by Harry Morris
‘They shouted that we were a bunch of “fuckin’ bastards”, sir,’ blurted out the young cop.
‘Thank you for that!’ replied the relieved fiscal, before continuing, ‘And did you apprehend them?’
To which the young cop replied without any hesitation, ‘You’re fuckin’ right we did!!’
Window Cleaners
. . .
Walking through the office one day, I answered the telephone to an irate woman who reported, ‘Somebody has just poured yoghurt or cream all over my bedroom window!’
On hearing her outburst, I offered her a solution: ‘Well, can you not just go out and clean it off?’
The rather perturbed caller replied, ‘What?! With a disabled son?’
At which point I paused for a moment, before answering, ‘I think that’s a bit drastic, missus. I was going to suggest a bucket of water and a cloth!!’
The Mimic
. . .
One day while out driving with my four-year-old daughter Samantha in the rear seat, a van driver came racing up on my offside and swerved in front of me, causing me to take evasive action to prevent a collision.
Receiving such a fright and forgetting for a moment about my young passenger in the rear seat, I reacted by shouting out at him, ‘Away, ya stupid bastard!’
Suddenly I received a sharp reminder of my daughter’s presence when she uttered, loud and clear from the back seat, ‘Daddy! Don’t call the man a stupid bastard!’
The Heilan’ Coo
. . .
A few years ago, back in the days of the City of Glasgow Police Force, a newly promoted, young and ambitious inspector arrived at the Gorbals police station, like the proverbial new broom.
One day he called the older and more experienced sergeant into his office.
‘Willie,’ he said, ‘have you ever heard of a female from the Govanhill area of Glasgow, nicknamed the “Heilan’ Coo”?’
The elderly sergeant thought for a moment, shook his head and said, ‘Can’t say I have. Why, should I?’
‘Well,’ said the inspector, ‘I have it on good authority that this woman is allegedly allowing police officers to use her house to drink alcohol and sample her sexual favours!’
‘Och, I don’t believe that for a minute,’ replied the sergeant, rather dismissively.
‘Well, that’s what I’ve heard,’ said the inspector. ‘But we’ll see!’
A few weeks later, the inspector received more information related to the inquiry he was making, and this time there was an address to go with it.
He rushed into the sergeant’s room.
‘Quick, Willie, come with me – I’ve got an address to check out. I think it could be the house belonging to the Heilan’ Coo.’
Both supervisors left the office and made their way down the road on foot.
Finally they arrived at the address. It was a large red sandstone tenement building in the Govanhill area of Glasgow.
Confirming the address in his notebook, the inspector said, ‘This is it!’
He was very excited and, as they entered the close mouth, he said, ‘It’s on the first landing to the right, Willie.’
As they approached, the inspector knocked on the door.
Then a moment or two passed before the door was eventually opened by a small, dirty-faced little boy who, on seeing the police officers standing there, stood staring back at them.
Then a female voice, with a South Uist accent, called out from inside the house, ‘Well, who is it, William?’
To which the small boy replied, ‘It’s Uncle Willie wi’ another wan o’ his pals!!!’
What’s in a Name?
. . .
As a uniformed officer, I was walking along the corridors of police headquarters when I saw, approaching from the opposite direction, an old colleague who had been recently promoted to chief inspector.
This was an old friend with whom I had joined the City of Glasgow force and worked with when we were both probationary constables.
As we got closer, I put my hand out to greet him and said, ‘Hello, Ricky, how are you doing?’
Slightly embarrassed by my greeting, he looked around to check if anyone had heard me and said, ‘If you don’t mind, Harry, don’t call me Ricky!’
Disgusted by this reaction, I retorted, ‘Why? Have you changed your name?’ Dick!
Short Cut
. . .
A group of workmen arrived at a police station in Pollokshaws to install a complete new central heating system.
All day they beavered away, ripping out the old heating system and fitting the new slimline white radiators to the walls.
Next, they measured and cut all the required copper piping to the exact sizes, in preparation for the following day when they returned. Then all that was needed would be to connect the exact measured copper pipes to the new central heating radiators … Wrong!
During the night, some of the officers on nightshift decided to try out the fancy little pipe-cutting machine, which the workmen had carelessly left out.
One at a time, each officer on the shift had a go at cutting an inch off all the copper piping left lying around the office … Great fun!
However, the next day there was total confusion in the office as the workmen tried to fit the meticulously measured cut pipes, only to discover that every one was exactly one inch short!
Needless to say, nobody in the station dared to put them wise as to how such an error could possibly have been made by professional workmen.
As for all the cut pieces of copper piping: well, allegedly they were discarded in the River Clyde some time during the night, when one of the ‘police plumbers’ realised the extent of what they had done!
Fishing for Jaws
. . .
When I was a student at the Police College, Tulliallan, in pride of place was a fantastic six-foot tropical fish tank, containing a wide variety of extremely colourful specimens of different shapes and sizes.
This wonderful focal point of attention took centre stage in the main entrance of the college ‘Crush Hall’, for all to admire.
