by Harry Morris
The officers at the centre of the disturbance, signalled for Clyde to chase after the main instigator and troublemaker of the incident, pointing him out as he tried to make good his escape.
Clyde took to his heels and gave chase. Within a very short distance, he had caught up with the accused, who kept looking back, but could see nothing in the dark lit night.
After a few more strides, Clyde rugby tackled him around the waist and pulled him to the ground.
The accused was shocked and looked up at Clyde in total amazement with his eyes wide open and fear written all over his face!
He continued to stare at Clyde in utter shock and disbelief, while being handcuffed.
At which point Clyde stared him right in the face and said, ‘What’s up with you then? Never seen a Catholic before?’
Unisex Toilets
…
Occasionally, I get invited to the odd event: sports dinners, Burns suppers and charity fund-raisers so you can imagine my surprise when I was invited along to a celebrity VIP night, opening of a newly refurbished club/diner in the city centre.
Along I went on the night, smartly dressed in a suit and after the initial meeting and greeting certain faces I knew, I grabbed myself a couple of drinks and a plateful of hors d’oeuvres from the very impressive buffet selection made available to the guests.
After about an hour, I required to visit the little boys’ room and was directed through by one of the many assistants on hand to help. But, little did I know this ultra-modern, fully refurbished establishment followed the latest trend across Europe – unisex toilets.
On entry there are mirrors and sinks on one side and smart looking cubicles on the other.
I promptly entered one before I met another user and had to make conversation. Once inside the cubicle I sat down on the impressive throne and was only settled down for a moment, when a female voice from the next cubicle said, ‘Hi there!’
I looked either side of my cubicle before politely replying, ‘Hi!’
‘What are you up to?’ She asked.
‘Oh, just the same as you … I’m just sitting here.’ I said.
‘Is it okay if I come over?’ She asked.
‘Well eh, it’s a bit embarrassing at the moment.’ I responded.
Then her mood changed and she said, ‘Listen Danielle, let me phone you back in five minutes, there’s an idiot in the next cubicle answering all my questions!’
Cathy’s Meals
…
As a serving police officer in Glasgow during the 1970s, many an accused person that I arrested in the south-side of Glasgow would genuinely plead with me to take them to Govan, or any other station for that matter, complaining about the food, loosely described as ‘prisoner meals’ and served up by the civilian female turnkey officer responsible for feeding them, whilst detained in police custody at Craigie Street.
Believing them to be exaggerating, I would never succumb to their request, but I was later to experience it for myself first hand and realise why I was continually asked.
It was during a stint, performing the duty of bar officer within Craigie Street Police Office, where I was responsible for checking the prisoners’ welfare and safety while in my custody and making the female turnkey officer aware of how many of them were being detained for court the following morning and would therefore require to be supplied with a meal.
It was also considered a perk of the job as the bar officer, that if you wanted a cooked meal from her, you just let her know in advance and she would cook you a meal at the same time.
Most of the regular turnkeys at the various other police stations in our area, would make life simple for themselves by doing the easy thing and sending out to the local chip shop for fish and chips or sausage and chips in order to feed them, thereby using up the subsistence allowance they were allocated from the petty cash, to spend on each prisoner’s meal.
However, the highly experienced and long term Cathy Carberry, who was a sister-in-law of the duty officer in charge and my specific female turnkey working with my shift, didn’t agree to this and would insist in providing the prisoners in her care with some real home made family food!
Her description, not mine.
Also by doing this, she could save some money from the subsistence allowance she was allocated by the police in order to feed them, by cooking her meals in bulk. Definitely a cheaper alternative.
I walked into her kitchen and interrupted her during the preparation of one of her so called, real ‘home made’ family dinners and promptly announced: ‘That’s another two prisoners just been detained in custody Cathy and the duty officer would like them to be fed, so that’ll be nine customers you now have for dinner.’
Whilst making her aware of our updated guest list, I glanced down at the blue plastic plates spread out on her kitchen table to peruse her classic cuisine on offer.
Each plate contained of two slices of some sort of pink meat, which I could only crudely describe as resembling reject skin grafts from a hospital burns unit. It was so thinly cut I had to touch it to make sure it wasn’t a photo copy she had thrown onto the plates to fool the unsuspecting prisoners.
With a limited amount of frozen potato chips spread around the plates there wasn’t enough to disguise or hide the fact that the bottom of the plate was blue and to crown it all off, she had a pot of baked beans bubbling away on the gas ring.
‘Well that’s aw the frozen chips I have and I’m no’ going out tae the shops at this time tae buy any mair and I’m buggered if I’m opening up another tin o’ spam for them either. So sod it! It’ll teach them for getting the jail at this time o’ night!’
At that, she leaned over the table and began to lift chips from the plates she had previously set out and placed them onto the two extra plates. Spreading them out sparingly in an effort to make the plate look busy and cutting in half any big ones that were over a certain size.
She then lifted up the thinly sliced meat she had prepared earlier from each plate in turn and ripped a piece off each one, to add to the extra plates.
