Even the Lies are True

by Harry Morris

  Mind you, I just might have created a new Wagon Wheel flavour!

  By the way, Cathy, I also stopped smoking shortly after this!

  The Court Jester

  . . .

  I was working at the High Court in Glasgow along with several other cops as part of the courts branch.

  Whilst I was sitting in the police control room with Wee Hughie Dewar, the cop who operated the security gates and surveillance cameras, I was going through some of my voice impersonations with Hughie and we were having a good laugh.

  Five out of the six courts were finished for the day and the cops who were working in them were all sitting about the police common room, quietly reading a newspaper or playing cards to kill time until they received permission to go home.

  This was the normal practice and I found it extremely boring sitting about, so Hughie suggested I telephone the duty officer, whose room was directly opposite our position and who was responsible for the officers employed in the courts.

  I would then impersonate the courts branch inspector and we would observe his reaction from the window of our room.

  I rang his telephone and watched as he answered it. I then said, ‘Hello, Paul. Inspector Harrison here. Has anybody been looking for me?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Paul replied. ‘Mr Martin was looking for you.’

  ‘OK, I’ll give him a call!’ I said. ‘What’s happening elsewhere with the courts, then?’ I continued, aware that all but one of the courts were finished for the day.

  ‘All my courts are finished for the day, bar one!’ he replied immediately.

  ‘Are the cops all sitting about in the common room then?’ I enquired.

  ‘Yes, sir. Do you want me to give them something to do here or should I send them all over to the Sheriff Court to work?’ asked Paul.

  ‘No, don’t bother. Just send them all home – they’ve worked hard today and deserve a break!’ I replied rather convincingly.

  ‘OK, sir, you’re the boss!’ he said.

  I then put the phone down and Hughie and I had a right good laugh at Paul’s expense.

  Suddenly my facial expression changed as I looked up along the cell passage corridor and saw all the cops from the common room, with their civilian jackets on and carrying their bags, walking towards me.

  I quickly ran into Paul’s room and informed him it hadn’t been the inspector calling, it had been me doing an impersonation of him.

  To which he said, ‘Well, Harry boy, you better do another one and explain to this lot coming down the corridor – I don’t think they’ll be very happy with you!’

  I then ran out to meet them and, casually putting my hands up to stop them, I said, ‘Sorry, guys, you’ve got to go back to the common room. Paul was just winding you all up. He’s sitting in his office laughing away, the lousy bugger!

  This news was greeted by groans from the disgruntled cops, who were very annoyed with Paul for his sick joke.

  I managed, in my own inimitable way, to alleviate the situation and pass the buck on to the unsuspecting Paul at the same time!

  Relief, for My Relief

  . . .

  At the end of a shift, I was going to a friend’s house to view a live boxing match. I had arranged for another friend to call at the police station at the end of my duties so that we could share a taxi.

  Now my friend Brad is a six-feet-plus black guy who just happens to be a deaf mute!

  He duly arrived at the agreed time and I informed him, using sign language, that I was just awaiting my relief station officer arriving before I could leave and that, in the meantime, he should just wait in the front office area!

  Brad decided to look at the posters on the wall and, after several minutes, the front door to the station opened.

  Brad immediately felt the draught from the door on his neck and turned around to face it, as in walked Donnie, my relief officer.

  With Donnie looking at me and Brad with his back to me, looking at Donnie, I spoke in a loud voice and said, ‘For the last time, sir, there is only one officer working in this station called Donnie and I can assure you he hasn’t been sleeping with your wife and daughter. Now will you fuck off out of the police station!’

  All the time I was talking, Brad had his back to me, staring at Donnie, who had frozen in his tracks and was staring back at Brad, with what can only be described as a look of total shock on a face that now lacked any colour.

  Everything stopped for a moment while Donnie suffered in silence, then I allowed a huge grin to cover my face and said, ‘Don’t look so worried, Donnie, I’m only joking. He can’t hear a word – he’s totally deaf!’

  At which point Donnie heaved a huge sigh of relief before scurrying off to the toilet to relieve himself! No doubt!

  0 to 60 in Seconds

  . . .

  During the miners’ strike and subsequent picket lines at Bilston Colliery, a young police probationer was on picket-line duty, where officers were pushed, jostled, spat upon and struck with missiles thrown at them by the crowd.

  The young probationer finally snapped, unable to stand the abuse any more. He broke ranks and ran off, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘I can’t take any more! I can’t take any more!’

  He ran as fast as he could, covering a distance of several hundred metres before he eventually stumbled and fell over.

  As he lay on the ground, with his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably, he heard a deep husky voice say, ‘Get a grip of yourself, lad!’

  Looking over in the direction of the voice, he saw a pair of highly polished black shoes.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sergeant!’ he blurted out.

  The voice replied rather indignantly, ‘Who are you calling sergeant? I’m your superintendent!’

  To which the young probationer replied, ‘Fuck me! Did I run that far?’

  The Demolition Man

  . . .

