A potpourri this week starting with;
MEN CAN BE THEIR OWN WORST ENEMIES. In general we men try to do it all without the benefit of reading the instructions, (usually translated from some obscure Chinese dialect into a language resembling English) or asking other men for help. Picture if you will a pleasant Sunday afternoon in New Farm Park, Brisbane. The road running next to the river bank is jammed with parked cars, while families picnic on the lush grass. Tall trees create a wonderful shade and children dart amongst the playground, screeching and laughing.
A slow drive through the park by your concerned Copper and his off-sider reveal a family in distress. We pull up near the car, activate the blue light and step out to assess the situation. No Hercule Poirot is needed for this case, poor old Dad’s locked the keys in the car. I could see the desperation on his face, wanting to ask for help but not sure. His wife stands at the back of the car, a screaming two-year old on her hip who’s in definite need of a nap, and a five-year old boy who’s now trying his hardest to climb into our car.
“Afternoon,” I say, “Having a bit of bother?”
“Can you help us?” says wife, glaring at hubby who’s using what looks to be a metre of fencing wire to get in through the driver’s side door. I take a look inside, handbag and wallet are on the front seat and the keys dangle tantalizingly close in the ignition. Taking my cap off with a cavalier flourish, I remove a length of plastic packing tape from inside the leather sweat band. Bend it in two and say, “Do I have your permission to open your car?” She nods thankfully. I wet the bent end of the plastic, and slip it in between the body of the car and the door rubber. Tongue poking out slightly I maneuver the tape over the rounded door lock, with a smile and a flick of the wrists, Viola the door is unlocked.
My mate in the meantime has been down the road a little, on the radio to check the registered owner of the locked car. Mum almost swoons with delight and starts dragging the five-year old off our car, Dad goes to get in and stops. He turns to me with a superior, know it all, you’ve made me look small in front of my missus grin on his face, and says,
“How do you know that we are the owners of this car.”
My Mate goes to say something, I shush him and push down the door lock and slam it closed. Slipping my cap back on I look him in the eye,
“You have a point there Sir, good day.”
He stutters and she glares at him, the kids shut up and it’s on for young and old. I watch them in the side mirror as we slowly drive away and hope we don’t get called back to the domestic that’s unfolding.
If you are thinking of upsetting your wife by pointing a pistol at her, while she’s trying to leave you, think again. A call for help on triple zero one late Sunday evening, sent us on a race to a quiet neighbourhood in a large rural city. The gist of the call was, ‘My husband has a gun and he’s going to shoot me.’ Coppers being what they are get something of a thrill from calls like that, well at least I did. The street was dark and the high-set house stood out, lights blazing, all the windows open, hysterical screaming echoing from inside. No waiting for back up, we rushed to the house, Mate to one side me to the other, revolvers out, hearts thumping ten to the dozen.
A dark form leaps out from behind a hedge to my right, arms straight up in the air. He begins carrying on, ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, I haven’t got a gun, I don’t have one, she’s lying, blah blah.’ A quick pat down against the wall, then a check of the garden bed for the gun. My mate comes around and we escort him upstairs. His wife, a very attractive woman, turns feral (I didn’t blame her) and bends our ears with a long list of his shortcomings. A little intervention on my part and she begins to pack her things. The kids have already gone and she needs her personal belongings.
Police officers can only stand by and keep the peace, so she packed and dragged her stuff downstairs to her car. After three trips she’s got her Irish up. We kept the husband sitting down on the settee and when she went back into the bedroom he opened his big gob, ‘You were a lousy screw anyway, I’m glad to see the arse end of you.’ A hush descends on the room, we wince waiting for it and we’re not disappointed. She lunges for the bedside cupboard, opens the drawer and pulls out a huge vibrator. There are numerous styles and sizes of vibrators, from the tiny plastic ones for massaging your face to the…well you get my drift. This one looked as if it was of the medical variety used by vets for massaging the backs of ailing Dromedaries. It was big, with a huge mushroom-shaped head and when she switched it on you could sense the power draining out of the six D cell batteries.
