I Fought the Law
If there’s one thing I’ve always been able to say with complete confidence it’s this: I’m a good girl, I am. Never saw the inside of the headmaster’s office. Never got booted out of anything for bad behaviour. Never had one brush with the law. Until now.
You know how I said the other week that I wanted to fit some things into the last weeks of my thirties like raising a people’s army and taking over a country? Remember that, eh? Well, it’s not that. I was in France over the holidays and tried it, but my superb speech carefully planned to rouse the sensibilities of the masses fell flat as the French pretended not to understand it and collectively went, “Bof…” So, no, my brush with the law wasn’t a hearty beating 1968–style with a gendarme’s baton, or a thorough tonsil rinsing with a water cannon. It’s oh so much more tame than that. But yes, my friends I have managed to fit in a sojourn in the back of a polis car into my last few days of my thirties. And kids, it wasn’t cool…it wasn’t cool at all.
(And I write this in full expectation of the first comment being from my long time blog buddy, Noddy, a polis blogger of old. The shame of it…. All I can say is, I went quietly Noddy, be assured of that.)
The story of my legal misdemeanour is so pathetic that it is only made blog-worthy by two things: the fact that it is the first time I have ever been charged for anything, and the live commentary on the whole incident by my willing accomplice, Junior Misssy, who incidentally got off scot-free despite putting me up to it.
It all started when I had a bright idea to get a curry takeaway. If only I’d cooked instead of being a lazy arse. And then I made the bizarre decision not to sit on the sofa whining until Meeester agreed to go for it. I went myself- another mistake. What was I thinking? The Capo never gets caught- he always sends his henchmen. That’s how they could never get Al Capone…
The long and short of it is that I parked my car illegally outside a curry house. Not just yellow lines illegally but on zig-zag lines outside the curry house beside the pedestrian crossing. This is, apparently, significantly more naughty than yellow lines parking. And to quote the officer in question, my actions “showed complete disregard for other motorists”. The man’s right, I paid other motorists no mind. I gave them nary a thought. I am sorry. I did however listen to my five year old who whined and said that she had already taken her seatbelt off when I hummed and hawed about parking further up. She’s a criminal mastermind of manipulation, that one.
When I came out of the Nazma, winner of the North East heats of the Scottish Curry House Without Customer Parking of the Year 2006, the cops were waiting for me. In fact, they said they had been in the takeway asking if anyone owned a white mini, but ironically I was glued to a TV special on Scottish police drama, Taggart, on the takeaway telly and must have missed them. How’s that for comedy? I actually think that they thought I’d seen them and had just ignored them- a fugitive if you like, and possibly this was the reason for the actual charging rather than a mere cuff round the ear and a telling off that I was expecting.
Two other things occur which may have led to the 3 points on my license and the sixty quid fine severity of the eventual punishment:
1.The police are trained not to respond in any way to the kind of face that the Cat uses on Shrek. I used it, accompanied with the simpering, broken voiced, “You’re not going to charge me, are you….?”. It didn’t work. By God that Tulliallan Police College training is bloody good. That face usually works on everyone!
2.I forgot the “I’m just nipping in” lights. Aren’t these signals, apparently also known as Hazard Warning Lights, the get out of jail card of every motorist? No??? They say, “Hey, I may be illegally parked and holding up heaps of traffic because I’m nipping in to get my dry cleaning but you cannae get angry because I’ve switched on the ‘I’m just nipping in’ lights. Sorry!”
Another classic mistake- “I’m just nipping in lights” may just be the cloaking device I forgot to engage.*
Despite the humiliation I felt, I have to say one thing, the two policemen were perfectly nice to me. In fact, at one point the polis were quite funny. They looked at my drivers’ license and took the piss out the fact that I am about to turn forty in three days, “Oh, big birthday coming up, eh? Oh dear.” I half expected them to sing Happy Birthday to me, as this kind of behaviour is not unknown amongst the Grampian Polis. My brother in law got a chorus of Happy Birthday a few years ago from two officers who caught him without road tax on his birthday. Maybe if it had been Wednesday I might have got that. I don’t feel cheated or owt, it was nice of them to notice. No birthday present though….
So now onto Junior Misssy. Junior Misssy added these items of interest to the story:
1. After explaining to her that I was going to have to leave her in the car while I went and sat in a police car for five minutes BUT WAS NOT GOING TO JAIL SO DON’T PANIC, She stopped me and said. “But Mum, it’s OK, I know two policemen”. Bless. She is already thinking of how her connections can get her out of things. She is going to be a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, having met two officers at a school talk who allowed her to try on the handcuffs and one of their hats, does not mean she’s got the whole force in her pocket. Plus, this is not LA in the 1930s.