Finally, Cathy finished them off by counting the number of chips on each plate, making sure they were all equal with fourteen each, before plopping a spoonful of hot bubbling baked beans over them all, just to add a splash of colour and supplement the prisoners protein intake!
At this point, I might add, she put the loaves and fishes feast to shame by her distribution methods, carried out to perfection.
The final piece of Cathy’s Culinary Cuisine came in the shape of a faded plastic blue mug and a slice of pan bread, a ‘Basic’ loaf from Tesco, at a cost of about twelve pence, with a scraping of cheap, tasteless margarine.
Now we are definitely not talking Jamie Oliver here. But ‘Oliver’! maybe… and ‘Gruel’! most definitely.
‘I don’t think I’m gonnae huv enough dinner tae feed you as well Harry!’ she said apologetically.
‘Don’t worry about me Cathy, I’ll just get by with a greasy fish supper out of Marini’s chippie on the main street and think of what I might have had!’ I replied condescendingly.
Although, I really wanted to say, ‘Thank you Lord!’
“Will ye help me feed them”? She asked. As she poured what she described as their tea, into their individual blue plastic mugs.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, which ever way you look at it, several of the prisoners had been locked up in a cell all day and were so hungry, they would have welcomed a scabby cat ‘atween two slices o’ stale bread. But that wasn’t on today’s menu.
However, some of the other prisoners, who were more sceptical, scrutinised their plate and asked, ‘Ho big man, whit is this ye’re givin’ me?’
‘It’s your dinner!’ I replied, somewhat unconvincingly.
‘My dinner? Are you having a laugh! I got the friggin’ jail last night ’cause ah hit my wife for giving me a plate o’ grub that was five times better than this shite!’ Came back the reply, before continuing, ‘Who’s in
the kitchen tonight, Fanny Craddock or that other fanny wi’ his Atkin’s diet?’
It was difficult to argue with him, however, the plastic mug of tea was the icing on the cake for many a prisoner that night.
‘Whit is this pish ye’re givin’ us now big yin?’ I was asked by a prisoner, staring into his blue plastic mug like a clairvoyant, desperate to see a tea leaf and find out if he had a future.
‘It’s your mug of tea!’ I responded, somewhat hesitantly.
He looked at it intently for a moment and said, ‘Frigging hell big man, when I was as weak as that, my wee mammy would sit up all night tae nurse me! There isnae any tea leaves in my mug tae confirm it is tea!’
Whoever came up wi’ that load o’ crap and called it a meal, must work for the Government, ’cause as long as ye’re dishin’ oot that load o’ shite for prisoners grub, ye’ll no’ need tae bring back hanging as a deterrent, will ye?’
Fortunately, I believe the meals have improved since then but I believe Cathy came up with the concept for Hell’s Kitchen before Gordon Ramsay!
Mind you! She might even be the forerunner that started the 5-a-day trend … Spam, Chips, Beans, Bread and Tea!
Tell It Like It Is!
…
I was standing at a check-out in Tesco, Silverburn, when a woman joined the queue behind me with a child of about 4 years-of-age.
The child was bawling her heart out and loudly screaming, ‘Ah want my daddy … Ah want my daddy.’
The mother said, ‘Ye cannae get yer daddy, noo shut up and eat yer sweeties!’
‘Ah don’t want sweeties, ah want my daddy.’ The child repeated, through a mixture of tears and snotters.
‘Well ye cannae get yer daddy.’ The mother replied.
‘How can ah no’ get my daddy?’ The distraught child asked.
To which the mother callously replied, ‘Because yer daddy’s fucked off back tae Poland … Noo eat yer sweeties and shut up!’
Nothing like breaking the news gently to the kids!
David Hay Said He Will Pay!
…
One of my favourite police motorcycle duties was escorting the various visiting football teams to Ibrox, Parkhead and Hampden Park in Glasgow.
On this particular occasion back in 1983, I was detailed to escort the English champions, Nottingham Forest, who arrived to play Glasgow Celtic in a European match.
I met with the Forest manager, undoubtedly one of the greatest of his era, Brian Clough, and introduced myself to him and vice versa.
Pleasantries completed, I then escorted the team through the city centre to Celtic Park for the game.
At the end of the game, I was outside the front door of the stadium waiting for the Forest team to appear and get back aboard their team coach, which would take them to Glasgow Airport, for their short flight home.
With all the players and officials safely aboard, I escorted them, blue lights flashing as we sped along the M8 motorway.
Suddenly, the coach driver began flashing his headlights and indicated he was pulling over onto the emergency hard shoulder.
I pulled over and stopped in front of the coach and was walking back to see what the problem was when the great man himself, Brian Clough, stepped off the team bus, approached me and asked if I knew where David Hay, the Celtic football manager, had his public house, in Paisley?
I replied that I did and Mister Clough asked if it was possible to make a detour past it, en-route to the airport, which I agreed to.
I carried on along the motorway, coming off at the exit that would take us along to David Hay’s pub.