At that time, my father was a keen enthusiast of keeping tropical fish. I was informing the college sergeant who had accepted the responsibility of looking after the maintenance of the tank of this as he was busily feeding the fish.
‘Well, if he ever has an abundance of fish, tell him I’ll accept any surplus he has for our showpiece aquarium!’ he said.
With this in mind, the following weekend, whilst visiting my parents, I told my father about the college aquarium and the request for any surplus fish for their impressive tank.
As it was, he did have some surplus fish and supplied me with three large tropical species called ‘Oscars’!
With the fish packed safely in a double layer of polythene bags and wrapped in towels to keep the heat in, I made my way back to the police college on the Sunday evening.
On my arrival, I immediately went to the police instructors’ office, looking for Sergeant Lancaster in order to present him with the Oscars to add to his impressive array of tropical fish.
However, I was informed he would not be returning to the college until the following morning.
Armed with my bag of Oscars, I went to the Crush Hall and, opening the tank hood, I placed the bag in the aquarium water, in order to acclimatise the Oscars to their new surroundings.
Later the same evening, before I retired to my dormitory for the night, I returned to the aquarium and, opening the bags, I introduced the Oscars into their new abode.
I watched for several minutes as the new arrivals swam around the aquarium, surveying every inch of their new home as they settled in.
Next morning, I arose and headed down to the dining hall for my breakfast, convinced that my contribution had earned me some much-needed brownie points at the police college and that the fish would be a good addition and a pleasant surprise for the entire college staff.
En route, I met Sergeant Lancaste
r in the corridor as he was arriving and informed him of my new introductions to his showpiece tropical fish aquarium.
‘Great stuff, Morris!’ he said. ‘I’ll check them out after!’
A short time later, halfway through my cornflakes and kippers, I swear the college building shook as a voice screamed out, ‘Morris! Where are you?’
Not the cheery voice I expected to hear. I looked over towards the door to see a very irate Sergeant Lancaster enter the dining room with steam blowing out of his ears.
Lancaster by name and Lancaster by nature! This guy was flying!
What’s wrong? I asked myself.
Apparently the new arrivals which I had introduced to his prized aquarium … had massacred and subsequently eaten most of his aquatic fish stock during the night and what they didn’t eat they maimed or killed for later, leaving the tank resembling a scene from the Amity beach resort in the film Jaws!
Which reminds me of a quick joke:
Q: How did they know that the girl in Jaws had dandruff?
A: Because she left her Head and Shoulders on the beach!
(OK! OK! It was funny at the time.)
Anyway, there were wee bits of fishy heads, tails, parts of fins and bodies discarded everywhere, floating about the tank.
‘What the hell did you put in my beautiful aquarium? It looks like it has been blown up!’ he asked, trying to curb his obvious anger, as his ‘pride and joy’ showpiece and main foyer focal point was reduced to what could only be described as a battlefield.
As I stood there, trying to summon up an acceptable answer, my nerves got the better of me and I couldn’t prevent myself from laughing hysterically, as I watched one of my fishy friends swimming effortlessly past with a large angelfish dangling out of the side of its mouth.
As for Sergeant Lancaster, he didn’t see the funny side and stormed off to his office. The alternative would have been to batter me or give me a right good dressing-down, I think!
For the rest of my time at the college, I had to maintain a very low profile when around him.
I also had to endure the endless jokes.
‘Hey, Morris, I’ve got an aquarium at home – can you “fillet”?’
‘Good “Cod”, Morris, there’s something “fishy” about you!’
And my particular favourite, ‘Hey, Harry, I heard you went out with a mermaid to a crustacean disco and pulled a “mussel”!’
With regards to the trio of Oscar fish, well, suffice to say they went on to clean up and lived happily ever after, in the showpiece aquarium, in the Crush Hall at the police college in Tulliallan. Alone.
They also continued to grow very big on their seafood diet.
With my intervention and influence, it became a much safer ‘plaice’ to be!
However, I’m reliably informed that, since I left the Tulliallan Police College, there’s been a remake of the Codfather with ‘Marlin’ Brando!
‘Fins’ just ain’t what they used to be!
Speed Camera Excuses
. . .
‘I was en route to my nephew’s wedding and was being followed to the church by a friend, the official wedding photographer. As we were running slightly late, I saw the flash and I just assumed it was him trying out his camera, in order to be prepared to start photographing the bride and groom on his arrival. Therefore I refute any allegation that I was speeding.’
Peek-a-Boo!
. . .
Big Alex Morgan was a colleague of mine from our days in the traffic department and he had two young daughters.
One of them, Suzanne, who was about three years old at the time, was going through a phase where she would lift up her mum’s dress or skirt and try to look under. (Obviously been watching her dad Alex!)
Anyway, one day Alex was out with Suzanne, travelling on a bus and there was standing room only!
While Alex stood there with one hand holding Suzanne and the other on the passenger rail, Suzanne decided to have a look under the skirt of a woman who was standing next to them, facing the opposite way.
