by Harry Morris
I looked straight at him and replied with a wry smile, ‘Nick Faldo? National Front? I personally suspect it was Nick Faldo, ’cause that National Front mob aren’t clever enough to spell NF, but what do you think yourself, Mr Singh?’
He stood staring at me for a moment, then a smile broke out across his face and he laughed, ‘Okay-dokey, Mr Harry. I’ll wash it all off!’
As I left him, I said, ‘You do that, Mr Singh, and I’ll keep my eye on that bugger Nick Faldo, just in case he comes back here tonight, OK?’
Paton’s Place
. . .
While a guest at Stuart Paton’s family party, I noticed a relative of his going to the kitchen several times and returning each time with a glass of lager and a glass of whisky.
I also observed that he did not appear any worse for the amount of alcohol he was drinking.
The next time he returned from the kitchen with a replenished ‘glass’ in hand, I remarked for all to hear, ‘Hey, big man, you certainly like your bevvy, I think you must have hollow legs. If I drank as much as you, I’d be legless!’
There was silence for a moment, before the assembled party of guests burst into hysterical laughter.
What was funny about that, then? I thought to myself.
Then Stuart informed me that his relative, ‘oor Tam’, had an artificial leg!
Talk about putting your foot in it!
However, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I later told a joke about leaving for school one morning and when I returned home, my family had moved house to a different area of Glasgow without telling me.
Again there was silence, followed by hysterical laughter.
It transpired that one of the women at the party had suffered that very same scenario that I had related in my joke, and to crown it all off, she just happened to be married to ‘oor Tam’, the guy with the artificial leg.
There’s nothing like keeping it in the family, I suppose!
TV Detectives
. . .
One particular night shift, about half past one in the morning, I was walking ‘the beat’ along the Cathcart Road in Glasgow with my partner Joe Doris when we were stopped by a taxi driver who informed us he had picked up a man, carrying a large 26-inch television set, from the Langside area and dropped him off at a tenement building in Govanhill.
We both agreed this was a suspicious circumstance indeed.
The taxi driver took us down to where he had dropped the man off and pointed to the building he had entered with the television.
He also provided us with a full description of our suspect.
We entered the tenement close and listened outside the main door of each apartment.
We performed this procedure at three doors, when bingo, at the fourth door we could distinctly hear a man and a woman talking. The woman was saying, ‘Don’t leave the auld wan there, I’ll fall o’er it during the night when I get up for a pee!’
Could this be a television she was referring to? Well, we thought so.
They sounded like they were in the hallway, close to the front door.
I knocked on the door and immediately heard the man say, ‘Don’t answer it, let’s just keep quiet!’
I knocked on the door again and said, ‘Can you open the door, please? It’s the police. We know you’re in there, we can hear you both talking!’
Next thing I heard was something being dragged towards the rear of the door.
‘Open the door or I’ll force it!’ I said with a voice of authority.
By this time, Joe had gone to the back of the tenement building and climbed up to the rear window, where he saw the man dragging a set of bedroom drawers into the hallway, obviously to barricade the front door and prevent us from gaining entry.
I informed the suspect that we knew what he was doing and advised him to open the door voluntarily, or we would have to use force to gain entry.
‘Just hawd yer hoarses!’ the woman shouted. I then heard her saying to the man, ‘Open the bloody door, Sammy. I don’t want it kicked in wi’ them bastards, they sound a bit gung-ho tae me!’
Moments later the door was opened and inside, in full view, was the suspect stolen television, occupying pride of place on the wooden sideboard in the living room area.
Several questions later, the male suspect was still vehemently denying having stolen it.
Then the wife said, in typical ‘Glesca’ fashion, ‘Aw, fur fuxsakes, Sammy, tell ’em where ye blagged it, afore they empty the bloody hoose intae the street and dae us for no’ havin’ a TV licence as well!’
He then relented and told us he had stolen it from the bar lounge of a well-known Southside hotel.
Apparently, as he waited outside, the window of the TV lounge area was opened and several spent cigarettes were discarded on to the lawn.
An hour or so later the residents, who were all drinking, eventually retired to their rooms for the night, leaving the window open.
He then climbed inside the open window and promptly removed the television from a wall shelf.
As a footnote, the hotel residents who were drinking and to whom he referred in his admission just happened to be nine CID detective police officers, who were staying at the hotel while attending a detectives’ course at the Police Training School in Glasgow!
Oops! Not exactly the best of starts to their detection course – maybe a revision course on crime prevention was required!
The Glasgow Sheriff Court
. . .
There was a particularly well-known sheriff in Glasgow who was renowned for his hard line on what may be described as ‘the neds’!
One day he entered his court, which was crowded with lawyers and the general public.
As he surveyed the court, his attention was drawn to a scruffy young male at the rear who did not stand to attention like everyone else when the sheriff had entered.
