Even the Lies are True Read online

  At which point, I turned my head around to look at Hughie, who said under his breath, ‘Lean your head forward as if to pick up your pint and I’ll just hook him.’

  As it turned out, he was quite a nice lad, although slightly demented.

  Also, apart from the barbed wire wrapped around his arms, posing as some sort of modern jewellery, he had a set of car-battery jump leads tied in a neat knot around his neck like a fashion statement.

  ‘Why the jump leads around your neck?’ I asked him.

  ‘I forgot that you needed to wear a tie tonight and these were all I could find in the boot of the car!’ he replied.

  ‘Awright!’ I said. ‘Well, you better not “start” anything in here!’

  Hughie then spotted the buffet being uncovered on the display tables by Big Andy Hunter. Nicknamed ‘Billy Bunter’, he was enormous and rumour had it that he was originally a triplet but he ate the other two.

  When he was at school, his favourite instrument was the dinner bell.

  Hughie moved swiftly to the front of the queue and shouted over to me, ‘Harry! Do you want toad in the hole wi’ some salad?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Hughie,’ I responded, ‘I’ll just have the salad. I’ve been toed in the arse once and didn’t really enjoy it.’

  The assembled queue of drunken bus drivers laughed in unison.

  Much later, after the buffet was cleared away and many, many more whiskies were consumed by yours truly, I was summoned to the pool table to play my first game.

  ‘Right, Harry,’ said the organiser, ‘you’re on this side with the rest of the OMOs here.’

  ‘Ho!’ I said, taking great exception to this remark, then Hughie explained what he meant by ‘OMO’. It was One Man-Operated bus drivers and not ‘homo’ as in a sexual preference.

  Surprisingly, with Hughie’s coaching skills, I won the first game very easily. My next couple of games went the same way, as I was finding it all so easy.

  The balls, as they say, were running kindly for me and were never too far from a pocket to pot them into.

  I was playing like Stephen Hendry – minus his plooks – and, before I knew it, hey, I was in the semi-final of the tournament. I found it very hard to believe because I could hardly see the pool table – never mind the coloured balls.

  My opponent broke off and I was bent down, lining up my cue for my first pot at a ball.

  ‘Hold it, Harry!’ Hughie said. ‘Pot this one first!’

  I looked over to see one of my balls covering a pocket and just perfect for potting.

  ‘I never noticed that one – thanks, Hughie,’ I replied.

  The game continued in this vein for several shots – me bending down to line up a pot and Hughie changing my mind by pointing out a much easier pot to take on. I must have drunk more than him!

  All the time Hughie was talking one load of utter ‘pish’ to my opponent, who was having to use all his concentration skills just to understand what Hughie was saying to him.

  As for me, I was closing one eye and trying to focus on my cue ball as it appeared to be moving about the table on its own and thinking to myself, I wish that bloody white cue ball would stop moving!

  Then, just as I was about to take my shot, I clearly saw a hand lift up one of my balls and place it in front of the pocket.

  I straightened up and composed myself because I decided I must be seeing things – balls don’t move about by themselves and, even in my rapidly drunken state, I couldn’t piss this mot – I mean, I couldn’t miss this pot!

  Then I realised why I was so good at pool all of a sudden.

  My brother Hughie was talking to my opponent and, while distracting him, he was placing my balls over the pockets for me to pot them, as well as ‘potting’ a few of my balls into his own trouser pockets.

  I wondered how some games seemed to be over very quickly … I was only potting half my quota of balls, compared to my opponent’s full quota.

  Being a conscientious police officer with a reputation for being honest and upholding the law, I couldn’t handle the fact that I was in the pool final due to the behaviour of my brother Hughie who was blatantly cheating. With this playing on my mind, I did the only honourable thing available to me! No, I didn’t own up – are ye daft? I was winning. I just compromised. I told Hughie I didn’t want his help in the final because I was good enough to win it on my own.

  Suffice to say I didn’t win the final and, to rub salt into my wound, I played total crap and was completely whitewashed. Which, in retrospect was probably a fair result for me.

  Come to think of it, even when I play sober, I’m total crap.

  However, Hughie reckoned I was extremely lucky to get nil! Which was hurtful, because I do have feelings you know!

  During the evening, Hughie had also been helping the committee by handing out the drink raffle tickets and helping himself to several sheets for doing it.

  He had also arranged with the girl behind the bar to allow us to trade them in for a carry out and had placed an order for a bottle of whisky, a bottle of rum and two dozen cans of Red Stripe lager – just in case we got thirsty on our road home.

  I decided we should go for a ‘Chic Murray’ – an Indian curry – and told Hughie I was going outside for some fresh air, while they were clearing up the tables.

  Unfortunately, I forgot to mention to him about going for the curry. While sitting on a wall outside waiting for Hughie, a police panda car pulled up alongside me.

  ‘Hi, Harry!’ said the passenger. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, hi, Davie!’ I replied – it was a friend I had been to college with. I continued, ‘I’ve got this theory, Davie, that the world revolves on an axis so, if I wait here long enough, my house will pass by and I’ll get hooked up by the wife!’

