This afternoon...

.... I thought I might replace video-games and porn with the real world,
what with a bit 'o sun showing.

Minding my business overtaking into oncoming traffic I spot too late a
single copper chilling in a lay=by.

Don't see him pull out but know he has.

I figure I have about 90 seconds tops before he can slide up the queue
to "have his word."

I need a 400m view behind without him in it to execute a sneaky up a
side road.

Arseburgers.

Gesture to him (hoping for a she) that I'll be kind enough to take the
next left.

No blues 'n twos, maybe this'll be ok.

My confidence in what's next is high and I pull up opposite a chippy on
a busy street.

Pull up with my best police roadcraft, trying to remember how to cover
the back anchor and put-down-my-left-foot-at-the-same-time.

Dismount eager to please, looking good, Do you know why I've stopped
you?

"Eeerrrm," hoping for a hint of a prompt. But he's admiring my wide
hazlenut eyes.

"My lane positiong on that overtake?" with a lying smile.

"Your number-plate is of an incorrect size."

"Is it?"

His long, bendin' legs remind me of a flamingo as he squats to spend
time admiring my spiffy Arrow can.

Mercifully "not for road use" is not a problem, but he still knows it's
a naughty one. Maybe it's because he realizes that if he wanted to he
could easily push a two-day old toilet roll straight into the end-can.

I offer that I was aware of the wince inducing exhaust note which
fetched me to his attention. I explain that one of the two allen keys
holding the baffle in had come away and rather than lose such an
important part of the pipe, I'd chosen to remove the thing entirely an
fix it back at the ranch.

"I have it here, in my rucsack."

"May I see it?"

"Of course."

This one's in the bag," I pun to myself with relief.

"OK, can you show me the remaing screw you say you removed."

Me no like this development.

"Aye, yeah," trying the Northern simpleton approach.

I don't know where this is going but I'm instinctively uncomfortable.

He holds the sooty bolt and delivers both barrels.

"I'd like to check your bag for a second bolt."

Having just told him I'd lost it, I was really hoping not to find it in
the second pocket down, underneath my keys and behind ten Bensons.

I figure that if I don't show it he's gonna look anyway, but I cant lay
hands on it without offloading some of the other contents onto the
pavement.

A mother with a double pram has to take to the grass to pass my bits.

Fags out, phone out, keys out, allen keys out, tissues out, lip-salve
out.

Rizlas out, cheeks prickle, **** I don't remember them being in there.

Suddenly become acutely aware of the crease pressed into the front of
yer man's trousers.

Already I know that finding the screw won't be enough.

Next out are three unused Benson filters complete with scrunched up
paper.

"Could you stand up, sir"

"See, that tells me you may have cannabis about your person. I am now
going to search your belongings."

"Do you have any cannabis on you?"

"No."

Nova-chavs outdide the chippy are winding down their windows to get
audio too.

Though experiencing a degree of sphincter-twitch, I'm still amused as he
methodically un-cracks a tissue-ball that I blew my nose in two weeks
ago.

A pot-pourri of my scabby artifacts litters the pavement as footpath
traffic tries to avoid the mess.

He asks what I'm wearing beneath my spray-on Bora one-piece. No, really,
he did.

I stare at my reflection in the chippy window and wonder if the faces
staring back realise how fuckin' expensive these leathers are as I'm
frisked in the crucifis position.

A wind is blowing so I look down to put my foot on my wallet, **** the
snot-rags.

Groping over and clearly saving the best for last, he asks me what is in
my previously unmentioned fag packet.

Not waiting for an answer he wants me to pick it up. And open it.

Well what the **** would *you* say?

"Just my Bensons and acoupleofrollups."

"Would you show me?"

I'm inexplicably irritated by the loose threads on his lapel.

Oh well, **** it, as a load of dust and four industrial-strength spliffs
slide out between three proper ones.

Damn, he must use spit snd polish on those boots.

For once I'm no longer worried that my speed-hump makes me look a twat
at standstill.

I *so* want to ask if he wants a light as he gives each unit three
massive inhales.

"Don't worry, there are no life-changing moments going to happen here"
<verbatim> he says.

"I'd like you to put these down that drain."

