by Harry Morris
‘None of your HP credit payments for me,’ I said as I handed over my hard cash, £6 of which was made up with crisp new 10-shilling notes from my pay packet.
With the ignition key in my hand, I jumped into the driver seat and started it up.
In an instant, I noticed there was no ‘va va voom!’
It was more like a ‘buzz buzz buzzz!’ For a brief moment I thought there was a wasp stuck up the exhaust pipe, but no, that was the noise from my ‘souped-up’ (clapped-out) engine.
‘Just listen to that engine, man, it’s purring like a cat,’ said the drooling salesman, with his syrup or fig hairpiece slightly askew.
‘Purring like a cat’ my arse! It was more like ‘squealing like a pork-belly pig’!
The noise emanating from under the bonnet suggested a slack fan belt. Or in my case, probably a slack snake belt!
Even the valid MOT certificate was a duplicate. The examiner obviously didn’t believe it the first time!
However, I put all that to one side as I drove out on to the main road.
Let’s see what this baby can do, I thought. Nought to sixty in eight, the salesman had said: he forgot to mention days, not seconds.
I should have remembered that old saying of my father’s: ‘The only good thing about Paisley, son, is the main road leading out of it to Glasgow!’
Well I was on it and I was eager to burn some rubber.
Forget Michael Schumacher – he was just a ‘Cobbler’ from the Govan area when I was at school!
With the pedal to the metal, I was off in a large puff of smoke. So much so, I actually expected a genie to appear and grant me three wishes. Like, ‘I wish I had an engine’, ‘I wish I was a mechanic’ and, thirdly, ‘I wish I had a brain’!
Well it was the pantomime season after all. (Oh, yes it was!)
Having been on the road now for just over thirty minutes, enough time to go there and back on a bus and driving full out, I saw a sign for Glasgow.
The art of prayer really works.
Now, I know a Mini engine is not the most powerful, but this one of mine couldn’t pull a sailor off yer granny! Suffice to say I would have been hard pushed to pull the skin off my Ambrosia creamed rice!
A man and woman on bicycles and an old woman pulling herself along in a wheelchair overtook me twice!
With one leg and a punctured tyre!
Come to think of it, maybe the holes in the floor of my car were for your Doc Marten feet to go through, so you could run and make it go faster. Then again, maybe they were for the braking system.
Suddenly, it began to rain quite heavily and I switched on the windscreen wipers … Nothing! Zilch! Nada! Zero!
They didn’t work and as the rain got heavier, it became more difficult to see the road ahead.
Drastic times require drastic measures, as I rolled down my driver’s window, put my hand out and, grabbing hold of the wipers, I began operating them manually, thrashing them up and down the windscreen. Not recommended!
To cut a very long story short, I decided not to hold on to it for too long.
Depreciation in value and all that.
So, while I was a student at the Police College, Tulliallan, I was offered the chance to purchase another Mini, this time from a sergeant, Colin Robertson, who was a college instructor.
As they say in Glasgow, it was ‘minted’! So, after checking the windscreen wipers worked properly, I bought it!
Here I was, twenty-one years of age, the Jeremy Clarkson of Govan and the first two-car family in the street. Mind you, there were only two houses: it was an awfy wee street I lived in.
Was I becoming an obsessed collector of cars, I thought?
As it was, Dougie Mack, a fellow student, was also looking for some form of transport and practically begged me to sell my manually operated Mini.
Without too much persuasion, I managed to convince him to talk me into selling him my wee passion wagon.
‘OK! OK!’ I said, reluctantly. ‘Give me thirty quid cash and she’s yours.’
Why call it ‘she’? ’Cause it was an absolute cow in the morning! Plus the rest of the entire day, I might add.
I had to tinker about with the engine just to start it.
It was like performing foreplay, before I could get it to do anything.
However, Dougie was a single guy and had money burning a hole in his pocket.
I couldn’t help but smile when, driving down the motorway on my way home from Tulliallan for the weekend, I was overtaken by Dougie, waving away frantically and blasting the horn with excitement as he passed.
I think that was the first time it had passed anything.
I tell a lie, it passed water the day the radiator hose burst, but therein lies another story!
On returning to the police college the following Monday, I had to laugh when I asked Dougie how the car was running and he informed me it had been scrapped!
‘Scrapped?’ I said, somewhat hesitant and surprised.
‘Aye, I gave a burd a lift home from the dancing on Friday night and as I was reversing, listening to Suzi Quatro on the radio, I bumped into an Audi Quatro!’
‘Whit! Her man?’ I enquired.
‘No! Another motor in the car park. Bashed in the driver’s door. That cost me an arm and a leg,’ he said.
‘What about your damage?’ I asked.
‘My damage?’ he replied. ‘The bloody sub-frame collapsed, but the burd was a darling, so I ignored it and drove along a country road and parked up in a field for a wee winching session, while we listened to Wet Wet Wet.