  ‘Don’t think so, Harry. Why don’t you jump in the back and we’ll give you a lift?’ he said.

  ‘OK, Davie,’ I replied, getting into the rear of the car.

  ‘Could you drop me off at the Noor Mahal Indian Restaurant in Shawlands? I feel like a wee Chic Murray afore I go home!’

  ‘No problem, Harry!’ replied Davie, and promptly drove me to the restaurant, dropping me off at the front entrance.

  As I entered, I was shown to a table for two, as I had told them that my brother Hughie would be joining me.

  All I remember after that was the waiter nudging me and saying, ‘Excuse me, Harry, but we are wishing to go home now and I don’t think your brother is coming!’

  I looked around me and the restaurant was empty, apart from the staff still clearing up.

  ‘What time is it, Zaffar?’ I asked the manager.

  ‘Very late, Harry – quarter to one in the morning. You have been sleeping for ages!’ he replied.

  While all this was going on, Hughie had come out of the club looking for me, couldn’t find me and organised a small search party of his friends to help him check the nearby golf course just in case I had fallen into a bunker.

  Having no success in finding me, he then flagged down a ‘fast black’ taxi and went to my house, where he informed my wife, ‘I’ve lost him – I’ve lost Harry. One minute he was there and the next minute, poof, he was gone.’

  Mind you, I think ‘poof’ was the wrong choice of word to describe my disappearance from outside the club.

  He continued explaining, ‘I’ve been up and down the golf course next to the club looking for him in case he fell into a bunker! Some of the guys helping to look for him nearly shat themselves and ran off when they saw me dressed in white coming towards them in the darkness!’

  All the while, my missus stood with her arms folded, listening to this pathetic tale of woe from my drunken brother, totally unconcerned.

  Poor Hughie, he was completely demented and unaware that I was wrapped up, as snug as a bug in a rug, in the spare room of my parents’ house, snoring away like the proverbial pig, with my runner-up medal for the pool competition along with a crisp £20 note
tucked away in my breast pocket.

  Roll on the next games night on the buses!

  ‘Fares, please!’

  Canteen Patter

  . . .

  Big Eddie Oliver, a police motorcyclist, called at the Force Training Centre canteen.

  As he approached the hot plate counter, he asked the assistant, ‘Here, Cathy, have you got a plate of yesterday’s soup?’

  To which Cathy replied, ‘Certainly, Eddie. Come back tomorrow!’

  German Knockers

  . . .

  Several years ago, my partner O’Reilly and I were engaged in motorcycle patrol duties when we were instructed by the duty officer of the division to check all the local schools in our area, due to an ongoing complaint of vandalism.

  With this in mind, we went out on our police patrol.

  Travelling along a road in Glasgow, I observed two men and a woman loitering outside the gates of a school.

  We about-turned and headed back down towards the school, whereby one of the men, who was wearing a black cowboy hat, had climbed over the metal railings into the school and, along with the other man, was attempting to assist the young woman, who was wearing a black miniskirt and a bikini-style T-shirt, barely covering her rather large bust and revealing a very bronzed midriff.

  As we pulled up alongside them, I enquired what they were doing in the school grounds.

  One of the men answered in a broken English accent, ‘Vee are German students and vee stay in zee school, yah?’

  ‘Oh, so you’re Germans?’ I replied.

  Then as I looked over at the well-endowed girl, I thought I would be smart and said, ‘Your wee bird has got some pair of knockers for her size!’

  To my complete and utter embarrassment, the girl replied in a broad Glaswegian accent, ‘Ho, you! He’s bloody German, no’ me!!’

  Exit very quickly two red-faced police officers!

  The Smell of Robbery

  . . .

  In the early eighties, due to an increase in armed robberies in the Strathclyde area in particular, the police decided to set up ‘Special Anti-Crime Teams’ in order to try and combat them.

  I was enrolled as a member of this section and our objective was, whenever the police radio operator broadcast a certain code word over the airwaves, followed by the location, we would respond immediately at high speed to the call.

  However, this entailed a lot of patience, watching and waiting.

  In order to pass the time, I began to make up my own code names for the various teams of police officers involved and came up with the following abbreviations:

  FART: which would stand for Fast Action Response Team;

  SHIT: which would stand for the CID or the Strathclyde High Intelligence Team, hence the expression, ‘The CID, what a load of shit!’

  Then I came up with:

  CRAP: which would refer to the Criminal Response Action Patrol.

  You should by now see the direction in which I was heading, and especially where my ideas were coming from.

  Another which readily springs to mind is:

  ARSES: they were the Anti-Robbery Squad Enquiries Section.

  Finally, the last section I came up with was:

  POOFS: who have absolutely nothing to do with the team you’re maybe thinking about, or who readily come to mind, but are the Police Operational Order Form Section, who would deal with all new legislation resulting from the enquiries performed by the other crime teams.

  They’re what we term the ‘back-up’ team.

  So please, don’t even whisper under your breath what you think of it, for I’m just as likely to make up another squad from your expression and it’s even more likely to be accepted!