Instead, the insolent young ned continued to lounge in his seat, with his hands thrust in his pockets, chewing loudly on a piece of gum.
The angry sheriff summoned his court usher and said, ‘Kindly inform that young man at the rear that I will not tolerate mastication in my court!’
The bemused and more than confused usher walked back up the court to the youth and said firmly, ‘Right you! The sheriff says you’ve tae get yer hauns oot yer poackets, ya dirty wee bugger!’
The Sheehy Report
. . .
Several years ago the police force was to undergo radical changes as far as the serving members were concerned, with the arrival of Sir Patrick Sheehy and his proposed Sheehy Report for the police.
The Police Federation, who represent force members, held what was commonly referred to as a Greeting Meeting, in order to discuss some of the aspects of the forthcoming report.
During the meeting, questions were asked and unsatisfactory answers given.
One of the police officers nearest the front of the hall, who was totally disillusioned by all that had gone before, stood up and said, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the Sheehy Report implements many changes to the police force as we all know it?’
‘That is correct,’ replied the Federation representative.
‘Well!’ continued the officer. ‘I’m convinced that all these sweeping changes have already taken place and you, as our Federation, representing the rank and file, have not opposed a single point. In fact, I would go as far as to say all you have done is dilute them!’
He then paused for a moment, before continuing, ‘Allow me to provide you with an example of how I see it!’
‘It appears to me that if the Sheehy Report had said, “All serving members of the police force will stand with their heads in a bucket of shite for ten minutes every shift,” you, the Federation, would have considered it a victory if you had it reduced to five minutes per shift!!’
The Tasmanian Devil
. . .
During the World Pipe Band Championships at Bellahouston Park in Glasgow, I was engaged in mo
torcycle patrol duties in the park when a young man, dressed in full Highland regalia, tartan kilt and all, approached my partner John Knox and myself and explained that he was a serving police officer from Tasmania, visiting Scotland to take part in the championship.
He asked if he could take a photograph of John and I on our police motorcycles, to which we readily agreed.
He then began to set up his camera, using a light meter and changing the lens and filter.
While he did all this, I interrupted him and suggested he take his photograph from the opposite side, whereby he would also include all the competing pipe bands in the background with their variety of coloured tartans on display.
‘Great idea!’ he said.
He then proceeded to check the lighting again, changing the camera lens and filters for the new angle I had suggested.
Satisfied he had the correct lighting filters fitted, he began to focus his camera on us.
He then knelt down on the grass to capture his prized photograph, when – bonk! – in true commando-style Scottish-kilt-wearing, I witnessed a most unexpected surprise, as down from below his kilt and on to the grass below dropped his rather well-endowed penis!
This was definitely a 100-per-cent-genuine Tasmanian Devil!
If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn it was eating the grass!
As it was, it certainly appeared to be eating something!
At this point, two elderly women were passing and one of them took an interest in what was happening with us.
On seeing the aforementioned exposed ‘Tasmanian Devil’ in full view and full colour, she grabbed hold of her friend’s arm and in the loudest whisper I’ve ever heard, she said, ‘Peggy! Peggy! Quick! Would you look at the size o’ that big beauty, is that no’ a monster?’
Peggy turned around and looked on in amazement, then said to the young photographer, ‘I bet you’re not from around here, son?’
‘No, ma’am,’ he replied in a proud voice. ‘I’m from Tasmania!’
‘Of course you are and you’re obviously eating the right things ’cause you’re a fine specimen of a boy!’ Peggy said.
‘Why thank you, ma’am!’ he said, happily blushing.
‘By the way!’ Peggy added, ‘you almost gave Cathy a stroke!’
‘No, he did not!’ interrupted Cathy, then in a wicked girly voice she said, ‘But I wish he would have!’
Both women then walked off giggling like a pair of naughty young schoolgirls.
As for our Tasmanian police colleague, he was none the wiser as to what he had done, or the unexpected thrill he had bestowed upon two elderly Glasgow spinsters on a day out, strolling in the park!
I often wonder, thinking back to that day, if that is why all photographers use the saying, ‘Watch the birdie!’
Legless in Auchterarder
. . .
Whilst attending the Police Convalescent Home in Auchterarder, Scotland, I met up with a remarkable police officer from the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Northern Ireland called Billy!
Billy had tragically lost his right arm from above the elbow and his left leg from above the knee, during a terrorist bomb explosion while on his police patrol.
Despite the loss of his limbs, coupled with the obvious pain and discomfort he endured wearing artificial limbs, Billy showed a wonderful outlook in life and had an amazing sense of humour.
One night, during our time together at the home, Billy and I had gone out for a few drinks.
However, a few became several, as we relaxed in the local hotel lounge, exchanging funny jokes and stories.
Before we knew it, the bar lounge was closing.
I decided to have one more drink for the road, while Billy went off to the toilet.
As I sat there waiting for Billy to return, I realised he was taking quite a long time and with his physical condition, coupled with the amount of drink we had consumed, he may have fallen over.
