planning, arrange the ferry from Rosyth and book the campsite in Luxembourg. Several months of route planning, mapping and general hard graft later, guys started committing to the trip by paying large sums of money to cover the costs. Before we knew it we had (if my memory serves me right) twenty guys on twenty bikes arranging to set off. No I don't mean each of the twenty guys had twenty bikes. That would be ridiculous. How on earth would twenty guys ride four hundred bikes into Europe? The ferry alone would be extortionate. Be sensible.

We arranged to meet at work, all parked up looking great and excited to be going off on our first big adventure. After the obligatory photo shoot we were to be off, only lucky Dave was still to make an appearance. This was when I first saw Lucky Dave. About 10 minutes late, this battered old wreck of a bike, with an equally describable rider came trundling to a halt. What a sight to behold. Keep in mind we are talking motorbikes, Dave's offside mirror was from a Ford Transit van. His luggage for a week of camping comprised an old "demobbed" suitcase tied onto the back of the bike with bungees and sisal. Dave was clearly a man of few words. Mainly ones like " it's my round", but he would become the life and soul as well as the bain of the trip. A great natural ability to be a likeable pain in the butt for anyone. 

Off we set, all packed and ready to go. The first leg was an easy one, from Dundee to Rosyth to catch the ferry. Nothing difficult about that. Thankfully we all made it in one piece, including Lucky Dave, and doubly thankfully well ahead of the scheduled departure time. Check in was another matter as a helpful you lady came around to check passports and.... Lads exclaims LD. " Lads, your not going to believe this but....do you need a passport?" Oh, very funny LD. No seriously he didn't think a passport was essential so had left it on the kitchen table. Swift exit for LD for a fast run back to Dundee to collect it then high tail it back to the boat. Well, we waited and waited, inched forward in the boarding queue then approaching the ramp, began to worry. Would LD ever be seen again?

As the last of us boarded the parking deck LD's clapped out rust bucket could be heard bouncing its valves as he screeched into the check-in area and he proudly presented his passport. By the time he boarded, he was the last vehicle and parked a long way back from the rest of us. Eventually, cabins allocated and overnight bag dumped, we all met in the bar. Naturally LD was last to  join us, but proudly exclaimed he had made it. Apparently his journey (now three times what we had travelled) had caused him to arrive on petrol fumes and the risk that his bike might not start the next morning.

Since LD was parked behind several lorries, cars and buses, he was not going to be exiting the boat along with the rest of us, so we agreed to all follow the signs towards Bruges, stop at the first available petrol station and meet him there. That route was as follows: 

Off the ferry and up the only road (a slip road to a flyover junction.)

Straight over the main road and onto the signposted slip road towards the motorway at the bottom of which was a huge Texaco filling station. Total distance, about 400 metres. If that. Clearly visible. Add to that 19 bikers waiting on the forecourt and it shouldn't have been difficult for LD to find. 

Imagine how long it takes for 19 bikes to fill up with fuel and pay. Quite a while I hear you say to yourself. Bear in mind that someone was always on the lookout for our missing comrade and you can imagine our frustration when he still failed to appear. Surely even if he couldn't start his bike he could manage to push the thing a couple of hundred yards to the flyover and we would see him? No that wasn't the problem. As we waited, with less and less patience, LD's bike roared into view at the top of the ramp from the boat. He then ignored all the direction signs and disappeared right towards town.  F@*#ing idiot. A few minutes later, he rode past the other way, still on the flyover. Pr@#k. Then later still back again. WTF.  Finally after much furious shouting and waving he spotted us and rolled into the patrol station saying "sorry lads". That came to be a frequently used expression. After filling his miracle bike that seemed to run without the aid of fuel (or a sane rider) he again apologised profusely " sorry lads" .....  and we sped off on our happy holidays. 

Fast forward to the arrival at Mersch in Luxembourg and who was last in the camp site? Yes, how did you guess?