2. When I returned from the back of the police car after my ordeal (as it shall now be known), Junior Misssy asked me if they shouted at me and used bad words. Eh? What’s that about? I’m thinking that maybe she’s maybe been watching The Wire or something behind my back.
3. When I told Junior Misssy what had happened, I explained that there would be three stars going on my driving license. She refused to accept that getting three stars was not a “good thing”. She also said that if they gave me three ticks, this would also be a good thing. Why was I upset at this?
So there you go, I managed to get nicked for the first time ever three days before my fortieth birthday. I’ve got three days left- what’s next? I hope you’ll all still want to consort with me, despite my confession of criminal tendencies. A Happy New Year to you all.
*I’m joking, police readers, I’m joking I would never do this and I don’t know anyone else who does! No no.
Don’t ever miss a Misssive, subscribe!
Grey Toon Hero
I am a great defender of Aberdeen. It is my adopted home town, and unlike many of the born and bred residents, I am aware of just how lucky I am to live here.
“The Guardian” has caught onto this fact and this week in their Weekend supplement, the “Let’s Move to” feature concentrates on my lovely, if cold, little city.
The article says, “..the city is spick and span with more parks and municipal borders than it knows what to do with”. Too true. The city doesn’t win “Britain in Bloom” every flipping year for no reason.
I could go on for hours about how great my town is, but I want to pay tribute to someone, who shall remain anonymous who risked all to make Aberdeen a perfect crime free place to live; my friend, the Community Warden Blogger. Unfortunately, you can no longer read their blog as, being critical of the new Council policy of stripping the successful and much respected Community Wardens of their links with Grampian Police, the blog ( A Community Warden’s Day) has been taken down. But not before the local papers wrote an excellent article about the blogger and their whistleblowing activities.
Community Wardens help make Aberdeen a safe place to live. As the on-the-street eyes and ears of law enforcement, the wardens worked together with the police, and together they were well on the way to having street crime nigh-on licked.
Now, sent out to face the troublemakers of Aberdeen without police back up and proper radios, these guys and girls are defenceless and under threat of attack, as they simultaneously have to gain the trust of the community whilst at the same time fining folk for dog fouling and parking violations.
Their bosses are no longer the police force, with all their databases, experience and communications systems, but the beleaguered and much criticised City Council, who have no such systems and who seem to think revenue from parking tickets is more important than crime prevention.
Community Warden blogger, I salute you and hope that your bravery in bringing this travesty to wider public attention, will get the ailing and inept City Cooncil to rethink their ridiculous strategy which strikes me as being akin to peeing in your own canoe.
Many at Grampian Police agree with the Community Warden Blogger, I believe. Some of them read this blog, as do a couple of councillors, so they may have comments to make.
But for me, this little quote from one of the teen residents of a choice area of toon, speaks volumes,
“Aye, they are alright. They gie ye intae trouble but they always find yer chory* bikes.”
The wardens do the jobs that the Police don’t have time to do and in so doing are a real part of the community.
Read the excellent article about the Community Warden’s Blog here.
Aaaah…. the power of blogging!
* (Chory = stolen)
My Drugs Hell
On the day he went missing, his parents called the police and not much was done. The Chief Superintendent liked to be in charge of pretty much everything and he wasn’t around to make any decisions.
Two missing persons, then.
One was a small boy being held by a convicted and paroled paedophile who should have been closely monitored, but wasn’t.
Another was a Chief Superintendent who was banging a woman who wasn’t his wife in a lay-by, too busy to go into work.
An enquiry later that year pointed all fingers of blame in the direction of the Chief Superintendent. Who knew how long the boy had been held alive before his horrible death? Who knew why the police couldn’t suss out that a dangerous convicted paedophile living across from the playpark in question might be responsible? Who knew how much of the lack of action was because the boy was the son of a benefit financed council estate family who had a colourful reputation?
I was telling you about the Drug Awareness Mandatory Course. I promised you all I’d write about it.
You’re thinking that maybe I’m going to belittle the efforts of a hemp wearing Dudley-DoRight-Drugs-Action-Type-Guy, aren’t you? But I’m not. That might have at least been useful.
