Truths of Old

Eheheehehe.

I just found this URL (I also rediscovered the hot chicks series of links but lost it again shortly after. bugger.) which describes the life and times of a copper in (I'm almost certain of this) London.

Naturally since policing is dead boring work (much the way medicine is, really) he throws in a fair amount of dry, scathing political sideswipes (I won't go so far as to call it commentary) and you probably won't get any of them if you're not living in the UK.

Damn, I'm going to miss this crazy place.

"No understand." Heh.

Confesssion : I've been stopped once by the Metropolitan police. I'd just bought my sabre from Leon Paul, which is situated in Camden Town (scenic Camden! Two thousand ways to lose your wallet. I've never seen McDonald's staff looking less cheerful in my life, cowering behind their smashed up cash-registers. No chirpy "Can I help you Sir?" But instead you get "What do you want" - with hand kept subtly under the counter keeping their sawed-off sixteen-guage resolutely trained on your crotch) when a police car drifted by dreamily.

Digression : the police in London drive cars the approximate size and shape of (American) post boxes. Considering the policemen are generally built like pro-wrestlers who've ah let it go a little, and policewomen are only a little shorter - it's really quite comical to watch them get out of their modified Volkswagon Beetles. Okay so they look more like Honda Civics. Artistic licence and all that.

Digression #2 : I'm convinced after watching some mounted policemen that coppers on patrol just wander the streets aimlessly till they get called. (Hmm. Parameds at least make confidently decisive runs between McDonald's and Starbucks.) I've watched these guys and they don't even bother pulling on the reigns. Their horses appear to choose where to go next. It's a wonder they don't all end up congregated on Hyde Park.

Anyhow, some two hundred yards up the slope (presumably when one of them remarked to the other "blimey, I think that bloke's carrying sword" the postbox on wheels screeches to a halt, doors fly open dramatically, and two very tall policepeople (one male, one female) charge me down - quite funny really, since they had to run all that distance back towards me - mental image : charging rhinocerii. Keep the image in mind... two seconds... three... a little longer now. There. - and tower over little old five-foot seven (and eight on a good, well-hydrated day) me menacingly.

"Wassat."

"Err. It's a sabre."

"Why you carrying a sabre."

"I just bought it."

pause. Oh. I'm in Camden. Even if I am oriental (for the uninformed, we use guns here in the UK, rather than Swords. I think it's a hongkie thing.) and rather slight of build. Better explain.

"It's for fencing with."

Ominous silence. Eyebrows furrow.

"You know? The sport? It's not sharp, see..."

Starts drawing sword. Tension increases dramatically. Can't help noticing police stepping back a fraction of an inch and hands coming away from belts.

Stops drawing sword.

"Look, it's got electronic sensors and all, over here, and here." (Points earnestly)

Pause. Woman officer draws man officer aside by the elbow. Mumblemumble... have seen before... mumble.

Officers return and tower menacingly.

"Well, don't carry it around in public."

"Err. I just bought it."

"Put it in a plastic bag or something."

AAhahahahaha. If I was a braver man, I'd have laughed out loud. Where on earth does one find a two-foot plastic bag. Aside from the mortuary.

At this moment, the blasted wit within is compelled to say something like "Look, someone's driving off with your car." (they left the doors open) or "Sure, I'll just nip around to tescos shall I?" but I wisely choose to hold my tongue.

Damn, I coulda tried "No speak English." Hahahahahaha.

Policepersons fold themselves back into car and drive off with satisfied smiles on their faces. Another job well done.

*****
Oh, as an afterthought I figured that since I've slagged off the ambulance call centre, I'd better do the same with the police. Don't wanna get accused of meritocracy or nuffin.

I tried to call in an assault once, since I wasn't brave enough to go up against two men twice my height. Well, to be honest I was thinking about it, but the only way a five seven guy beats two six two guys is by doing something unexpected like slinging them into a road full of traffic. Which would have been easy to do, actually (element of surprise, plus strong legs) but potentially bad for my rep as an NHS professional so I called the police instead.

"Hello, I'm watching two men beating another man up in public. They're kicking him in the head."

"Oh, please hold."

(music. or was it just silence. I can't remember now)

I decided to hang up and try again, but Scotland Yard called back immediately. Ah, so the old pretend to put him on hold while we trace his number routine hey.

"Yes sir, I understand you made a call to us from this number."

Um. Why do I feel like apologising suddenly. Or saying "no english."

"Yes, I'm witnessing an assault as we speak."

"Okay, where are you."

"I don't know the name of the street name, but I'm on Blackfriar's bridge on the South bank, next to (name of pub)."

"I'm sorry sir, but I need the street name or I can't help you."

"..." (There's only one Blackfrair's bridge in london right? Or am I just being a bloody ignorant foreigner again.)

Men finish beating up third man and wander off chuckling to themselves, leaving him in a pool of blood. Another bloke runs out to him (a whole restaurant full of elderly people watched the assault while they continued staidly eating their fish and chips. honest.) and whips out his mobile.

"Look, just forget it. Someone else is going to log this in a second anyway."

(walks over to check on the guy, and story continues as per the link.)