Everyone pitched their tents, cleaned themselves up and hit the bar for some much deserved refreshment and food. After about an hour, and certainly after food, by which time it was dark, someone remarked that LD was missing. No change there then!  Just at that a vision of nightmare proportions entered and proclaimed .."sorry lads.... had a bit of an accident." " Are you okay?" "Yes, i tripped over a guy rope and fell onto a tent." "Don't worry Dave, we'll help you put your tent back up". "It wasn't my tent. Who has the blue one?"  The now unfortunate owner duly admitted ownership , cautiously enquiring what the damage was. "Is it badly damaged Dave?" The response......"sorry lads but I had a knife in my hand at the time and the tent is now cut open". Que much hilarity and tears rolling down faces (apart from the unlucky owner of two halves of a tent)

During the remainder if the trip, LD managed to crash into the rear of another biker and break his pannier, "sorry lads.... i didn't see you there. He also got lost, "sorry lads..... I didn't see where you went" and finally managed to appear on the return ferry to announce "sorry lads...... I've lost my wallet".

Years later and numerous bike trips with/avoiding LD, we were with him as he crashed into a field on a right hand bend that was visible for miles. While waiting for the ambulance for his suspected broken ankle we asked what had happened? "sorry lads...... I didn't see it........I'm registered blind you know." WTF

Drive off. Not

The world over, police get calls from petrol stations complaining - rightly so, when someone fills up with fuel then drives off without paying. Not surprisingly the police refer to it as a "drive-off." 

I accept that on the odd occasion, there will be innocent mistakes with no criminal intent and generally these people return sheepishly and pay their dues before the police even catch up with them. But I'd never heard of the opposite happening until my dad retired from work.

Living two houses from a petrol station had its advantages. Convenient for everything it sold, whether driving there for fuel, or walking for anything else. It also happened to be on the way to the park, so was always good for sweets when I was a young boy.

Late one afternoon, mum came home from work to find dad sitting in his favourite armchair, reading the paper and enjoying life. "Where's the car?" she asked, since it wasn't parked in the driveway as per normal.  "It's in the driveway" was his reply. "No it's not" countered mum. The noise as the penny dropped was deafening. It turned out that dad had stopped at the petrol station on his way home, filled up with fuel, paid for the fuel and a paper, then walked home reading the headlines leaving the car on the forecourt. 

The car had sat there blocking one of the pumps for quite some time and no-one even given it a second glance. 

Exeter

Whilst working in Exeter, after the big storm of January 1990, I had cause to survey the damage to several large houses. At one job, most of the roof was lying in a neighbours back garden. I introduced myself as the Insurance Loss Adjuster, and engaged in a little rapport building conversation by asking "has there been much water coming in?" I was genuinely interested 'cos this could affect the extent of internal damage.

The reply had me biting my lip; "Only when it rains". Was this person really a refugee from the home for the bewildered or was I just being treated with a little sarcastic contempt? I carried on about my business until finished, thinking no more about it. On leaving, I explained I was down from Dundee helping out, didn't know my way around, and "how do I get to Dawlish?" The answer confirmed my initial suspicion: "oh I wouldn't go from here" was the reply. I left bemused, amused and slightly afraid that care in the community had abandoned one of their patients in the midst of a disaster zone.

Day trip to Skye

It must have been about 30 years ago I was the proud owner of a little Mini 850. My pride and joy and great car for going anywhere - just as long as you weren't in a hurry, didn't have many passengers and certainly didn't have any luggage bigger than a pound of mince. Otherwise it was great. Except for the pinking. To the non mechanical amongst you, that's an ignition timing issue and necessitated a new cylinder head within about 6 weeks of life. Definitely a Friday evening car or a Monday morning car.

Despite its problems, it did me proud and many a mile was enjoyed traipsing all over the country, working hard.