Obviously stressed by what had gone on, she looked to be on the verge of collapse. Then, like some Olympic torch relay runner she lunged at him, trying to beat him around the head with the vibrator, screaming, ‘You ungrateful bastard, I loved you, then you go and screw that bird up the road. I had to have something bigger than the pencil you have for a dick.’ Above the screaming and yelling, and the vibrator humming madly we manage to separate them. Switching the beast off and slipping it into an overnight bag, she flicks her hair back, holds her head high and walks out with some dignity. The Detectives arrive and interview the husband, we go back downstairs and after a better search of the garden find a fully loaded .22 Beretta semi auto pistol. It made our evening.
YOU’VE GOT WHAT IN YOUR UNDERPANTS? Same rural city, two a.m Saturday morning. If nothing else is happening a patrol of the main street usually provides relief in the form of nuisance drunks. There were only two nightclubs and the bouncers threw out those who, after a few cleansing ales, found themselves legless and speaking in tongues. Drunks are strange, it’s said your true personality surfaces when you’re inebriated. If that’s the case then there’s very little we can do for the world. Now drunks come in various types:
The I want to be everybody’s friend type, nuisance value moderate. Applies equally to both sexes. They want to hug and kiss you and like an abandoned puppy follow you everywhere. Chances of getting rolled, raped or run over, very high. They seem to be attracted to bright lights. If they have a sober friend let them look after them, if not it was off to the watch house.
The I can kick your arse anytime type, violence value, high. They see someone in authority and all the aggro from their school days flares up. Input between ear drums and brain, zilch. Pain tolerance, high. Ability to keep fighting, moderate. Mainly male but some females are known to have a go. After thirty seconds of being verbally abused by this type, arrest and handcuff.
The unconscious, face down, pants around the ankles type drunk, violence nil. Main worry being crapped, vomited or peed on when putting them in the van. Possibility of being rolled, raped or choking to death, very high. Take to watch house. (These days they have centres for them where they can sober up.) This brings us to,
The desperate, dateless and in need of getting laid at any cost drunk, nuisance value to opposite sex, very high. They are mainly male, (very few women get knocked back when offering sex, drunk or sober.) shy, have some ailment or other and by this stage can’t string two sentences together.
I pulled up outside the club and was having a chat with the bouncer, when Mr desperate and dateless, who’d been evicted earlier, tried to get back in. He made that much of a nuisance I nicked him and stuck him in the back of the car. Thankfully it was only a short drive to the station, as we escorted him up to the charge counter he started acting funny, holding his groin and turning away from me.
Everyone who gets charged gets searched, and if you thought they may be concealing drugs or weapons you could, with the duty sergeants blessing, strip search them. I emptied this blokes pockets of the usual baggage: wallet, house key, hanky, economy pack of six condoms (some blokes are optimists) comb. He was in his twenties and a well put together type but truculent and surly. I went to take his belt and he flinched, right – strip search. These were done with some sensitivity, you’d get them to strip off the top half, check them out and they’d put their gear back on. Then the bottom half, he wouldn’t take his pants down so I did. We put him to the floor and reefed them off, then wrestled him back to the counter. He stood there in his shirt and jocks which bulged at the front, my first thought was drugs, ‘Pull em down lad.’ He shook his head, ‘No effing way.’ I took hold of the band on each side, images of a major drug bust swam through my mind, or an angry, prodigious member. Plop, a rolled up, knee-high rugby sock fell to the floor. I swooped on it and unrolled it, still looking for the stash.
‘You won’t find anything in there.’ He mumbles, ‘Well why the hell have you got it in your undies?’ I give it back to him and he actually blushed, ‘It’s so the girls think I’ve got a big dick.’
ROTFLMOA wasn’t used in those days, however we gave it a go and in between the tears I asked, ‘So, did you get a squeeze at least?’ He hung his head, ‘No.’