by Harry Morris
A call was made at Mr Warner’s shop and he was made aware of the complaints we had received.
Mr Warner, who was a tall, arrogant and sarcastic character, denied he was selling the alcohol to any person underage and if other people were buying alcohol on their behalf and supplying them with it, it was absolutely nothing to do with him. He also added that if he didn’t sell it to them, they would go elsewhere, so he might as well get the business!
It was extremely annoying for the police to learn that a shopkeeper, such as Mister Warner, was prepared to knowingly sell alcohol to an adult, fully aware that he was purchasing it for a minor. Where were his morals and responsibilities as a shopkeeper and parent? Never mind his respect for the law.
Due to the ongoing complaints of vandalism and disturbances being caused by youths in the area, by the indulging of alcohol, we finally set up a watch on the shop to catch Mr Warner selling the alcohol.
Several hours had passed, when a group of about five youths, aged between thirteen and sixteen appeared and gathered outside the shop. Moments later, the tallest of them appeared to gather money from the others and entered the shop. After a short time, he came out the shop, minus any alcohol. The youths remained loitering about outside the licensed grocers, approaching several adults as they entered the shop and asking them to buy them the alcohol they required. The majority refused, but it only takes one and he came along shortly afterwards and, taking their money, he entered the shop, returning a very short time later, with two bottles of cheap wine which he handed over to the youths. All of this took place immediately outside the front door of Mister Warner’s shop and in full view.
The male was stopped and charged with selling and supplying alcohol to persons underage. The youths had their names taken, were relieved of their alcohol and their respective parents were informed. As for Mr Warner, his attitude was that if someone was buying alcohol and giving it to someone outside his premises, then that was nothing to do with him.
Charges against Mr Warner were dropped and a smug Warner continued to trade and continued to find ways of supplying his cheap wine to the underage youths of the area.
However, as a final part of the story, the festive period was approaching and like every other shopkeeper, Mr Warner was stocking up with alcohol for his busiest day of the year – Hogmanay. Yes, the day before the start of a new year when we all party and celebrate the end of an old year and the beginning of the next one, with lots of booze! You could hardly move in Warner’s shop for boxes on top of boxes of the stuff and he had also spent considerable time and effort making up posters, advertising his special alcohol bargains and tying them to lamp standards, safety railings and even pasting them on walls around the area. No matter where you looked there was an advertising poster relating to ‘Warner Off Sales’. They had sprung up everywhere overnight.
This prompted numerous complaints from the other shopkeepers within the area.
I decided the following day to make a visit to Mr Warner and confront him with this.
Along with a colleague, I called at his shop and spoke with him regarding the fly bill posting, particularly of those immediately outside some of his competitor’s shops. But Warner was a smug and arrogant big bastard, with a total disregard for anyone else and refused to listen, citing the festive period as his busiest time of the year and that he was out to make a killing.
This total lack of compassion and respect for his fellow shopkeepers and his obvious arrogance towards me was disrespectful and I realised during our meeting there was no reasoning with Mr Warner and his selfish attitude.
Therefore, there was no hiding the utter joy and pleasant surprise from the other shopkeepers and a wry smile of satisfaction from myself, when I learned on the morning of Hogmanay 31st December, that Mr Warner had arrived early (8.00am) with extra staff to open his premises for business, only to discover that someone had tampered with the locks of his security shutters and he was unable to open his shop. Now guess to whom Mr Warner turned seeking assistance?
Yours truly!
Try as I might, I had difficulty getting a locksmith who was working that day who was free to attend and when I eventually did manage to get one, the earliest he could come to try and repair it would be tea-time and for that he wanted paid double-time, with money paid up front! Reluctantly, a disgruntled Mr Warner agreed to this request.
Finally, in order to keep him and his extra staff occupied, while they waited for the arrival of the locksmith, I informed him that if he did not attend the main street and remove all those illegal bill posters from the railings, lamp posts and walls, I would charge him with litter and malicious mischief, rubbing more salt into his already deep wounds.
Frustrated and exasperated, Warner had his staff go around and remove all the bill posters.
I would hazard a guess that when Warner eventually gained entry to his premises at about 4.30pm that day, he had a hard shift trying to make up for lost time and revenue, having given all his competitors a clear eight hour’s head start.
Afterwards, I spoke with the locksmith and it would appear someone had squirted what he reckoned was superglue into the locks, thereby causing the problem for Mr Warner.
Who was responsible?
Well, Mr Warner made many enemies in a very short time – customers, parents, shopkeepers, etc – but I have my own suspicions … ‘Evenin’ all!’
No Smoking
…
An old police sergeant walked into a hotel gift shop and bought a packet of cigarettes. After purchasing them, he opened the packet and taking one out, he lit it up (this was prior to the no-smoking law).
As he puffed away while perusing the gifts on offer, the young female assistant said, ‘Excuse me sir, but we don’t allow smoking within the gift shop!’
The sergeant replied rather indignantly, ‘Well if you are going to sell me cigarettes in here, I think it is only right that I be allowed to smoke them in here!’