‘As it turned out, it was more like “Pish Pish Pish” as the rain became heavier and poured down.
‘Later, as I went to drive away, the ground was that soft with all the rain, the bloody Mini had sunk and was up to the axles in mud.
‘So I’m stuck fast in the mud and had to call out a recovery vehicle company, who proceeded to rip me off along with the rest of the sub-frame, as he towed my Mini out of the field.
‘Total cost for my weekend: thirty quid to you for the motor, a hundred quid to the Audi driver for the damage to his door and forty quid for the recovery driver, and as if that wasn’t enough, I never even got my Nat King Cole!!’
As he stood staring at me, I said sympathetically, ‘Ah well, Dougie, some people are just lucky with cars. Some people are just lucky in love. But unfortunately for you, Dougie …’
I paused for a moment, then said, ‘You’ve just got too much money!’
What’s Perjury?
. . .
During a trial in the Glasgow Sheriff Court, a witness was called to give evidence for the defence.
The accused in the dock just happened to be a very good friend of the witness and, when questioned by the procurator fiscal, he became very evasive and flippant in his answers.
The procurator fiscal, who was by this time becoming annoyed and fed up with the witness and his lack of genuine response to his questions, said to him, ‘Let me remind you that you took an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!’
The witness replied indignantly, ‘I am well aware of that, sir!’
‘Well,’ said the procurator fiscal, ‘and are you well aware of what you can get for perjury?’
As quick as a flash, the witness replied, ‘Aye, about twenty thousand a year, if you’re a polis!’
Control Room Story
. . .
When I was a motorcycle cop, I received the following call from the control room: ‘AS Control calls Tango Charlie One Four to attend and assist in the removal of a stolen Suzuki motorcycle, recovered abandoned in Queen Street, Glasgow. Please note, there is a policewoman standing by it.’
I then enquired from the controller, ‘Tango Charlie One Four, is it rideable?’
To which the controller replied, ‘Affirmative, Tango Charlie One Four, and she’s not bad-looking either!!’
Road Accident Excuses
. . .
‘Co
ming home, I drove into the wrong house and collided with a tree I don’t have in my driveway.’
Hello, Dolly
. . .
One day while I was engaged in uniform police duties in the office, I had occasion to answer the telephone to a chief inspector from the Discipline Department, requesting to speak with another officer in the station.
The officer concerned was always playing practical jokes on the younger members in the office and would boast about what he had done to them.
With this in mind and eager to turn the tables on him for showing off, I pressed the mute button on the desk telephone and summoned the boaster concerned, aptly named Gattling Gub.
I informed him that his wife was on the telephone wishing to speak with him!
I then released the mute button as he snatched the telephone from my hand and promptly blurted out, ‘Hello, doll, what can I do for you?’
To which the chief inspector replied, ‘Well, you can refer to me as sir for a start!!’
As for me, I got great satisfaction from his body language as I watched him with telephone in one hand, squirming to attention!
Road Accident Excuses
. . .
‘In an attempt to kill a fly, I drove into a telephone pole.’
Lost for Words
. . .
One day out on the main street of the area I worked, a bus driver friend of my brother’s approached me.
I remarked about how tanned he was and he said he was just back from a family holiday.
He then added that while away on holiday, he had lost his father.
Not immediately realising what he meant, I said, ‘Don’t tell me – a pub crawl. I’m the same, it’s that cheap foreign plonk, it gives me the “Tex Ritters”—’
At this point he interrupted me and said, ‘No, Harry, when I say I lost him, I mean, he died!’
Oops!!
Road Accident Excuses
. . .
‘A truck reversed through my windscreen into my wife’s face.’
DNA Not Required
. . .
A senior cop receives a call to attend a suspicious death in an ice-cream café.
Accompanied by a young raw recruit, he makes his way to the location.
On arrival, they walk into the café and are shown by the proprietor to the location of the body.
The senior cop turns to the young recruit and says, ‘Right, have a look and tell me what you see.’
The young cop bends down, looks at the body and says, ‘His legs, from his feet to his hips, are covered in ice cream!’
‘OK,’ says the senior cop. ‘Have another good look.’
The young cop bends down again to look.
‘From his waist to his shoulders, he’s covered in a sticky raspberry sauce!’
‘Good,’ says the senior cop. ‘Now have one more thorough look and tell me if you know the cause of death.’
He bends down for a third time, studies the body, then stands up and says, ‘His head is covered with flaked chocolate!’
‘So what does that tell you about how he died, then?’ asked the senior cop.
‘Simple,’ replied the young officer. ‘He topped himself!!’
Crime Doesn’t Always Pay
. . .
A would-be thief entered a well-established clothing store and after perusing the clothing rails for several minutes, he picked out a pair of trousers that appeared to take his fancy.
Dressed in an old pair of denim jeans, he asked the assistant to direct him to the changing room to try them on.