Just as she lifted the woman’s skirt up, Alex looked down, spotted her and pulled her hand away, taking her to the other side of him. But as he did so, the woman’s skirt creased and stayed up at the back, so Alex, being a gentleman, tried to right the wrongdoing of his daughter and bent over behind the woman.
He then, ever so gently, tried to turn her skirt hem back down.
However, just as he bent over his 6 feet 4 inches of gangly body to do so, the woman, obviously feeling something, turned around and caught him in the compromising position, with his hand touching her skirt.
The woman stared down at Alex in his present position with a look of utter disgust.
As for Alex?
Well, red-faced and totally embarrassed about the entire episode, he tried in vain to explain and convey apologies for his daughter’s behaviour. But having looked at Suzanne’s angelic and innocent little face, I doubt very much if the woman ever believed him!
The Pacemaker
. . .
Mrs Brown was the mother-in-law of my brother Allan and she stayed with him and his wife Mary for many, many years.
She had been a healthy woman for most of her life, but several years before she died, she was beginning to experience tiredness and breathing problems.
Her sons and daughters convinced her she would have to go and see the doctor and a consultation was arranged.
After the doctor’s examination, it was his diagnosis that Mrs Brown required an operation to have a pacemaker fitted.
This did not agree well with the ninety-two-year-old Mrs Brown, who had only ever been in a hospital when visiting family or friends.
Her son Willie sat down with her one day and explained that it wasn’t a major operation any more and many people had the operation performed and went on to enjoy a much healthier lifestyle.
She sat digesting all the pros for having such an operation done and asked Willie, ‘And how long will this “pacemaker” thing last, after it’s fitted?’
‘It’ll last at least fifteen years, Mum,’ replied an excited Willie.
She paused for a moment before blurting out, in all sincerity, ‘Ah knew it! That would mean I’d need to go back in and have it done all over again!’
Night Out, Now and Again
. . .
I worked with big David Toner who, when off duty, became a good friend of mine and we would socialise regularly.
One night David and his wife were over at my house for a meal and a few drinks.
During the evening my kids had joined us, prior to going to bed, and Samantha, my eldest daughter, asked, ‘Uncle David, do you drink every night?’
‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ David replied. ‘Apart from the fact that I couldn’t afford it, your Aunt Margaret wouldn’t allow me to.’
‘Well, how often do you drink, then?’ she asked him.
‘Let me think!’ said David, rubbing his chin. ‘On a Monday, I go to the police club to play darts … and I’ll maybe have two or three pints … just to steady the nerves. Then, on Tuesday, I play billiards at the British Legion Club and I’ll have a couple of pints of Guinness. It’s good in there … Wednesday, I’ll go to the football and maybe have one or two pints … to celebrate or commiserate, depending on the result of the game … Thursday, I’ll stay in with your Aunt Margaret and relax with a few gin and tonics … Friday, now that’s my snooker club night, so I’ll go for a pint or two afterwards … Saturday is my day at the horse racing so I’ll usually have a bet on a few horses and afterwards, win or lose, I’ll have a right good bevvy of gin and tonics, washed down with a few beers … Then, finally, on Sunday I usually stay in with a carry out and watch the highlights of the rugby on television. So the answer to your question, Samantha, is probably “yes”! But, in saying that, you would have to agree I do like my sport!!’
Ye Cannae Park That There!
. . .
Working with the City of Glasgow poli
ce, I met and got to know many true characters – none more of a character than Big Willie Irvine.
Willie was a big man in every sense of the word and lived in the Bridgeton area of Glasgow, where a ‘square go’ was a semi-organised, bare-knuckle fist fight between two men, without the use of weapons.
Now this was unfair because Big Willie had hands like shovels and was built like a brick shithouse and, with these attributes, it is safe to say, he didn’t have a lot of enemies. Mind you, those who were he just battered!
Suffice to say most of the people who knew him decided it was better to be regarded as his friend and keep him on their side.
One afternoon, while out on a drinking binge, or pub crawl as they say in Glasgow, Willie found himself in the wrong area – in the old Dalriada Hotel in Edinburgh Road, Glasgow – as the demon drink took its toll.
Unaware of Willie’s reputation and, to a certain extent, slightly blind as to his physique, some of the local young bucks – having downed a pint of the local ‘snakebite’ (cloudy lager) and having ‘sniffed’ the barmaid’s apron to top up their own individual ‘bravado’ – began to throw their weight about, amongst the assembled drinkers in the pub, including Willie, and even had the audacity to direct some verbal abuse his way.
Not a man to take this lying down, Willie responded with his own brand of retaliatory verbal abuse, but the young bucks became one too many for him to challenge (they numbered nine or ten in all).
Outnumbered, even with his physical presence and reputation, Willie left the pub under a barrage of abusive verbal remarks.
However, retreat is not a word you’ll find in Willie’s limited vocabulary and he was not about to let it drop.
A short time later, Willie appeared at his brother’s house, asking to borrow his car.