The young assistant replied very politely and calmly, ‘That’s true sir, we do sell cigarettes to customers. But we also sell condoms in here as well. However, that doesn’t mean if you buy them in here, you’re allowed to have sex in the hotel foyer!’
Happy Clappy with a Whisky Chaser
…
This story is not for the faint-hearted amongst us!
Prior to taking up back shift duty one Sunday afternoon, my next door neighbour, who was a deep-sea diver, arrived at my house, with a bucket full of fresh clappydoos, which for the uninitiated are very large sea molluscs with a dark elongated shell, similar to that of a mussel. Only much, much bigger!
I decided to cook them and take them with me to work and share them with my colleagues on the shift. After cooking them, I just had to try one or two for myself. They were absolutely delicious.
I then removed them from their shells and placed them into a large plastic Tupperware tub with the water they were cooked in and added some malt vinegar. Once inside the police station, a few of my fellow officers tried them, but a few others were very sceptical and couldn’t look at them, never mind eat one. I myself couldn’t resist eating a few more. As the day progressed, officers would call into my office to sample my cooked clappydoos, while others, who had never seen one before, would call in just to look at the size of them.
Nearing the end of my shift, big Archie came in and said he had a couple of bottles of whisky and would I like to join him and Beano for a few drams when we finished.
‘Sure thing!’ I said. ‘And I’ll bring the rest of my clappydoos with me.’
‘Aye, do that.’ After finishing our shift, we all three met up to have our drink and a feast of clappydoos.
What a concoction – seafood, in the shape of a large clappydoo soaked in vinegar, all washed down with a large whisky chaser. Totally disgusting I know, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Big Archie was the first to get scunnered with the clap-pies, in fact, within a very short time he was boakin’ at the tho
ught of eating anymore and he had only tried one!
Beano, in the meantime lasted a bit longer, however, by the time we opened the second bottle of whisky, he had given up on the clappies, leaving me to polish off the rest of them.
Now, by this time, I wasn’t even chewing them anymore – I was stuffing the big clappydoo into my gub and like a Saltcoats seagull, I was swallowing it down whole, quickly followed by a large whisky chaser to help wash it down. This continued for a short time, until I had devoured the last of my clappies and along with big Archie and Beano, we had drunk three bottles of whisky between us.
With the bevy now finished, we parted company. I finally arrived home and went into my house, trying to keep as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb the family. As I leaned over to switch off a lamp which had been left on for me, I stumbled forward and struck one of my collection of decorative wall plates with my head, breaking it, which caused a chain reaction, as the pieces struck other plates below them, knocking them off the wall and smashing them on the tiled floor below.
To prevent any further destruction, I made my way to my bed and as quickly and quietly as possible, I got undressed and slipped into bed. As I lay there motionless, watching the bedroom ceiling spinning around before my eyes, I received a sudden jolt in my stomach. I looked down just in time to see it happen again. This was certainly not normal. I felt like something alien was about to burst out of me, like what happened to John Hurt in Alien.
Whatever it was, it wanted out, right now!
So as not to disturb anybody, I decided it was best if I got up from my bed and went outside for some fresh air. I went to the back garden and got my Alsatian dog from his kennel and went out the rear gate onto the nearby golf course for a walk! Well actually a stagger!
As I made my way up the course, three steps forward and two steps back, the Alien stomach action started up again, then – bbllurrppp! bang! This perfectly shaped clappydoo, without as much as a tooth mark on it came spurting out my mouth like a Scud missile, landing about five metres away, on the perfectly cut lawn of the golf course.
Several other missile births quickly followed this one in jig time, as I regurgitated the lot.
By the way, I never knew I could do this. Talented or what?
In my drunken state looking down at them, they looked like miniature ETs, all perfectly shaped and forming a neat little trail along the golf course toward the green. I half expected one to point at me and say, ‘Phone home!’
I remember my dog looking at them, trying to work out what they were and getting such a fright he jumped back that far, he landed in a sand bunker. I had to use a sand wedge to get him back out.
He then looked over at me, as if to say, ‘What the hell have you been eating big man?’
After walking for a short time around the course to clear my head and convince myself I was not going to give birth to anymore clappies, I decided to make my way back to the house. As for my dog, he was playing it safe and keeping his distance, just in case.
When I got back into bed, I slept like a newborn baby, farting in my underwear and snoring like a pig, thanks to the concoction of booze and seafood I had consumed earlier. Apparently, I could have peeled the paint off the walls with my breath.
However, when I awoke later on that morning I had a light-hearted chuckle to myself over a cup of coffee, when I thought about the golf course green-keeper, or a golfer on his morning round, discovering this trail of neatly formed sea mollusc aliens lining the course and wondering to themselves, how the hell did they manage to get there?
Now that is what I call a conundrum!
The Medical
…
Feeling unwell for several days, I made an appointment to see my doctor and have a check up. After a thorough examination, he wrote me out a prescription and said, ‘Right Harry, I want you to take four tablets daily, one in the morning with a large glass of water, one at lunchtime with a large glass of water, one at teatime with another glass of water and last thing at night, washing it down with a large glass of water!’
