by Harry Morris
He gave the excuse of having an errand to run.
Willie’s brother relented under the constant persuasive pressure and reluctantly handed Willie the keys to his car.
‘Armed’ with a motor vehicle – and I use that word literally – Willie drove off.
After several minutes of continuous driving, Willie turned on to Edinburgh Road and made his way towards the Dalriada Hotel.
Almost parallel with the Dalriada entrance, Willie turned a sharp left on to the footpath, straight across the grassed area in front of the hotel, and accelerated, driving his brother’s car straight through the double-door entrance of the public bar, sending tables, chairs, drinks, drunks, punters and debris sprawling helplessly across the barroom floor.
Others in the bar area ran for cover as their eyes popped in total shock and disbelief at the impact and destruction created by Willie’s actions.
However, unfortunately for Willie, as he tried to exit the car in order to wreak havoc and more physical damage on the patrons of the Dalriada Hotel, he found the car doors were wedged in the doorway entrance, making it impossible even for Willie to force them open.
As he huffed and puffed, trying repeatedly to get out, it became obvious to the fleeing patrons that he was stuck and they quickly rounded on the car, like a hungry pack of wolves.
As they pounded bar stools and broken chairs on the laminated windscreen, trying to gain access to Willie, he was inside kicking the rear window out of the car, in an attempt to make good his escape.
Just as Willie hauled his large frame through the space and crawled out across the boot lid of the car, he was promptly arrested by the local police, who were responding to an emergency call reporting the entire incident.
Willie’s unbelievable Evel Knievel stunt had prompted a quicker than usual response from the local cops, all wanting to see this for themselves!
Whether Willie was fortunate to have the police presence, or the local young bucks were saved the ultimate embarrassment of being beaten to a pulp by a Glasgow hard man with a reputation to back it up, we’ll never know.
I have my own opinion of what the outcome would be!
Subsequently, Big Willie expected and received a custodial sentence for his reckless actions, but I can still remember him saying to me, ‘If you can’t do the time, then don’t do the crime!’
I personally think that is sound advice to anybody thinking about a career in crime!
What a pity we could not employ Big Willie to enforce it!
All Bets Are Off!
. . .
‘Tank’, the likeable rogue from the Bridgeton area of Glasgow, received some unexpected bad news when visiting the Cardiology Department of the Royal Infirmary for a check-up.
It appeared he required immediate triple heart bypass surgery and the doctor wanted him admitted soon.
Tank informed some of his friends of the news and the following is the reaction he received from his old Bridgeton buddies.
‘Can I get your car, seeing that you’ll probably die during the operation?’ remarked Wee Dougie.
‘Naw, I won’t!’ replied a confident Tank.
‘Ye might – it’s a big operation, that bypass,’ came back Dougie.
‘Nae chance!’ said Tank. ‘I’m as strong as a horse.’
‘Right then!’ said Dougie. ‘I’ll bet you ye die in the theatre.’
‘I’ll bet ye I friggin’ don’t!’ replied Tank.
‘Right, ye’re on. How much?’ enquired Dougie.
‘I’ll bet ye a tenner!’ said Tank.
They both licked their thumbs and rubbed them together, sealing the £10 bet.
A couple of days later, Tank was admitted to hospital and underwent his triple bypass operation.
Afterwards, he was wheeled out into recovery before being admitted to the intensive-care unit for observations.
Wee Dougie, on hearing that Tank had gone through his operation, contacted Tank’s wife and enquired how he was and if he could visit him in hospital.
He was informed that the operation had gone well and that Tank was in the ICU, but visiting was restricted to close family members only.
Wee Dougie was concerned about his good friend and decided to con his way into the ward, to pay Tank a visit.
As he arrived at the ICU, he informed the nursing staff that he was there to visit his brother and was directed down to the far end of the ward, where Tank was situated.
Dougie, slightly apprehensive as to how his old friend would be, began his slow walk down the ward towards Tank.
As he got closer to the bed, he could see several metal stands and bright monitors around it, with various tubes leading from them into Tank, who was lying with his head to one side and his eyes closed, apparently asleep.
On seeing all this highly technical monitoring equipment, Dougie nervously bent over the hospital bed to look at Tank’s face and, as he did, Tank opened one eye, looked straight at Dougie, put his hand out in front of him and said, with total conviction, ‘Tenner!!’
Friends Reunited
. . .
I was asked recently if I had ever gone online and visited the Friends Reunited website to find out the whereabouts of, and maybe recognise and correspond with, some of my old schoolfriends.
I responded that I had no need to visit the site, as I worked in crime intelligence and had first-hand knowledge of where most of them were!
Road Accident Excuses
. . .
‘I had been shopping for house plants all day and was on my way home. As I approached the intersection, a large hedgerow sprang up, obscuring my vision and I collided with another car which I did not see!’
No Complaints
. . .
A young policewoman was attending an officer safety training course in the police training centre.
