by Harry Morris
So in effect, he had orchestrated the entire event, knowing my father would not be unable to sit and listen to someone bad mouthing the armed forces, without taking action against them.
However, I’m glad to report that it backfired on Cameron, when his daughter announced she was pregnant, and it didnae need to be front page news to guess who the father was!
Now, he had a future son-in-law who couldn’t keep his mouth shut and a pregnant daughter, who couldn’t keep her legs shut!
Sounds like the perfect couple to me!
The Job’s Fucked!
…
A regular saying that was regularly uttered by the many disgruntled City of Glasgow police officers during the early seventies was: ‘The job’s fucked.’
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 immortal words, ‘The job’s fucked!’
One particular day, an assistant chief constable was visiting the HQ radio control room, when over the radio came the aforesaid broadcast, ‘The job’s fucked!’
The assistant chief constable, on hearing this derogatory announcement, immediately picked up the radio handset and broadcast a response, ‘Would the station whom has just transmitted the last statement, please identify yourself?’
The same male 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 over the radio.
‘This is Assistant Chief Constable Bennie, would the officer who transmitted that last statement, please identify himself to me?’
To which the caller paused for a moment before replying in a droll voice, ‘It’s no’ that fucked!’
The Wembley Weekend
…
One of the great week-end trips away with the police was to the international football matches between the ‘Auld Enemy’ – England and Scotland.
Every second year, we would pay up our money to the Police Social Club Committee, to book your seat on the bus bound for Wembley.
We would all meet up at the Lochinch Police Club, in the Pollok Estate, where we would enjoy several drinks beforehand, in order to relax us for our long bus trip.
The committee members would then call out your name and hand you an envelope with the money you had saved for the trip along with a paper carrier bag containing a half bottle of your favourite tipple and four cans of beer, for the journey.
Peter McMillan, our Committee Leader would check our names with his list, as we each in turn entered the bus.
Within minutes we were off along the Country Park leading to the main road.
Halfway along the road, Jimmy Clark would start the wind up, ‘Ho Peter! Can ye get the driver tae stop. I’m needing a wee single fish?’
‘Could ye no’ have gone like everybody else afore we left the clubhouse?’
‘I’m sorry Peter. I’ve got a wee bit o’ a weak bladder.’
Peter went up to the driver,
‘Sorry Don, but can you pull in and let one of the guys off for a pee.’
The driver pulled up and there was a mass exodus, as half the bus got off for the toilet, Peter included.
All aboard, once again and we’re off.
We had only just turned onto the main road, when Davy Bell shouts out the window.
‘Ho darling! Do you and yer wee pal wi’ the tartan coat on fancy a trip to Wembley?’
‘Cut that out Davy Bell and sit down.’ Blasted Peter. ‘She’s just a wee woman out for a walk with her dog!’
‘She might be just a dug tae you, bye the way! But I’ve been out wi’ uglier lookin’ women.’
Clarky and I immediately confirmed that – having been to several of his engagement parties.
‘Och behave yersel’ and sit down on yer seat you two.’
Peter decided it was time for the big speech and asked the driver to switch on the hand held microphone.
‘Testing! Testing! One, Two. One, Two. Can everybody hear at the back of the bus?’
Jimmy called out, ‘Aye, me Peter. I’ll have a beer and so will Harry!’
‘I didn’t ask if ye wanted a beer! I asked if you could hear?
‘Aw right! Well, Naw, I cannae hear you!’ Jimmy responded.
‘Would you try and be serious for a minute until I speak.’ (He pauses) ‘Right! I just want to remind each and everyone of you that you’re representing Strathclyde Police. So at all times, I would expect you to be on your best behaviour.
‘If anybody needs the toilet, we have a makeshift one at the rear, in the shape of two army jerry cans, so make sure you aim right and try not to make a mess. In the event of an accident, there’s also a bucket and a mop!
‘Now that’s all I’m going to say on the matter, so I hope each and every one of you has a good time, thank you!’
‘Okay Peter, now sit on yer arse and gie us peace!’ I shouted.
As the bus joins the M74 Motorway, we are well on our way.
After several hours of continual drinking, a voice called out, ‘Has anybody got a spare carrier bag or something? Big Davy Bell is goin’ tae be Moby Dick.’
‘Him! Goin’ tae be sick? I don’t think so,’ said Jimmy. ‘He’s too tight tae part wi’ anything!’
‘Here, give him that one.’ I said, handing one over.
Not a moment too soon as Davy buried his head in it and spewed into the bag, filling it.
Unfortunately for him, I forgot to mention it was burst at the bottom and the contents from his stomach, poured all over his trouser legs, via the hole.
Emergency procedures were required.
So we covered him up with his own jacket and told him to lie down and sleep it off, it will be alright in the morning.
Then we moved as far away from him as possible, so that the blue- bottle flies wouldn’t annoy us.
Several hours later, having crossed the border into England several miles back, Don the driver pulled into a service station for a packet of cigarettes and a short break.
This was also the cue for everybody who was still awake to get off the bus and stretch their legs.
The service station was extremely busy, with football supporters from both sides, all on their way to converge on Wembley.