One of those trips was a day trip to Skye. No - not to complain about the lack of satellite signal, but to the Island of Skye. If you think council telly existed in those days you are dafter than me. Go back to the beginning of this tale and see how long ago this was. 

Now a drive from Dundee to Skye in those days was considered a long one. Perhaps about 5 hours there and much the same back funnily enough. Allow some time to do whatever the job entailed and you will see it was going to be a long day. Probably most of you wouldn't consider a day trip as a sensible thing to do. Was I sensible? No. I was a very keen and naive young man saving the company the expense of an overnight stay and happy to be cocooned in a wee brown Mini, accompanied by my assortment of audio tapes. (Well in those days you lost radio signal north of Pitlochry on at A9).

Off I set, very early one summer morning, the road almost to myself (oh, how times have changed) and, thankfully, an absence of speed cameras. A bit less dual carriageway was available then, so the initial stage from Dundee to Inverness was at time a bit slow, but a beautiful drive nonetheless. It still is!  Inverness to Drumnadrochit (for those of you reading who are from anywhere other than Scotland, honestly that is a true place) was a fabulous twisting drive down the side of Loch Ness, always with one eye on the lookout for the monster. Maybe that's how I developed a squint? Anyway, I digress.

Turning right at Drumnadrochit, I quickly encountered for the first time an old fashioned road leading all the way to Kyle of Lochalsh. A single track with the occasional passing place. It was a bit of two steps forward and one step back. Being a bit of a physical dyslexic, I do for dancing what Hitler did for humanity, but in a car I had it down to a fine art. Boldly but not aggressively in places and concede the road to the bigger vans, tractors and lorries. I reckon I spent about as much time in lay-bys as Hugh Grant and Divine Brown.

In those days there was no bridge from the mainland to Skye, so it was wait at Kyle of Lochalsh for the ferry - that's a laugh.... not.  Then after about 10 minutes on the ferry it was off again at Kyleakin. Job done. After a pleasant drive up to my various point of call, it was back to the mainland a quick dash for home....or so I thought.

A few miles from the ferry, and for no apparent reason, the windscreen shattered. Not cracked as modern laminated ones do. No, I mean shattered. Into millions of little pieces. It was like trying to see through glasses smeared with Vaseline. Instinct, and a recollection of a few gangster movies, told me to knock a hole in the now shattered window. Easily enough accomplished, but I was now like a tank commander with a small aperture to see through and work out where I was going. That quickly changed as the edges of the hole disintegrated whilst I drove causing handfuls of glass fragments to spray into the car. Well at least I could now see out a bit better. In those days mobile phones didn't exist so it wasnt just a case of stop and phone for help. I reckoned the nearest working phone box was likely to be about 30 miles away in Fort William. Remember, at this point I am on the single track road with passing places for about the next 20 miles or so.  

As I continued, my luck was about to change. For the worse. Despite travelling at what I thought was a snail's pace, I caught up with a tractor. Nothing unlucky about that I hear you read. Well you're right; apart from the fact it was towing a bogey full of fresh dung. Unfortunately, the length of the tractor/bogey combination was too long for any of the passing places so I couldn't pass and was stuck behind the worse smell imaginable. It burnt my nose and stung my eyes as I followed it for as short a distance as possible, and I swear it even scorched the grass at the side of the road.  Failing to catch a breath, I accepted defeat and stopped in the next available passing place thinking I'll wait here and let the tractor get well ahead. After what seemed like an eternity, by which time it had started to rain, I set off again, stoic in my resolve to reach Fort William, replace the windscreen and continue home to Dundee.

After about 5 minutes, what happened? Well I only caught up again with the same bloody tractor again, by which time the now rain soaked manure was spraying off the back of the bogey, (like that hippopotamus with diarrhoea recently featured on YouTube) leaving a smelly mess on the road. Although I stopped again and waited even longer, the residue of sprayed dung left on the road meant the remaining miles to the Drumnardochit turnoff was as pleasurable as pouring iodine onto a paper cut on your gentleman's vegetables. (I don't speak from experience)

By the time I reached Fort William and phoned the garage, it was a pleasure to sit on broken glass, soaked to the skin and wait for the two hours it took for a company to come out and replace the windscreen. The cold, wet fresh air was a joy after the last hour and a half. Thereafter, I couldn't get back home quickly enough.