During the day she was paired off with an inspector in order to demonstrate her self-defence moves.
Whilst engaged in this exercise, the inspector accidentally struck her on the head with a plastic training baton, whereby the policewoman sustained a slight bruise to her head.
After receiving some first aid she was able to continue with her training course.
Several days later, the inspector was engaged in the front office of a crowded police station, when the policewoman entered.
Immediately, on recognising her from the training course, the inspector enquired across the crowded office, ‘How’s your head, Angela?’
To which the policewoman shouted back, ‘Well, I’ve never had any complaints so far!’
Wee Polis
. . .
One evening the police received an urgent call for assistance from an elderly woman who sounded distressed.
The police officers, led by the new shift inspector, immediately made their way out of the station to the location.
On arrival, they knocked on the door of the house and a female voice asked from inside, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s the police!’ replied the inspector.
‘Who?’ responded the elderly woman.
‘It’s the police, m’dear,’ he replied. ‘Can you open the door and let us in?’
‘How do I know you’re the polis?’ she enquired.
‘I can assure you, m’dear, I am the police!’ the inspector said.
‘Is that right? Well, how do I know?’ said the woman in response.
‘Well,’ said the inspector, beginning to lose his patience, ‘you could look through your letter box and you’ll see I’m a police officer!’
At that, the inspector, who was 6 foot 2 inches tall, knelt down on the landing and opened the elderly lady’s letter box for her to see out.
The woman looked at the police officer’s face, looking back at her.
The inspector then pointed to his police cap badge and the braiding on his hat and said, ‘See, I told you I’m the police!’
The woman stared at him for a moment, then responded, ‘Away you tae hell! You’re too
wee for a polis!’
BA with Honours
. . .
A young career-minded police officer was selected to participate on the force’s accelerated promotion scheme to become a sergeant.
He was informed he would be moved around the various offices and departments for experience.
First, he was sent to work at the divisional headquarters for a few weeks.
On his first day he was instructed by the senior sergeant to make his way around the entire headquarters building and perform an inventory on how many fire extinguishers there were and their exact locations.
The young sergeant, slightly bemused by this request, said, ‘With all due respect, Sergeant, do you mean to tell me that I studied five years at Caledonian University to attain a BA with Honours in order that my first assignment as a newly promoted sergeant would be to try and find my way around an office, which I’ve never worked in before, and note down how many fire extinguishers there are and their exact location?’
The senior sergeant looked at him and said, ‘What did you get the degree for?’
‘Geography!’ replied the young sergeant indignantly.
‘Good!’ said the senior sergeant. ‘You won’t get lost then, will you?’
Drugs Trial
. . .
At a recent drug-dealer trial in the High Court in Glasgow, a uniformed police officer was explaining to the assembled jury why he had been involved in the raid with undercover Drug Squad officers and his role in the subsequent search of the suspect’s property.
As a result of his actions, a large amount of drugs had been recovered and three people arrested and charged in connection with the offence.
The defence QC for the main accused asked the police officer to explain again his part in the operation and subsequent search for drugs.
The officer stated that, on gaining entry to the house, along with the Drug Squad officers, he had begun a meticulous search, one room at a time.
It was whilst engaged in this search that he observed the main accused acting very suspiciously while sitting on one of the beds in the room.
The officer stated that he had moved the accused off the bed and lifted the mattress, to reveal a bag containing a quantity of drugs!
At this point the defence QC interrupted and asked, ‘How did you know it was drugs in the bag?’
The officer replied, ‘It was a clear plastic bag and I could see the drugs inside. They were in tablet form!’
The defence QC then said, ‘So you could tell immediately they were drugs – is that right?’
‘Yes, sir, I could,’ replied the officer.
The defence QC then said, ‘I would like you to answer “yes” or “no” to the following questions I am about to ask you.’
He then picked up a clipboard and pen from his table and asked the officer, ‘Are you a chemist?’
‘No!’ replied the officer.
The defence QC appeared to write something down on the clipboard, before continuing, ‘Are you a pharmacist?’
‘No!’ repeated the officer.
The QC appeared to write down something again. ‘Are you an alchemist?’
‘No!’ replied the officer for a third time.
‘Well,’ continued the defence QC, ‘could you please explain to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury how you can stand there and say that you knew they were drugs just by looking at them?’ He then raised his eyebrows, cocked his head to one side and stared at the police officer, inviting an answer.
The officer paused for a moment, as if to give his experienced questioner a ray of hope.
He then rapped his knuckle off the wooden witness podium and said, ‘Same as I can tell you this is made of wood, but I’m not a joiner!!’
Suffice to say the jury fell about laughing and the defence had lost a vital point!
Budgie Airways
. . .
When I was a member of Strathclyde Police Motorcycle Section, there was an older officer who claimed to have been a veteran of the RAF.
I would continually rib him and wind him up, and refer to the RAF as being Rude, Arrogant and Fly.