  One evening I received a call from my ‘faither’ in the polis, Willie Craig, the duty officer of the force control room.

  Willie wanted me to assist a distressed woman who was locked out of her house and calling from a nearby telephone kiosk.

  I attended immediately and after I had comforted the upset woman, she explained that she had been out with her husband and another couple for a meal and a drink.

  During the evening, her husband had complained of feeling unwell and had decided to go home early, leaving her and the other couple to enjoy the rest of the night.

  On arriving home later, she was unable to gain access to her house because her husband’s house key was still in the lock inside.

  She stated that she had knocked on the door for some time and, getting no response, had tried telephoning the house for almost thirty minutes, but there had been no answer. She was now becoming increasingly concerned about her husband.

  I followed the distressed woman to her front door, which was on the first floor of a red sandstone tenement building.

  The exterior house door was solid and had been decorated with mahogany wood grain panelled plywood.

  The fitted door facing was made of a fancy ogee design and was finished off with imitation wrought-iron hinges, door knocker, letter box, nameplate and door handle. All very nice and decorative.

  Above the door was a large, colourful stained-glass window.

  Having tried initially to force the door with the minimum of force, the job called for more force to be used – the Doc Marten boot!

  I had several attempts at kicking the door but to no avail – all I succeeded in doing was bursting the decorative mahogany panelling on the door.

  I also, due to the extreme force I was using, managed to crack the shiny gold nameplate.

  I made my apologies to the sobbing woman, who waved them away, being more concerned with her husband and his state of health.

  Change of plan!

  I then tried, with the use of a large screwdriver, to remove the fancy ogee door facing in order to gain access to the door lock.
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  All was going well until halfway down the facing – ‘Snap!’ – the facing broke off.

  I turned around to look at the woman, standing watching with a paper tissue in her face, drying her tears as I systematically demolished her door in instalments.

  ‘Oh, just carry on and get me in!’ she said.

  I then proceeded to rip the rest of the facing off the door and, with the aid of the large screwdriver, chipped away at the door standard to try and expose the mortice lock.

  With no luck there either, I returned to kicking the now almost demolished and unrecognisable fancy panelled door!

  With all the noise coming from my eager attempts to gain entry, a neighbour from across the landing opened his door and, on seeing the plight I was facing, suggested, ‘Why don’t you just smash the window above the door and gain entry that way?’

  At which point the sobbing woman, still breaking her heart, shrieked at him, ‘Why don’t you just fuck right off! Don’t you think he’s done enough bloody damage to my door?’

  Then realising what she had said in her outburst, she looked around at me and said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, officer. I know you mean well!’

  She had just finished her apology when – ‘click!’

  We all turned around as the door was opened and a very sleepy-looking man was standing there, dressed in vest and pants.

  ‘What’s all the racket?’ he asked, completely unaware of all that had occurred. ‘What have you done, hen?’

  The sobbing woman’s facial expression changed as she charged at her husband, whom she had been so extremely worried about.

  She began to scream hysterically at him, ‘You dozy bastard, look what you’ve caused and there’s nothing up wi’ you!’

  She then began to punch and kick him, as he tried to make his way along the hallway, out of her reach.

  As for me! I didn’t wait for her to thank me – I got off my mark quickly before she had another look at her door and took revenge on me!

  The result of the call to the force control room was: ‘Entry gained by the police. All in order. The female reporter wishes to thank the police for a job well done!’ Then I added, ‘And do we have the number of a good emergency joiner?’

  The Glasgow Olympics

  . . .

  A few years ago, whilst watching athletics on the television and the intense methods of preparation undertaken by some of the world’s most notable athletes, it suddenly struck me the amount of preparation the everyday wee Glesca punter put into his!

  By that I mean his 100 metres and 200 metres sprint races, his high jump, pole vault and long jump, etc.

  You see, none of his athletic exploits are performed in such prestigious competitions, but rather the opposite. For example, if you resided in a Glasgow tenement-housing scheme, the following situation would arise regularly.

  One minute you would be playing in a tough competitive game of rounders, street football or kick the can, when all of a sudden – panic!! You looked up and the polis would be plodding it out, coming down the street towards you.

  Whoosh!! You were off, and I mean off – your legs were just a blur as they propelled you along at breakneck speed. (That’s very, very fast, by the way.)

  I would hurdle every obstacle in front of me, whether it was a 7-foot garden fence, an 8-foot boundary wall or a 12-foot opening over a stream, and any obstacle that I couldn’t master, I would just run straight over or through.

  Wood and brick debris would be brushed aside by my sheer speed and determination.

  Linford Christie would have no chance. Nobody, but nobody was going to catch me!

  Then suddenly, a strange but alarming thought struck me – what the hell am I running for?

  I’m the community police for the area!

  Parking Disability

  . . .

  There was a CID officer nicknamed ‘Sven’ because of his Scandinavian good looks, tanned skin and physical build.

  Apart from his smart stylish suits and blond hair, he also drove about in a white sports car that suited his personality and stood out.