Drive to Skye and back in one day again?.......... I'd rather not say.

Court waiting room problem solving.

A long time ago, just after the introduction of body armour I was sitting in the waiting room at court before giving evidence when the conversation turned to the new body armour. Naturally everyone was unused to it and bemoaned many attributes, not least of which was its weight and inflexibility. Discussions quickly ensued about how difficult it was to run whilst wearing it and how much slower it make us when chasing a suspect intent on avoiding the cell chef's culinary delights. 

What we needed was a method of stopping people from running without endangering anyone. Yes, land sharks are frighteningly fantastic to watch, but not always available. Firearms are to dangerous and controversial (and let's face it, I would trust many cops with the remote control for the TV, much less a gun)

That was when someone struck the proverbial bell with a stunning idea. The only problem was no-one had the technical knowledge to be able to make the item discussed let alone get Home Office approval. What was it I hear you cry!!!

Well it was the answer to our prayers. A safe and reliable weapon offering a toothless alternative to savage land sharks, no life threatening capabilities and only washable consequences..... A sci-fi style ray-gun fired at any fleeing suspect, causing unavoidable and complete instant bowel evacuation. Guaranteed to stop anyone in their tracks. 

Take a ticket

When I moved to the Netherlands I found a copy of ''The Expat Journal". A thoughrouly good read and full of very interesting and erudite articles. Probaly the most important of which was the first. The opening words "The Dutch like their bureaucracy" could not have been more true or prophetic. 

Naturally, when you choose to live in a foreign land it is important to comply with all the red tape and do things like exchange your UK driving licence for a NL one, register with the Local Authority (Gemeente) as resident of their fine city, open a bank account and look for a job. Sounds easy doesn't it? No its not!

I now know from experience, and am eternally grateful that most Netherlanders speak perfect English. Hell, some of them even better than most Brits. But why do they have to make it so difficult for us.

Opening a bank account; not available until you register as a resident and get a BSN (a bit like a social security number). So off I pop to the town hall, wait in a big queue to finally reach the front and explain my needs. "Take a ticket"

What? "Take a ticket" and you'll be seen by the correct person! 

Okay, I went over to the ticket machine only find it was available only in Dutch and not a lot of help to me, a newcomer and non Dutch speaker. Off I go back to the counter in search of someone to help, all of whom are behind bandit screens ( now I understand why) and the ever so helpful girl there listens to my plight, understands that i need assistance and tells me to "take a ticket" and when its my turn, someone will help me with the machine that gives out tickets. Did she not see the irony here?  By this time I'd lost my sense of humour and eventually managed to find another customer to help with the ticket dispensing queue buster. After what seemed like an eternity, I was called forward and explained I wanted to register as a resident. "Let me make an appointment for you to speak to someone about that" was the suggestion. Why don't you just deal with this just now - was my reply. Oh no. We had to make an appointment for the following week, but at least this time I had a fixed appointment, at a set time. With her!!!!!

Next week duly arrived and armed with every document I could conceivably think would be needed, I presented myself at the same counter. The same girl looks at me as if I've got two heads. I've got an appointment I said. "Take a ticket" she replied.

I couldn't believe it. You go along and "take ticket" to see someone to make an appointment to come back and take a ticket" to wait to see the person you made the appointment with. I thought I'd seen it all!!!