One particular day, we were in the motorcycle section canteen having our lunch and I was deliberately ribbing Old Harry, as usual.
‘Come on, Harry, tell everybody what aircraft you have flown yourself. Just you!’ I asked sarcastically, then continued, ‘The Concorde? A Boeing 747? Or maybe the Starship Enterprise?’
As quick as a flash, with his droll, dry sense of humour, Harry replied, ‘UFO.’
To this day, I’m not sure if he was just exaggerating or telling me where to go!!
Moody bugger!
The Adventures of Harry the Polis
. . .
On the Buses!
. . .
Several years ago, whilst I was still a serving police officer, my younger brother Hughie was a Corporation Passenger Transport driver.
In layman’s terms, he drove a big orange and green double-decker bus about the housing schemes of Glasgow, picking up and dropping off passengers.
It was the practice of all drivers employed on the buses to save money throughout the year and hold a special sports night competition, with free alcohol and buffet for all involved.
They would hire a local social club and make the necessary arrangements for their free night of entertainment with monetary rewards, along with trophies for the winners.
Through Hughie I got to know a lot of the drivers and on these special occasions I would receive an invitation to come along and join in.
It was seven on the Friday night when Hughie arrived in a taxi to pick me up.
He was wearing a white suit and T-shirt to match, in total contrast to my black suit and black T-shirt, so that I appeared like a photographic negative of him.
‘Change your suit, Hughie?’ I asked him.
‘No way,’ he said. ‘I look like Bryan Ferry in this suit.’
‘I don’t know about Bryan, but you definitely look like a fairy, that’s for sure,’ I remarked.
Anyway, Hughie was not for changing his new look, so off we went on our sports night out looking like the new Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)!
On our arrival, the committee members who ran the event would hand out raffle tickets, five at a time, to the assembled drivers.
Each raffle ticket handed over at the bar was the equivalent of one drink – therefore five raffle tickets equalled five pints of heavy, lager, or any spirit you cared to order.
As the committee member carried out the distribution of tickets at fifteen-minute intervals, he would say to me, ‘Sorry, Harry, but Hughie will have to share his drink raffle tickets with you!’
Then, as he was about to move away, he would turn back and, as subtle as a brick to the back of the head, he would press ten raffle tickets into my hand.
This would annoy Hughie: ‘How come he gave you more drink tickets than me?’
‘What’s the difference?’ I said. ‘We’re both going to drink them.’
‘Aye, right enough. I’ll go and get them in. Is it rum and coke for sir with a beer chaser, or are you on the whisky tonight?’
‘One thinks one will enjoy the company and hospitality of one’s favourite double act, Mr Whyte and Mr Mackay, thank you very much!’
Off Hughie went to join the queue at the bar, armed with our first supply of drink tickets.
Suddenly a voice rang out across the room. It was Tommy. ‘Are you entering any of the competitions, Harry?’
‘I might as well,’ I replied. ‘Put me down for the dominoes and pool. I’ve trained all week for this.’
‘What about the synchronised swimming event?’ he joked.
‘Oh, I think I’ll give it a miss tonight, Tommy – my bikini top has a rip in it anyway,’ I replied.
During the events of that evening, I was beaten at the dominoes – that bloody double six beat me every time.
Anyway, I was waiting to take part in the pool games.
Whilst I sat there, draining every drop of the amber liquid from my refillable glass, with my brother Hughie seated alongside me, there appeared a greasy long-haired man, wearing a bright blue jacket with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow in order to reveal several pieces of what appeared to be barbed wire, wrapped ever so ridiculously around his forearm.
To crown it off was a large brass crucifix dangling around his neck, that heavy I would reckon within six months he would resemble the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
He sat down in the chair beside me and said, ‘So are you on the buses too?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Oh, right,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘What do you work at, then?’
‘I’m a lorry driver,’ I responded.
His eyes opened wider. ‘A lorry driver? I’ve always wanted to be a lorry driver. What kind of lorries do you drive then?’ he enquired.
‘A Scania 110,’ I answered.
‘A Scania 110? That’s my favourite lorry of all time. How long is it and how many wheels does it have?’
Now, at this point, I’m thinking this guy is just out for the day. Where’s his psychiatric nurse?
He was obviously a lump of wood in an earlier life!
I turned to Hughie and, on seeing my facial expression change, he got up from his seat and walked over to another bus-driver friend and said, ‘Here, Archie, yer mental brother is annoying oor Harry, so ye better have a word with him and tell him to do a drum roll and beat it.’
As Hughie returned to his seat on the opposite side of me, Archie signalled to his brother to come over and said, ‘See that bloke ye’re talking tae? He’s a polis, so don’t annoy him, awright?’
Conversation finished, Archie’s brother came back over and sat down next to me. He then composed himself and looked both ways and behind himself before staring me right in the face. He then winked and whispered in a low voice, out of the side of his mouth, ‘I always wanted to be a polis!’