Watched by at least twenty people and a girl with whom I'm on nodding
acquaintance, I walk ten yards to the metal grille, my D-stone panels
splitting my 'nads to my hips.

Pah, good riddance I hope to illustrate as I not only drop the goodies
in buy SCRUNCH THEM UP first. (I'll hate myself for a long time about
that.)

"Holy ****," I think. This may turn out not tooo bad. And light up a
Benson.

"Would you put that out and get in the back of the car, please. Don't
shut the door or you won't be able to get out again." <excuse me?>

It ain't easy getting into the rear with the passenger seat fully back,
what with Le 'Ump 'n all, so I sit one leg casually out the door and
wonder whether he's noticed my blacker-than-black visor or if there is
any possibility that he'll twig my speedo's disconnected.

Two fixed-penalties and a lecture later and he's asking me to refit the
baffle, which I do under his supervision.

He does his closing gambit and finishes by addressing me as, Mate.



Dunno whether to stick pins in his doll or buy the **** a drink...

 

On Sun, 6 Mar 2005 22:50:52 -0000, I Will, But Me Mate Won't

snip

Lovely bit of story telling.

 

Has the attention to detail you'd expect from the readers letters section of
Fiesta, making it difficult to differentiate whether its a work of fact or
fiction.
Surely being "frisked" ain't something that tends to happen nowadays, for
risk of infringement of personal rights etc ?
Or is stop and search still very much on the cards and I lead a closeted
life to have never experienced it?
Did he have a muslim shroud on under the helm, that might explain it...

If I could be arsed, which I am not, I'd check but I am sure it details most
the fineries here
http://www.homeoffice.gov.uk/docs4/stop_search_manual.pdf

 

That's what I thought 'til it happened.

He actually gave me a form and explained that I had a right to complain
about the search. Quit whilst ahead springs to mind.

Actually, I had my girlfriends head in a bag.

Me neither.

 

<snip>

Nice tale. And I'd call it damn good policing.

 

Have managed to scrape together a little bit of respect for Plod after
that little tale.

Nicely written too.

 

Shocking don't come close.

I can see how the spliffage components could give rise to having a nosey
through my stuff, but his initial desire to make me empty my bag in
search of a bolt surely can't be right.

 

I can see how the spliffage components could give rise to having a
nosey

Well it turns out it was exactly right!

 

What he said.

Alternative career ahead?

 

Actually, I'd be more annoyed about the assumption that carrying Rizla
and filters means you're smoking weed.

I'd have had those with me when I smoked roll-ups and I wouldn't want
to be stop-searched because of them.

 

So he had you bang to rights on numerous things, along with some dodgy
looking combustible materials, and you don't see why he might have asked to
search your stuff?

I can

 

asked me to show) before there was even a hint of anything that might
reasonably be classed as sufficient grounds IMO.

I take the view that he should either have nicked me immediately for not
having the baffle rigged up OR watched me replace it and deliver a
bollocking.

Deciding that *he might be lying* (about a bolt ffs) surely is not cause
to go through my gear.

Sure he got lucky when the nasties appeared, but that should never have
'bin an issue.

 

That's the point innit. Something made his plod spider sense tingle. He
investigated. You'd done something wrong. He then let you off and was a
little harsher on some other things to compensate.

Good policing for finding your stash. Good policing for letting you
off. Good policing for being a bit tougher on the FP's to compensate.

 

I ain't gonna argue with that. ;-)

 

No, but I've never made joints from pre-made cigarettes either.
Probably because the few times I've smoked I've had loose baccy with
me.

The moral of this story is noisy exhausts lead to hard drugs.

 

"The 600s just don't give me the same rush anymore, and those
streetfighters? Could be anything!".

 

Her friends tried to stop her but my mother continued to ride during
pregnancy.

 

If they were king size rizlas with bits of the packet ripped off I'd
say it was a fair bet.

I remember a Paul Merton sketch where a bloke goes to the newsagent
and asks for fags and rizlas "I like to take the tobacco out and roll
them up again".

 

<Judge Dredd mode>

Everyone is guilty of something.

</JDm>

 

"First sunny Sunday, free tank of petrol. Just to see if you like
it".