I went to the toilet to check on him, but to my surprise, there was no sign of Billy.
As I walked out of the hotel, I saw Billy lying flat out on the roadway, trying unsuccessfully to get up.
I ran over to him and said in a concerned voice, ‘Billy! Billy, are you OK?’
Billy replied in his broad Irish brogue, ‘Of course I’m not OK, Harry, I’m fuckin’ legless!’
As both of us began to laugh, I looked over and saw Billy’s artificial leg lying on the other side of the road.
Apparently Billy had tried to kick an empty Coke can lying on the footpath and his leg shot off across the roadway!
Football Crazy
. . .
John Reilly was involved in policing the Old Firm derby at Celtic Park in Glasgow.
This involved him walking around the perimeter track during the game and preventing any hooligans from running on to the field of play, or throwing any objects.
As John walked around, he couldn’t avoid watching the game and, being a keen Celtic supporter, he was becoming more and more anxious, as time ticked away and his team chased an equalising goal.
Three minutes to go until full-time and Celtic bundled a goal in from a goalmouth scramble.
As the supporters went wild with excitement, John got caught up in the hype of it all and threw his police hat into the air!
With his arms raised in ecstatic celebration, the swirling wind in the enclosed stadium caught his hat and carried it on to the centre of the field of play, whereby one of the Rangers players retrieved it for him.
The police football commander, having witnessed John’s reaction to this goal, made sure John never, ever worked at another football game in which Celtic were involved.
Face Like a Fish Supper … All Chips
. . .
I had just left police headquarters, Pitt Street, on my police motorcycle and was riding along the Clydeside Expressway.
I had overtaken several vehicles as I made my way back to the traffic depot.
I was approaching another vehicle in front of me when I noticed it was wavering slightly from side to side, while the driver appeared to be acting very suspiciously.
His head was bobbing up and down and he looked as though he was doing something other than concentrating on his driving!
I decided to pull alongside the driver’s window and have a look inside the car for myself.
I was almost at the rear door of the car when the driver’s window opened and a newspaper full of chips was discarded out the window, splattering me and my motorcycle!
That was it!
I activated my siren and blue lights and signalled the startled driver to pull over and stop!!
I’m positive I saw him in his rear-view mirror mouth, ‘Ohhh, shiiit!’
I got off my motorcycle, dusted myself down of chips and walked towards the car.
The driver gave the impression he would have liked the ground to open up there and then and swallow him and his chips.
However, having a sense of humour, I had to see the funny side. So rather than charge him with an offence, I stopped all the traffic on the Expressway and made him walk back along the carriageway and pick up the newspaper and every chip he had hit me with!
Fortunately for him, I had already eaten the chip that was on my shoulder!
Pieces of Pizza
. . .
From The Adventures of Harry the Polis
Harry the Polis walked into a fast food shop and ordered up a pizza.
‘It’ll be about fifteen minutes!’ said the counter assistant.
‘That’s OK,’ replied Harry.
He then waited while the pizza was being cooked in the oven.
When it was ready, the assistant asked Harry, ‘Would you like it cut into four or eight pieces?’
Harry replied in all seriousness, ‘You’d better cut it into four, hen, I couldn’t eat eight pieces!!’
Tulliallan Barbers
. . .
New recruits at Tulliallan Police College have found a way to grow their hai
r longer, without the instructors noticing.
Apparently they’re getting their ears pulled out further!
You Said It!
. . .
My partner and I called at a Southside motor repair garage to organise a repair to his car.
The garage ‘boy’ (I use that word loosely), who swept up the floors and ran some errands for the owner, was an old likeable dosser called Jack Barnes, who had a serious drink problem but, unlike many of his drinking buddies, Jack’s brain was as sharp as a tack.
‘If ye’re looking for the boss, he’s no’ in yet!’ Jack greeted us in his usual gruff voice.
‘That’s OK, Jack, we’ll just wait!’ I replied.
After a few minutes, we decided to have something to eat, so I said, ‘Jack, could you nip around to the greasy spoon and get me two rolls with scrambled egg and two cups of coffee?’
‘Aye, nae bother!’ said an obliging Jack.
I then handed him over a £10 note and said, ‘Get something for yourself, Jack!’
A short time later, Jack arrived back and handed me the coffee and rolls, then pushed the change into my hand.
As I put the coffee and rolls down, I checked my change. ‘Ho, Jack, two pound sixty change – where’s the rest of my money?’
To which Jack replied in his gruff old voice, ‘Ye told me tae get something for mysel’, so I bought a half bottle o’ wine.’
My partner and I just burst out laughing!
Old Jack Barnes didn’t have a scrambled brain, that’s for sure!
Housebreaking
. . .
Harry the Polis was late for work one morning and arrived at the office, just as the shift was being detailed their duties by the duty sergeant.