I then asked him what exactly was wrong with me?
He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Simple Harry – you’re not drinking enough water!’
The Special Olympics
…
Out one night on patrol in the Castlemilk area of Glasgow, I was assigned a young special constable called Steven – ‘Call me Stevie’ – to accompany me, while my regular colleague cleared up some urgent paperwork at the office. Now a special constable was a male or female civilian who had a full-time day job and wanted to experience what it was like to work as a police officer and gave up their precious time to patrol a particular area with a regular policeman. This was of great assistance to a stretched and undermanned police force, such as we had in Glasgow.
They would be issued with a full uniform and while working alongside a regular police officer, they held the office of constable and were entitled to perform the duties and enforce the powers associated with that title, all for a considerably small amount of pay – usually a paltry sum and expenses only!
Not every cop liked working with one and felt they prevented them, from getting overtime, due to their presence and as such they would say, ‘You wouldn’t like it if I came to your work and did the same job as you for the equivalent of two bob, a hat and a balloon!’
I’m rambling on, but that describes a special, so back to the story.
Right, we were out in the panda patrolling, when we were flagged down by a man, waving frantically in the middle of the road.
‘Quick officer!’ he said excitedly. ‘Some wee bastard has just blagged my motor from the roadway right outside my house!’
I pulled over to the side of the road, whereby the man got into the back seat of the panda and I noted the make and model of his stolen car. Once I had noted all the details I was in the process of relaying them over the radio to my station controller for him to broadcast to other mobile stations, when all of a sudden the male screamed out, ‘There it’s! That’s my motor! The wee bastard’s driving my motor!’
As I looked up, I saw the stolen Ford Capri coming towards us on the opposite side of the road, with a young man driving it.
I immediately performed a U-turn and gave chase, trying to concentrate on my driving, whilst my frantic male passenger screamed hysterically in my ear, ‘Get him! Get him! Get the wee bastard! If he’s damaged my motor he’s dead! Look at the paintwork – it’s gleaming!’
As I closed up on the stolen car, it began to slow down and the driver’s door opened. Next thing, the driver put his legs out the car onto the road and started to run alongside it, eventually pulling his complete body out while holding onto the door, he then let go of the car and ran off in the opposite direction. I pulled up and stopped the car allowing my young special companion Stevie to get out and give chase after the suspect. Keen as mustard, this boy!
In the meantime, the stolen car, now minus a driver, was still careering along the dual carriageway out of control with the driver door wide open. Now, if it had gone to the right, it would’ve hit the kerb and rolled onto the central reservation, before coming to a stop, but unfortunately for the owner of the stolen car, it veered left and collided with the only other thing in sight – a big yellow corporation bus shelter. Watching this entire episode of events unfolding before our very eyes, in what could only be described as looking like it was happening in slow motion, and physically unable to do anything to prevent it, the frantic owner by now was screaming a variety of obscenities in the rear of the panda, ‘Ya bastard, ya rotten wee bastard, I’ll rip yer basterting head off when I get ye!’
Then as it collided with the bus shelter he shouted, ‘Naw! Naw! Naw! No’ my baby!’ Then his mood quickly changed and he said. ‘Aw ya bastard! My motor! That’s it – he’s dead, he’s fuckin’ dead!’
All the time he had his hands on my shoulders from behind me and was digging his nails into me. This prompted me to have to tell him,
‘Cool the beans sir, you’re hurting me!’ (the polite version)!
Meanwhile, special constable Stevie was hard on the heels of our suspect, who had run through the front of a tenement close into the rear back courts, which were in total darkness, with absolutely no street lighting getting through to them.
‘Wallop’, ‘Snap’, ‘Whoosh’, ‘Bang’, ‘Thud’! ‘Oh ya bastard!’ Was the cry! As poor Stevie had forgotten about the dangers of tenants who leave up their clothes ropes and had ran smack into one which caught him around about his neck and spun him up and around like a peerie. I believe he did two triple somersaults, a backward double twist, followed by a half pike before landing spectacularly on his napper.
On an Olympic scorecard, he would score the equivalent of four nines and a straight ten and be in the silver medal position. Not bad for someone who didn’t train to do gymnastics.
Olga Korbut would have no doubt been impressed. However, whilst Stevie was performing these spectacular moves and letting the suspect get away, as he thought, I followed him through the same tenement close, in anticipation of assisting him with the arrest of the suspect.
Being slightly wiser and having been caught out by the clothes rope dangers of a dark backcourt before myself, I stopped at the back close entrance, in order to survey the area and allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness. While surveying all before me and looking for some movement I saw a silhouette of Stevie struggling to get to his feet and called out to him, ‘Is that you Stevie? Are you alright?’
‘I think so!’ he replied back. ‘But I lost our suspect – he just disappeared. Don’t know where he went!’
He had only just uttered these words when suddenly I was struck on the shoulder by a small roughcast pebble from the wall above me. As I looked up, I saw the figure of our suspect hanging out of the stair landing window above, but he hadn’t seen me below.