A few weeks later, I went to the local Gemeente instead of the town hall, thinking that would be less of a challenge.....  How wrong I was. Expecting the "take a ticket" routine I thought I'd flummoxed them by not only finding the machine but managing to extract a ticket from it. Arriving at the counter I was however informed that I didn't need a ticket at that office, but would need an appointment which they couldn't (I say wouldn't) make for me. What the !!!! No, I was given a phone number and asked to call this number to arrange an appointment. Bugger thought I. Oh well, the house is just around the corner, I'll pop home, make the call and set up an appointment. As the phone was answered i thought.... double bugger. The recorded message was in Dutch and I assume giving me various options at the press of a button, none of which I understood. So once again it was back to the local Gemeente to explain to the girl who spoke perfect English that I didn't speak or understand Dutch and therefor couldn't make an appointment by phone. She handed me the same form as before, bearing the same number and said I had to use that or go to the town hall and "take a ticket". Bitch

Mutiny on the Bounty

Occasionally, there would be a quiz question posted on the info board at the station. Generally, they were reasonable questions with sensible answers. However, in an humorous effort to undermine the quality of the quizmaster the following was posted one night shift.

On what ship did "Mutiny on the Bounty'' take place?

Early shift duly arrived and still being half asleep either didn't notice our offerings, or saw only the banal nature of our humour.

In walks one of the civilian drivers (let's call him Dougie) who pondered and scratched his chin before, in all sincerity, answered:

I know this. Don't tell me. It's on the tip of my tongue. Was it the Golden Hynd?

The entire place erupted, well apart from Dougie. With tears running down my cheeks and a sore face from laughing I bade everyone farewell and sloped off home leaving a much bemused civvy driver wondering what was so funny and if the Golden Hynd wasn't the answer, what was?

Oh the joys !!

Glenshee

As a very young and naive boy, I once fell foul to a trip to the ski slopes at Glenshee. No was wasn't to be introduced to the finer art of skiing, but to sledging.

Now, if any of you haven't  been to Glenshee you may have heard it described as Scotland's foremost ski resort. If you have been, you will know that during its early days in the 1960's, it was a cold, desolate and windswept hell on earth with horizontal sleet, wet snow that I continually fell into and luke warm pies available at the cafe in exchange for a mortgage. 

Off I went with my dad - walk, stumble and fall up a minor slope only to slide back down at a snails pace thanks to the depth of wet snow that had already filled my boots and soaked my gloves to within an inch of hypothermia. 

If you are a parent, please note that knitted woollen gloves provide bugger all protection to a small child whilst "playing" in the snow.

Failing to appreciate the joy in snow activities I whinged long and hard enough for my dad to take me back to the car for some much needed warmth and shelter. On the way I managed to walk onto and then fell through a snow bridge over one of the many steams that flow below the snow and ended up knee deep in icy water just to add to my misery. 

In an effort to generate some warmth, dad purchased some "hot" coffee at the cafe. I don't actually remember getting any, but I do remember dad sitting in the drivers seat of the car, taking one mouthful of coffee and after much complaining about its lack of taste, emptying the contents out of the window and onto the snow before driving off. 

Little did he know that being a curious child I wondered what hot coffee would look like on cold snow and so had leaned forward and stuck my head out of the window just as dad wound it up and drove off. Being so trapped, it was impossible to scream or otherwise make much of a sound beyond that of a strangled groan, but thankfully that was enough to attract his attention and thus alleviate very cold ears on the way home. It also guaranteed no future sledging trips to the arctic of Scotland with it thereafter confined to Lochee Park.   

VSA's

In 2001 at our Force, a variable shift arrangement replaced the old seven day working pattern. Simply, the system was known as VSA.

Over 13 years later I’m still awaiting a reply to the following email I sent to my section Inspector.

Sir,

Since the implementashum of VAS’s I’ve devolped sereve lysdexia and splling has gone to fukc.

I’m most concerned that the management have no reel persepshun of the problems that wee ar fasing.

In order to fasiliate the establishment of a thifft shoft, each existing shoft lost 20 percont of there strongth. Combyne this with the addition of baets from the old soctiun fvie and wee ar all cuvering more area for a lnger tyme with fyewer peepil.