As the store was relatively busy, the assistant couldn’t remain with him and left to tend to another customer.
However, when the assistant returned a short time later, the male had eloped with the trousers, leaving behind his old denim jeans.
Having been duped by the thief, the manager was about to mark it down to another theft for statistics, when he noticed a slight bulge in the back pocket of the jeans.
It turned out to be a leather wallet which contained £65 in cash.
The loss became a profit, as the trousers had a price tag of only £24.99.
This was one thief who learned the hard way that crime doesn’t pay and, at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before he became bankrupt!!
Who Was That?
. . .
Whilst working in the police motor vehicle garage at the start of my traffic patrol officer career, I was being shown all the various parts of a car engine, what can go wrong and how to repair it. Like I was remotely interested!
Later the same day, I was walking down to the end of the garage, when the wall telephone started ringing.
The garage sergeant shouted for me to answer it, so I went over and picked it up and the following is what took place.
‘Helen Street police Garage, can I help you?’
‘Yes, you can,’ replied the caller. ‘You can tell me what is happening with the nightshift superintendent’s car.’
‘I have absolutely no idea what’s happening with it!’ I replied.
To which the caller responded, ‘Do you know who you are speaking too?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Who am I speaking too?’
‘You are speaking with Superintendent McKinlay!’ he said.
‘And do you know who you’re speaking to?’ I said rather indignantly.
‘No, I don’t,’ he answered.
To which I replied, ‘Good!’ and promptly put the telephone down.
‘Who was that, Harry?’ enquired the garage sergeant.
‘Just a wrong number!’ I said as I quickly walked off.
The Adventures of Harry the Polis
. . .
Smoking Cough
. . .
During a social night out at the police club, I was sitting at a table opposite another couple.
Later the same evening, the woman began to cough and splutter.
This went on for several minutes, with the coughing becoming more intense, as the woman’s face changed colour and as I looked over at her, she appeared to be choking and unable to draw a breath.
I quickly left my seat and ran over to assist her. ‘Watch! I’m trained in first aid,’ I said.
Grabbing hold of her head, I promptly pushed it down between her legs and held it there.
Suddenly she stopped coughing and began screaming and howling hysterically, waving her arms in serious distress.
Well! How was I to know she had a lit cigarette in her mouth?
Barber’s
. . .
A police officer walked into a barber’s and asked for a haircut and a shave.
The barber cut his hair and then began to shave him. As he did so, he nicked him with the razor.
‘Your face is familiar, have I shaved you before?’ the barber asked.
‘Yes,’ replied the cop. ‘But it’s healed up since then!’
The Job’s Fucked
. . .
A regular saying in the police force was, ‘The job’s fucked,’ from the many disgruntled Glasgow police officers during the early seventies.
Every other week, a police officer, using the all-systems radio airways, would interrupt the occasional silence, by broadcasting to all mobile and radio stations, ‘The job’s fucked!’
One particular day, an assistant chief constable was in the HQ radio control room when over the radio came the aforesaid, ‘The job’s fucked!’
The assistant chief constable, on hearing this announcement, immediately picked up the radio handset and broadcast,
‘Would the station whom has just transmitted that statement, please identify yourself?’
The same voice replied, ‘What for? The job’s fucked!’
Getting frustrated by this anonymous caller and his remark on air, the assistant chief constable again broadcast, but this time he identified himself:
‘This is Assistant Chief Constable Bennie. Would the officer transmitting that last statement please identify yo
urself to me?’
To which the caller paused for a moment before replying in a droll voice, ‘It’s no’ that fucked!!’
Now That’s Magic
. . .
One evening, along with my partner Ewan Cameron, I was on mobile patrol when I stopped a car for having a rear tail light out.
I informed the driver why I had stopped him and he got out of his car and went to the rear to check for himself.
While doing this, Cameron walked to the front of the car to check for any other obvious defects.
The driver, meanwhile, on seeing the defective rear light, lifted his foot and kicked the light cover a few times, at which point, due to faulty wiring, the light came back on.
He then looked at me with a smug grin on his face and said, ‘There ye go, as if by magic! It just needed a wee kick in the right place!’
At which point Cameron said, ‘Good for you, mate. Now would you like to try that trick on your windscreen and see if you can get a tax disc to appear?’
Now, that would be magic!!
Canteen
. . .
Big Eddie Oliver walks into the police canteen and is approached by the counter assistant, Cathy, who says, ‘I have braised kidneys, boiled tongue, fried liver and pig’s feet!’
Big Eddie replies, ‘Don’t tell me your medical health problems, Cathy, just give me something to eat!’
Bad Breath
. . .
The morning after a heavy night out, where everybody had gorged themselves with food and drunk the pub dry, a CID officer called into the station for a cup of coffee and a quick cure for a severe hangover.
As he approached me, he said, ‘Harry, can I have a cup of your coffee to make me feel better?’