  One day he went shopping with his girlfriend to the newly opened Parkhead Forge shopping centre.

  Unable to find a parking space near the entrance, Sven decided to park his fancy new sports car in the only space available, a vacant disabled parking space.

  Off they went, hand in hand, Sven turning his head back one last time to view his shining pride and joy parked safely in the car park.

  After several hours spent accumulating bag after bag of groceries and clothing, it was time to leave the centre and return to the ‘Svenmobile’.

  They strolled along the mall, laden down with bags, heading for the exit doors, to the car park …

  Sven’s boyish smile changed to a look of shock as, to his horror, he saw his dream machine being lifted on to the rear of a Hiab recovery vehicle for removal to the police pound.

  Standing alongside, taking notes, were two imposing leather-clad motorcycle cops.

  Sven dropped his heavy grocery bags on the footpath and said to his girlfriend, ‘Here, grab hold of that lot!’

  Then, panic-stricken, he ran up to the cops and asked, ‘What the hell are you doing? That’s my car you’re lifting!’

  The cop who was writing vigorously in his notebook paused for a moment, looked over at Sven and said, ‘You’re parked illegally in a disabled parking bay, sir!’ Then, looking Sven up and down, he added, ‘You certainly don’t look disabled to me!’

  Sven thought for a moment as he stared at the cop then turned around to see his girlfriend bringing up the rear, carrying the heavy bags. He turned back to the cop and, pointing over at her, he said confidently, ‘Well, does she look normal to you?’

  They both looked over to see his slightly built girlfriend, laden down with all the heavy bags, shuffling along in high heels and struggling under her load.

  The cop allowed himself a wry smile before continuing with his notes.

  As for the girlfriend, on hearing Sven’s discourteous remarks about her physical condition, she dropped the grocery bags where she stood and shouted at Sven, ‘Is that right, ya big diddy! Well, ye can just carry the messages yersel’, I’m out of here!’ before storming away in a bad mood.

  A hard and expensive lesson for Sven to learn, but if you are not disabled, don’t park in the bay!

  I’d Know Her Anywhere

  . . .

  A road accident resulted in a woman passenger being fatally injured.

  The driver of the vehicle, who was unconscious, had suffered serious head injuries but was identified by one of the police officers present as David Green.

  However, the problem arose as to the identity of the woman passenger.

  On calling at David Green’s relatives’ address to inform them of his injuries, they were informed he had a long-term relationship with Maggie Reid, who was separated from her husband.

  Several inquiries later, they called at the home address of Robert Reid (the husband) and informed him of the road accident and of their suspicion that the fatally injured woman could be his wife Maggie.

  The husband was distraught at this news and sat down, breaking his heart, tears pouring from his eyes.

  Big Davie, one of the officers present, gave him a glass of water and a cigarette, which he readily accepted, even though, he was later to admit, he had stopped smoking three weeks before.

  The next task was to convey the distraught Mr Reid (several cigarettes later) to the city mortuary in Glasgow in order to identify the deceased woman.

  At the mortuary the officers displayed their sensitive side to Mr Reid.

  They told him that one side of her face had been badly injured and therefore, if he wished to, he could view the deceased on the mortuary video monitor.

  Mr Reid declined their offer, saying he would rather see her up close himself.

  As he entered the room, he broke down again in a flood of tears.

  ‘That’s her! It’s
her! Oh, my God, whit will I tell the weans? She’s gone! Their mammy’s gone for ever. Oh, God, I miss her already!’

  Deeply distressed, Big Davie led Mister Reid back to the police car and returned him home to the comfort of his friends and family.

  After noting the relevant particulars for his report, Big Davie and his partner returned to the police station several hours later.

  As they entered the office, I said, ‘What kept you two, then?’

  Big Davie replied, ‘What kept us? We’ve been here, there and every-bloody-where, trying to get the deceased woman identified!’

  ‘And did you get her identified?’ I asked.

  ‘Eventually,’ said Davie. ‘It’s Maggie Reid.’

  ‘Maggie Reid?’ I said, surprised, then shook my head. ‘Don’t think so, Davie.’

  ‘It was, Harry!’ said Big Davie. ‘She’s been identified!’

  ‘Sorry, guys, you’re wrong – Maggie Reid was in here only half an hour ago, asking how badly injured David Green was and, I might add, she looked very much alive and kicking!’ I responded.

  Big Davie and his partner looked at each other, puzzled! Then Davie asked me, ‘Well, who’s in the city mortuary? ’Cause Robert Reid was positive it was his missus lying there and even identified her.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t his missus, it was “lucky” Jack Kelly’s daughter, Sandra,’ I explained. ‘The traffic cops have got the report to write – you must have just missed them at the city mortuary!’

  Big Davie slumped down into an office chair.

  ‘That bugger Robert Reid smoked about twelve of my fags. In fact, at one point he was that upset I was nearly greeting with him!’

  His partner said, ‘So much for his statement, “I’d know her anywhere!” And what about the bit where he said, “We had three lovely weans together.” He must have been making love to her in the dark.’