As we stopped opposite the front door, Brian Clough got off the team bus, crossed the road and went inside before returning to the bus moments later, he gave me the thumbs up to continue on our journey!
On our arrival at the Airport, Brian Clough came over and thanked me for my assistance, and I took the opportunity to ask him why he went in to David Hay’s pub?
‘Simple young man!’ he replied in his illustrious voice. ‘I ordered up drinks for everyone who was in the bar and told the staff to charge it to David Hay!’
Cheers for the memory Mister Clough.
Howard’s Big Regret
…
I once had the pleasure of working with Howard Marks (Mr Nice) at the Blue Rooms in Liverpool.
Whilst sitting in our dressing room, waiting to go on stage, we were chatting away, to pass the time, when I asked Howard, ‘What was your biggest regret, during all your drug trafficking?’
Howard sat for a moment, with glass of red wine in his hand, pondering over the question, when suddenly he raised his eyebrows, looked me straight in the face and said, ‘Getting caught with your guys!’
On The Bus
…
I was sitting on the bus, when a young girl carrying a baby got on and sat down beside me.
Within minutes she had pulled out a breast and begun trying to breastfeed her baby.
I instantly looked the other way, slightly embarrassed by her action.
Then she said, ‘Come on now, or I’ll give it to this man sitting beside us!’
I immediately gulped, but couldn’t resist having a second glance before looking elsewhere again.
Then moments later she said to her baby, ‘Look, I’m warning you, if you don’t take it this time, I’m going to give it to this nice man beside us.’
I couldn’t hold back anymore, I had to intervene and said,
‘Listen hen, do you think you could make up your mind, I was meant to get off the bus four stops back!’
Trampoline
…
Just bought a bed off Groupon from the makers of circus trampolines.
I might be wrong, but I think the wife will hit the roof!
Morris’s Safety Motto
…
‘Feel secure at night – sleep with a policeman!’
The Sixth Sense
…
The other night, to pass the time, my partner was showing me some old videos of her friends and family, which had been taken at different functions over the past few years.
‘That’s my Aunt Isabel and my Uncle Robert. He died two years ago with a heart attack and she died not long afterwards! They reckon she had a broken heart.
‘Oh, and see her with the blue hat on running up the path, that’s my Aunt Ella. She’s been widowed for years after my Uncle Sam died suddenly while they were on holiday in Turkey. They reckon it was food poisoning, but she couldn’t prove it.’
‘With names like Sam an’ Ella? I’m not surprised!’ I responded.
‘There’s my Aunt Ina with the red coat on. She was the one who died in her sleep and you went along with my mother to her funeral at Daldowie Cemetery! Do you not remember it?
‘The stonemason spelt her name wrong on her headstone and put ‘Ian’ instead of Ina! They tried to blame her daughter for spelling wrong on the order form.
‘And that’s Agnes, who my mum goes to the bingo with and her man George. He suffered a massive heart attack. Poor old Agnes came in from the bingo and thought he was sleeping in the chair. What a shock she got when she tried to waken him up for his bed an hour later and found him sitting there, stiff as a board!
‘Oh! and they two are Mary and Tommy who stayed across the road from my mum and dad. They both died of cancer, within a month of each other!’ Shame! They both stopped smoking last year too!’
After five minutes of watching and listening to all this, I had to ask her to switch it off, I was getting so depressed. I felt like wee Haley Joel Osment in the Bruce Willis film, The Sixth Sense.
Everywhere I look … ‘I SEE DEAD PEOPLE!’
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.
Whi
le doing this, Cameron walked to the front of the car to check for any other obvious defects.
The driver, meantime, on seeing the defective rear light, lifted his foot and kicked the light cover a few times, at which point, due to a ‘short’, caused by 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 valid tax disc to appear?’
Now, that really would be magic!
Wee Jock
…
I answered an advertisement in the local newspaper for a ‘Small Scottish Terrier, free to good home, house-trained, but talks non-stop’!
I couldn’t believe the last part of the advert so I called the telephone number given and spoke with the owner.
‘No it’s not a misprint!’ He told me. ‘You can come and see and hear it for yourself!’
This I just had to see! So I drove my car to the address given and the man whom I had spoken with a short time earlier on the telephone, answered the door to me.
‘Ah take it you’re here for the dog. Come away in!’ He said.
As I entered the house he directed me toward a small terrier lying stretched out in a basket bed on the kitchen floor.
‘Oh he looks great. What’s his name?’ I asked.
‘His name?!’ He repeated. ‘Ask him. He can speak for himself.’ At that the man turned around and left the room.
I felt quite silly at this moment. However, I turned to the wee dog which was now sitting up in his basket looking at me with his head cocked to one side and I said, ‘So what’s your name then?’
Without any hesitation, the wee dog answered back, ‘It’s Jock! Although, most people, him included, nodding his head towards his owner – refer to me as Wee Jock! A bit unfair mind you, considering I recently sired a big Doberman bitch two doors away!’