The ours wroked leave most ocifers tyred and reeling dun fown.

Erly short is a long day leeving me to tyred to do inytheng of entirest atfer work nd makign it olmast ompissable too enjoy the evening.

Lait short means sutch a tail fishin thot geting up in the moninger too taik sy mon too skool is learny ompissable. Atlernavitely, I sleep and don't sea my son for a keew.

Noght short sin’t two dab other than the shert openings to spedn woth the fimaly.

Agianst thos, hewover, daze off are vory geed.

A rutern too the odl sestym of vesen daze would be wolcem in the hope thet fit ague redecshun wow retunr my satiny and falimy lyfe. 

Twins

Many of you might not know Ronnie. He, like me worked out of Ardler sub and could be found generally in the 37 panda. Normal response to any radio call!..... 37 from the Kingsway. In actual fact, most of the time he was safely ensconced in the box (station) in readiness for whatever the control room operators threw at him. It wasn't the first time that they would shout his callsign and ask where he was. Normally the answer was truthful, but misleading insofar as he replied Iona Street. The reason this confused the control room staff was that none of them knew of an Iona Street in Dundee and it certainly didn't show up on any maps they had. What they didn't know was that whilst the postal address of the box was now referred to all and sundry as Turnberry Ave, it lay adjacent to an un-named footpath where Iona Street used to be long before any of us were a twinkle in the proverbial eye. So there you have it. Honest, yet at the same time confusing.

Now, to the unsuspecting public, (a blind man in a dark room, looking for a black cat that wasn't there)  Ronnie and I could be mistaken for brothers. There was a passing resemblance. We were both adult males. We were both caucasian. We both smoked. We both had a bizarre sense of humour. That was where the similarity finished. He was taller, I was skinnier. He was more glaikit, I was the handsome refined runt. He had sticky out ears, I had not a lot going for me. He was a year older. I was the right age. But to some, if not all, of the adolescent rapscallions that plagued the neighbourhood we were thought to be not only brothers - but twins. Oh what fun that created. The fact that we were known as the Chuckle Brothers helped to foster the myth.

I'm not suggesting that all adolescent rapscallions are as bright as three in the morning, but........ Okay I am. They are as thick as two short planks and about just as useful. To be honest, I wouldn't trust any of them to sit the right way on a toilet. How they ever thought they would become the next criminal mastermind beat me.  When they asked (and they frequently did) if we were twins, the answer was always.... Yes, but he's a year older. No accompanying laughter from us, no sneaky chuckles, just a straight face and move on. I couldn't believe they fell for it, but fell for it they did. Hook, line and sinker.

Over the next few years as new gang members abandoned their prams for a life of crime, they too would ask the same question - only to be told by their peers that yes it was true, we were twins, but the one with the tall one with the sticky out ears was a year older.

Tip for winding up your noisy neighbours

Noisy neighbours, or indeed any type of annoyance can be dealt with in a number of ways. Clearly some are very much a no-no, but during the winter a little added ice over their car can help salve your sanity and give that wonderful feeling of..... Sod you !!

This technique was employed one nightshift, but on a colleague, not a neighbour; so if any of my past or present neighbours are reading this, you have not been targeted by me!!

When the temperature drops well below zero, pop outside with a pump bottle - you know, the kind the hairdresser uses to wet your hair before starting the cut - and gently spray water carefully onto the windscreen, around the door seals and door locks. One coat is enough. Too much and it will stat to run and make the attack Obvious. One coat will also dry/freeze solid in just a few seconds. After thawing yourself with a well deserved cup of tea, repeat the process several times until a nice thick layer of ice is built up all over the windows, doors and locks, making entry nigh on impossible. The added benefit is they cannot get into the car, so can't defrost/thaw it out using the engine's heat and have to stand there for an eternity scraping away wondering how their car got the frost worse than everyone else's. Priceless.