  Mind you, I should have said, I’ve just got ‘wind’ that they’re still recognised as ‘FARTS’ within the police, having recently been informed that the ‘FART’ team was still the term being used.

  Is That Right?

  . . .

  An ex-cop’s son applied for a position in the police as a civilian force station assistant, working in the front office, dealing with members of the public.

  After receiving several knockbacks for the post, his father decided to write to the police personnel department for an explanation as to why he was not being considered.

  He received a written response a few days later from the head of the personnel department, stating that his son’s application had contained far too many ‘speeling’ mistakes.

  Speeding Excuses

  . . .

  The speed radar unit stopped a car for exceeding the limit.

  As they spoke with the male driver and made him aware of the offence, his passenger wife insisted in interrupting the police officers at every opportunity, saying how surprised she was that her husband should be stopped for speeding rather than her:

  ‘I can’t believe he has been caught breaking the speed limit, because he is a funeral director and is used to driving slowly. Now if it had been me driving, I could understand it, because I’m always speeding about in the car!’

  The reporting officer then interrupted her and said, ‘Well, if you’d like to wait until I’m finished with your husband, I’ll be delighted to take down your full confession in writing!’

  That’s Entertainment

  . . .

  A few years ago, when I performed with a Scottish folk band, we were playing a concert at a local theatre.

  During the performance a fight broke out at the rear of the hall and a bottle was thrown from the back, which struck a man in the front row on the head.

  Concerned for the man and the injury to his head and having been trained in first aid as a police officer, I jumped off-stage to tend his injury.

  ‘Are you all right, mate, are you all right?’ I enquired.

  Without looking, the man quickly replied, ‘Naw, I’m not! Hit me again, I can still hear ye playing!’

  Help the Aged

  . . .

  One day whilst engaged on uniform beat duty, I saw an elderly woman struggling with several heavy grocery bags.

  Being a considerate police officer in the community, I went over to her and said, ‘Give me your bags, hen, and I’ll carry them for you.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, son, that’s very kind of you. I’m just up this close here,’ she said, pointing to an old tenement building.

  I carried them all the way and it was just my luck, she lived in a ‘tap dancer’.

  Up I went, carrying her bags all the way to the top floor.

  When I got to her door, she thanked me very much and said, ‘That was awfy good o’ you, son. Would you like a nice juicy Jaffa orange?’

  ‘No, thank you, missus,’ I politely replied.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘whit aboot a wee hauf?’

  I thought for a moment, then answered, ‘You know, hen, I would love a wee hauf!’

  To which she responded, ‘Right, then, you hold on to it while I go and get a knife!’

  Another Vacancy

  . . .

  An advertisement for a police cell van driver listed the special qualities required:

  ‘Whilst working alongside police officers, you are expected to be of a high physical fitness and prepared to deal with occasional bouts of bad temper and antisocial behaviour.’

  They forgot to clarify to whom this paragraph referred!!

  Don’t Call Me a Liar

  . . .

  One time in the witness box of the Sheriff Court, I was being cross-examined by a very young, inexperienced defence agent.

  During his questioning of me, he said, ‘I put it to you, officer, that did not happen and what really happened was …’ blah blah blah. He then began to give the court a completely different version of events.

  He then looked at me for a response, so I said, ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

  Quick as a flash, the presiding sheriff intervened: ‘Eh, I don’t think Mr Ross is saying that, are you, Mr Ross? You’re not calling the police officer a liar. Or are
you?’

  To which Mr Ross, the defence lawyer, surprised and somewhat flustered by my response to his scenario, said, ‘Certainly not, m’lord, I was only giving an alternative version of events to the police officer, but I have no more questions for the witness!’

  My unexpected response worked a treat!

  Ill Health Retiral

  . . .

  I was summoned to the divisional commander’s office.

  ‘You want to see me, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Morris,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to retire for health reasons!’

  ‘But I’m not ill, sir!’ I pleaded my case.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he replied, ‘but you make me sick!’

  Graffiti

  . . .

  I attended a call from an Asian grocer’s shop, regarding a complaint of graffiti being sprayed on his security shutters.

  On arrival, I met with an excited Mr Singh, the shop owner, who spoke to me at 60mph. (That’s very fast!)

  ‘Woh! Slow down, Mr Singh!’ I said. ‘Take a breath, man!’

  ‘I am being very sorry, Mr Harry, but I’m also being very angry with these bastards who do this to me,’ he replied.

  You could say he was not a happy chapatti!

  He then led me back outside his shop and pulled down his security shutters, to reveal in bold black writing, a metre high, the letters ‘NF’!

  ‘Look, Mr Harry, look what they have done!’ he cried.

  I looked at it for a moment, then said, ‘C’mon, Mr Singh, you’re not seriously suggesting that Nick Faldo was here last night, spray-painting graffiti on your security shutters, because I know for a fact he has a stonewall alibi – he was playing golf in America, ’cause I saw him live on the TV last night.’

  He looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, ‘No, not Nick Faldo, Mr Harry, but National Front bastards!’