As Jimmy and I were walking into the shop, we were confronted by some English supporters desperate to buy some diesel, due to the fuel strike.
‘Hey Jock! You don’t have any spare diesel on your bus? They’ve ran out of it in here, due to the shortage and we’re almost running on empty!’
I looked at Jimmy and he looked at me, then together we said, ‘As a matter of fact, we do!’ Then Jimmy adds, ‘But we can only give you two. They’re full jerry cans, so you’ll have plenty to get you there!’
‘How much do you want for them?’ He asked.
‘Twenty quid each.’ I said.
‘You’re on!’ Replied our new English ‘buddies’.
At that point, Jimmy and I returned to the bus and I went inside and casually opened the rear emergency exit door and handed the jerry cans out to him.
‘Where are you going with them?’ Asked Don the driver.
‘What these? Responded Jimmy. They’re full to the brim wi’ pish Don, so Harry and me are just going to empty them out!’
We then proceeded to humph them over to our English ‘buddies’ and the swap took place, for the agreed forty pounds cash.
They were ever so grateful, they even gave us a can of beer each. Little did they know, that they were taking the ‘piss’, so to speak!
I can visualise Mel Gibson in Braveheart saying, ‘You can take our piss, but you’ll never take our diesel!’
We promptly made our way back onto the bus and within minutes, we are back on the busy motorway, heading for our destination of Epping Forrest Hotel, some forty pounds cash better off and ten gallons of piss light
er!
However, not satisfied with the price, Jimmy felt we sold it too cheaply.
For some reason, in convincing them that it was really diesel, he had also convinced himself they were worth more! Daft bugger!
The only problem we faced now was explaining to Peter the disappearance of the jerry cans, when anyone needed to go.
‘Oh shit! The jerry cans. We’ve left them outside the toilets at the service station and forgot to collect them on the way out.’ Jimmy said convincingly.
‘You’ll just have to hold it in until the next stop then!’ Ordered Peter.
Time for a bit of shut-eye, to prevent any more questions during the remaining part of our journey.
On arrival at our destination, Peter decided to reiterate his earlier speech about our behaviour while we were there,
‘Now remember, each and everyone of you has the responsibility on your shoulders of representing Strathclyde Police, so don’t be the one to let the side down!’
With these few words, we all trooped off the bus into the hotel, where we were allocated our rooms.
After some breakfast and a few beers later, Jimmy and I went up to our room to sort out our luggage.
Jimmy looked out the bedroom window and said, ‘Quick Harry, check this out!’
As we both looked out across the road, there was Peter, standing outside the pub, holding himself up with a lamppost, being sick onto the roadway.
I couldn’t resist the moment and opened the window and shouted across at him,
‘Hey Peter, don’t hold back there! Remember you are representing Strathclyde Police.’
Before he could look up and focus on where it came from, I had closed the window and curtains.
The following day, everyone was up early and all decked out in their tartan kilts and me, dressed like Les Mckeown, in my Bay City Rollers trousers and shirt, oh and a few of them wore the obligatory ‘See You Jimmy’ red wig.
How common! … I managed to sell mine!
Down at reception waiting for us, were a few ex-pats, who had also arrived for the big game, along with a female, who turned out to be a cousin of one of our lot.
She introduced herself to us as ‘Ester’ and there was no simple ‘peck’ on the cheek from this ‘burd’, when introducing herself, it was legs wrapped around you and tongue down the throat stuff.
I instantly dubbed her, ‘Ester the Molester’!
En-route to the Wembley Way, we were informed that there was a public transport strike and therefore, we would have to walk part of the way.
Walking along the route, we came across the Prince of Wales pub. Mind you, that was not much of a surprise, ’cause there was one on almost every street corner. He must be doing really well!
‘Let’s go in here for a pint.’ Was the cry from Jimmy, as we all trooped in.
After several beers, followed by some whisky chasers, I made my way to the toilet.
As I stood there decked out in my Bay City Roller’s gear, tartan rosette, tartan beret and the Saltire painted on both cheeks (of my face, I should add). All very colourful.
Suddenly, the door of the toilet opened and in came this six feet plus, mean looking black guy, wearing a long black leather coat to the floor, with lemon coloured fedora-style hat and long feather, lemon trousers, a lemon shirt and a pair of lemon shoes.
I thought to myself, I’ve stumbled across Big Bird from Sesame Street!
As he stood at the cubicle next to me, looking me up and down, he allowed himself a smile, ‘What-choo wearing der man?’ He asked me, as he giggled.
I looked him up and down for a moment, then said, ‘Who’s a pretty boy! … What am I wearing? Check yersel’ out big man. Yer done up like a big yellow canary! I suppose ye sing as well?’
I then looked down at him, while in full flow and said, ‘Now there’s another myth about you black guys … Eh?’
He stood looking at me, completely flummoxed by the accent, as I nonchalantly left him alone in the toilet to try and work it out.
I re-joined the rest of the guys and after a quick rendition of ‘Shang-a-Lang’, we left to continue on our merry way to Wembley.
As things turned out, it wasn’t a good day for Scotland.