We did try just pouring water onto the windows, but naturally it just ran off and even when frozen, looked just like someone had poured water. Our method was far more believable and undetectable as sabotage.

Enjoy the winter.

Summer curling

Have you ever watched or played the game of curling. It's like bowls on ice, and equally boring. Certainly not considered by the sane to be an outdoor summer pastime. Well guess again.

During the curling season (indoor or out) they take great delight casting granite stones over dimpled ice. Well, what if you cast ice stones over dimpled asphalt?

Picture the scene, one of the hottest summers ever and outdoor curling was the sporting challenge at the station during nightshift piece time.

All it takes is a little imagination, some planning, a domestic fridge with a freezer compartment and a lack of calls.

1: take an empty ice cream container. Or a full one and eat all the ice cream.
2: fill the container with water - cold is best as it takes less time to achieve the desired level of solidity -  add some form of identifying mark such as an epaulette and place in the freezer for several hours. No actual number of hours is given cos this isn't a Jamie Oliver recipe.
3: keep an eye on the contents of the tub and when starting the freeze, add some form of handle. eg a stick.
NB Adding this too soon result in the handle dropping down into the ice and being entirely useless as a handle!
4: return container to the freezer and allow to freeze until solid.
5: wait for a quiet, hot nightshift piece break ( generally that would be during the summer) and remove ice from container.
6: find a nice flat strip of asphalt - that's Tarmac to the uninitiated - and ensure no traffic can drive along it whilst the gam eis in progress. Use your imagination here. We used the car park at work.
7: road chalk found a new use here and neatly marked out the target and start point.
8: keep score to identify a winner. Utterly pointless if you don't.
9: after the game, smash ice to recover epaulette and place stick/handle in bin.
10: leave remaining ice to hide for itself. I found that my curling stone was very good at making itself scarce and thus avoiding detection by the incoming early shift gaffer.

Deep snow and nightshift policing

A few years ago, after much mumping and moaning, complaining and persuasion we were finally promised a bike shelter. No - not for smoking behind, but for smoking in. A last, protection from the wind and rain, as long as nobody dared park their bike there and take up all the space.

As is typical with these scenarios, contractors have to be contacted, designs looked at, preparation done, prices sought and agreed then the whole project filed on the back burner for as long as is possible in the hope that the need for such extravagant expense is forgotten about and the entire money wasting exercise abandoned.  If only the civilian staff bureaucrats would realise that the cost of their  money pinching exceeded the saving achieved. Maybe then they would all hand in their notice and we could get on with policing. Lead from the front with experience,  and not based on a spreadsheet. Sorry, I digress.

Having harboured beliefs that the bike shed would never materialise, I was surprised to arrive at the station one day to see turf being lifted, ground being levelled, slabs being laid and concrete mixed. I was dumbstruck.

What we were left with was a large area of slabs intended to be the base of a bike shed, but with no walls, roof or bike racks. Little did I know they were also in the pipeline. The levelled base, measuring about 4 metres by 3 metres (see how modern I am getting - not measuring in feet and inches), and would become an amazing piece of artwork during the winter.

During one of the worst blizzards of the winter (well we seldom get them during the summer) Steve and I were the only police vehicle patrolling the City and soon realised we were the only vehicle out and about. Even the numpties, chavs and hardened drinkers were all safely indoors and avoiding the heavy snow.

By the time we got back to the station for meal break, a beautiful fresh and even layer of snow had covered our "smoking" area, but the outline of the perimeter was clearly visible. Trampling flat the snow around the base was the first job, soon followed by a search of the office for a long and sturdy enough pole. For what I hear you cry.  Well we set about marking out a snakes and ladder board suitable for the Jolly Green Giant. The horizontal and vertical lines were perfectly drawn without having to step onto the ''board", snakes and  ladders added and numbers appended to the otherwise empty squares. To add to the masterpiece, a snow dice proportionate to the board was made and coloured markers (green and blue Tupperware lids) used to mark positions on the board as if a game was in progress.