So anyway back to the Ex-Chief Superintendent. What do you do when you are forced, kicking and screaming, into early retirement by then First Minister, Donald Dewar, your reputation in tatters? Well, you write a book. Not about the little boy. No, you can’t touch that one. You look around you, you see how well that chap Mr Nice is doing with that drug trafficking book. So you write your own. Except this one is from the point of view of a law enforcer (kinda).
And then you get a nice little earner pontificating over a strung out two day (TWO day!) course lecturing educational professionals about the international drug trade. These educational professionals sit hoping to God that at one point the monologue will at least lead to some informed pointers on dealing with young people in their charge who may need help with drug addiction. It does not. It is like sitting in front of a 5 hour Party Political Broadcast. And then having to come back next week to do it all again.
So “Drug Awareness” it was called. Three months worth of lectures subjecting all employees to the course. Nice work, if you can get it. As a result, all teaching staff can tell you anything you want to know about the evil that is hash, cocaine and heroin. We know how it is made, where it is made and how illegal and nasty it all is.
What we can’t tell you is how to get help for any of our students who maybe having trouble with drugs or how to tell any of the signs of being under the influence in your classroom.
But let’s face it, they probably all live in council estates and are not to be bothered about anyway. Or possibly the self proclaimed expert on drug awareness has never met a junkie, or been any where near a drug rehabilitation centre in his puff.
Maybe instead of doing all those things he was banging some woman who wasn’t his wife in a lay by, being covertly photographed by the local papers….
Caught by De Fuzz
On our first day in the Netherlands something a tad bizarre happened. We are still trying to figure it out. In an attempt to do so I am going to write this post on Top Blog Magazine’s theme of the week, “There Are Two Sides to Every Story”.
Side One: The Flying Martinis are in their car trying to find a supermarket in Hellvoetsluis, Zeeland, Holland
Misssy M: No you’ve gone right past it. You’ll need to turn around, we’re heading back to Rotterdam. Again.
Meeester (Sees opening to some facility): Here’ll do. Oh look kids, Dutch bin men. Oh look a lady bin man!
Misssy M: God you’re right! I’ve never seen a she-scaffie before!
Meester: Right, so back that way…. Oh look kids, a police car!
Misssy M: Look…. they’re checking us out….Bet they follow us.
The Flying Martinis drive off in the planned direction and right enough, the cops are have reappeared… and are behind them.
Meeester: Oh, for goodness sake!
Misssy: They’re going to stop you! Oh my God, I can’t believe it! What for?
Police car shows flashing LED sign that says, “Stop!”
Misssy (starts to laugh): This is unbelievable. We’ve not done nuthin’, copper!
Meeester: Better get my papers. Have you got the fake ones that Donald Pleasance made for us?
Misssy hands him his drivers’ licence: This should be good.
Meeester gets out of the car and goes over to the Muscley Dutch Policeman. Still in earshot, the whole conversation is heard by Misssy and the kids.
Muscley Dutch Copper: Your licence please.
(Inspects licence– both sides)
So why are you in Holland?
Misssy (to herself): We’re taking delivery of a massive bale of hash. With our two small children, caravan and holiday clothes. We may also leave a nail bomb somewhere, for a laugh. Muppet.
Meeester: We’re on holiday. Just came over from Scotland yesterday. (Winningly) Lovely place. Flat.
Muscley Dutch Copper: Where are you staying?
Misssy(to herself): In a drug den. Off our mashes on ecstacy pipes. Tis bangin’!
Meeester(smiling broadly): We’re in the T’ Weergoos Camping Site. We’ve a caravan.
Muscley Dutch Policeman: Are you having a good time?
Misssy (to herself): If we say “no” will you nick us?
Meeester: Yes, although the thunder storm last night was a bit much! (Fake laughs, winningly)
Muscley Dutch Policeman(looks over to colleague in car and nods): OK sir. You can go.
Meeester (gets back in car and looks at Misssy): What the blazes was THAT about?
__________________________________________________________________
Side Two: The Dutch Muscely Policemen.
Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: I’ve been working out, can you tell? *Sigh*
I want a transfer. Hellevoetsluis is dull, dull, dull. I want to wrestle people to the ground, I want to catch bad guys, I want to do a sting. Like on telly.
Dutch Muscley Policeman2: I hear you, brother. I didn’t sign up for this either. Hey! Hey! Hey! ….Engels! Check them out! Want to fuck with their heads?
Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: Hell, yes! Can I do the siren?
Dutch Muscley Policeman2: OK, but I get to pull him over…
Dutch Muscley Policeman 1: (with heavy heart): Ohhhh Kaaaay then….
And in the words of Kurt Vonnegut….”and so it goes….”