For a start the England team showed up and promptly thumped us 5-1. But in all fairness to Scotland, up until they scored the first goal, we were actually drawing with them!
So that was twice the English took the pish out of us in the space of two days! If you get my drift.
However, back at the hotel, the ‘commiseration’ party was in full swing on our return. The booze was flowing.
Ester the Molester was on the sofa, wrapped around two guys like a python, probing the ear of one of them with her big horrible tongue.
The lounge area was littered with carry-out pizza, kebabs and fish suppers, as the drink flowed relentlessly with not a penny changing hands.
All the kitchen staff had locked up the fridges and left for the evening, leaving us more or less to fend for ourselves, hence the discarded carry-out meals.
As the evening progressed, the bar staff were the next to disappear and it was now being run by Peter and Willie from the committee, who seemed more at home, pulling the pints, as opposed to pulling the burds. Which was a first for them.
I quickly went upstairs to change and as I walked into the room, I couldn’t help but notice there was someone sleeping in our beds.
Clarky appeared from the toilet, as if nothing was wrong, so I said to him, while putting my arm around his neck to whisper,
‘Jimmy! Someone is sleeping in my bed and I have just noticed, someone is sleeping in your bed also. Now I know for a fact it’s not me, you, or Goldilocks, so gonny tell me who the fuck it is?’
‘So you’ve noticed then?’ He said, sounding surprised and totally cool.
‘Yes, I’ve noticed?’ I said. ‘And so would Stevie Wonder have spotted the beards, they’re no’ exactly invisible. So who is it?’
‘It’s just big Rab Hagen and his mate. They just needed somewhere to crash out for a couple of hours, but I’ve told them that afterwards, they’ll have to sleep on the floor!’
‘The floor, maybe! The corridor, most definitely!’ I argued.
As it was, they both awoke and after a few moments, they decided to join us down stairs in the bar with the rest of the rabble for a drink.
The party was still in full swing with no obvious sign that it was about to slow down any and we were now joined by the ‘Old Bill’, who had their helmets and tunics off, sitting back enjoying the mood and being offered the odd whisky. In a pint glass!
Ester the Molester had somehow managed to get herself hand-cuffed to the police sergeant, who thought it was a good laugh.
Her idea, not his and her tongue, which appeared to grow like an erection every time she stuck it out, was investigating his tonsils and beyond!
The fun atmosphere amongst our group and the many visitors who had decided to join our party, continued long into the night.
Eventually, as the party started to break up, big Wullie Smith and the young probationer cop, were performing a taxi service and driving some of the locals home, in the police Panda car.
Wullie had recently passed his Police Advanced Driving Course and was tutoring the young probationer, whilst his sergeant was presently ‘tied up’, or should I say ‘engaged’ with Ester!
Unfortunately, on his return to the hotel, the young cop attempted to take a bend too fast and careered across the road and through a brick wall, before coming to rest in a front garden. Not exactly as planned.
Due to the young man not having a driving licence, big Wullie did the honorable thing (no he didn’t take the blame.)
He legged it away from the locus, along with the young cop, back to the hotel!
On his return, The police sergeant, with the aid of Ester the Molester and a few others had managed to remove most of his own clothing and was now lying half naked, asleep in the lounge area.
&n
bsp; His tunic, helmet, epaulettes, shirt, tie, whistle and truncheon, were all gone. Only his hand-cuffs were visible, because they were still attached to his ankles and the table.
What a job I had fitting his metropolitan helmet into my case! Although Jimmy said, ‘Where’s Patricia when you need her. She could have packed that helmet in there nae bother!’
The following morning, when we went downstairs for breakfast, the bombsite we had left had been cleared. Not a trace of anything!
After our breakfast, we congregated outside at the bus, in order to load our luggage and head back up the road for Scotland.
While standing there waiting, Peter arrived to inform us that Don the driver was missing and he required some help to look for him.
During the search, I suggested we load up our luggage into the back area of the bus.
Lo and behold, when I lifted up the door, there was Don the driver, lying flat out, in a drunken stupor alongside Ester the Molester, wrapped tightly around him like a sleeping bag!
We quickly called off the search, dispensed with the services of Ester and began our long journey home.
With big Wullie being nominated by Clarky to drive the bus, due to Don the driver, still lying in an unconscious state!
As an Epilogue to the week-end, the hotel management sent a letter to the committee saying that, ‘Strathclyde Police were welcome back anytime’, due to their ‘impeccable behaviour!’
Roll on the next Wembley Trip’ and another encounter with the ‘Auld Enemy’!
Lucky Me!
…
During an Old Firm football match in Glasgow, a drunken fan was shouting and gesticulating abuse at my colleague and me.
When we went towards him, he ran off across the busy main road without looking and was promptly blootered by a bus.
As I went to his assistance, he looked up at me, unfazed, and said, ‘Wiz ah no’ lucky I didnae hurt myself there?’
‘Not really son!’ I replied, as we promptly arrested him!
He’ll Go Nuts!
…
During my refreshment period at work, one of the other cops on my shift produced a bag of nuts from his food locker, which he added into his breakfast cereal.