Thankfully our artwork and use of police time was admired by all and  no-one defaced or trampled on our masterpiece for at least a week, during which time freezing temperatures ensured its longevity at least until the shelter arrived along with the bike racks. Not to be wasted, the bike racks themselves then became an ideal reference point and ''ocky'' for the cigarette butt darts that took place with regular monotony, trying to flick a fag-end into the metal bin from a certain point. 10 out of 10 was my best score - I missed every one.

Polystyrene balls

In the station where I worked there was a corridor separating the main open plan office from the rooms occupied by the gaffer and boss. Opposite the boss's door was an A4 size laminated sign showing the layout of the building and its emergency exits. We all now the building like the back of our hands, so no-one really pays that much attention to it. For years it has been stuck to the wall with blue tac. Never moved. Never interfered with. Until one night.

For some reason, I can't recall why, the sign drew our attention one night shift. Peeling it away from the wall we found it had been strategically placed, not because it was a good place to an emergency exit route card, but because it covered a hole in the wall that looked as if it previously housed an electrical switch of some description. The perfect square hole in the wall with nothing there now. Imagine what we could do with that? 

Well it quickly became the source of much hilarity. A bit of planning and searching for the right product and we decided that it would be a good idea to fill the hole. Nothing unusual or funny about that I hear you say, but we decided to create a bit of fun.

Carefully positioning the laminated sign to expose only the very top of the hole, we carefully (but not carefully enough) poured in tiny polystyrene balls. Unfortunately, they went not only into the hole, but everywhere else as well. Thinking we were being successful we suddenly noticed loose particles rolling gently under the boss's locked door. The quicker we moved to stop the flow, the more air we moved and the faster the balls rolled to an unrecoverable position, guaranteed to give away the plot before it could be set. 

Compromising and only part filing the hole, the laminates sign was then returned to its original position covering the hole and thus stopping the polystyrene balls from falling out. The only difference - the sign was now deliberately positioned upside down. With much hilarity, we managed to "access" the cleaners cupboard and vacuum the rogue polystyrene from under the boss's door, leaving the whole place looking like nothing happened. 

Imagining that despite having perpetrated this act of wanton fun, we would fail to see it taking effect, we finished nightshift expecting to hear all about it the following evening. 

Silence. Zilch. Nyadda.

Nobody said a word and no-one even asked if we had been responsible. A discrete check established that the sign was still intact and upside down. For weeks it remained so, until one day the gaffer did notice and, thinking he would merely turn the sign the correct way, ripped it from the wall only to be faced with a deluge of tiny polystyrene balls that covered the floor. Naturally, he was not best pleased and his wrath was clearly evident, but having just come into the building, we were viewed as the least likely candidates and so could achieve plausible deniability and believable innocence. Rants later the culprits remained at large and merely slipped out on patrol to consider and plan the next little escapade.

Wedding invite

Many thanks for the invitation to the evening reception. So desperately sorry that we haven't sent a reply before now. It went from our minds shortly after we got back here, then we got engrossed in the house move and a family bereavement. Add to that my stupidity, forgetfulness and downright laziness and you will understand. I hope!

We are both delighted that you are finally getting married and would love to be there for the evening celebrations. If you can, please put us down for the 15:30 bus. Sporran will be full of brown drinking vouchers, so no worries on the absence of cashpoint facilities. 
Will there be a street urchin or ragamuffin there to hold my umbrella if it rains? Do we need to bring our own ukulele or will there be a range to choose from on arrival? If battle breaks out, can we all challenge someone else to a duel? Is it essential to be on ones best behaviour or are belching, scratching, petting, running, bombing, jumping, ducking, swimming in the diving area, and farting all permitted?

Looking forward to a great day. Just think, the next time we see you, you'll be a married couple!! Weeeeey, heeeey.

See you both on the night.

Best wishes from The Netherlands