T’was The Night Before Christmas,
And all through the town,
With fools misbehaving
And acting the clown …….
The police were being pulled
From pillar to post
To drink drives and damages
But Drunks it was most ……
Well, it wasn’t much to ask was it ?? For the local ne’er-do’-wells to give it a rest for one night … I mean what difference does one night out of a whole year (no purpose just pointing out to them how many other periods of darkness they get to carry on their buffoonery every year, the concept of cyclic movements would be well lost on them anyway and no doubt the only time the number 364 appears in their mindset is when counting the number of bottles of Frosty Jacks they’ve forgotten to pay for this month !!)
And so out Christmas Eve nightshift had begun. In a completely RIPA free and clandestine movement, I’d diverted from my normal route to the nick to carry out some undercover surveillance of the High Street on the way in – trying to gauge to mood (and more importantly the numbers) on the streets of Chaos Town to mentally prepare myself for the night ahead.
And yup, there it was; quarter to ten and the late shift (all two of them) were already breaking up fights and trying to coerce the more violent of the two into the relative controlled area, comfort and safety of the back of the ‘standard issue and completely impractical for any use other than the school run’ Vauxhall Corsa – the only working vehicle back at the nick and for which the keys had had to be forcibly removed from the sweaty and reluctant palms of a Community Support Officer who’d failed to grasp the concept that the need to preserve the peace and prevent persons coming to further harm was slightly more up the scale of important things than him tootling round trying to stop the kids playing football on the communal grass outside Primrose Gardens flats (the job he had been tasked with).
I had no choice but to stop the car and given them a hand in controlling and containing their new best friend who promptly repaid the favour by seizing an available opportunity to sink his dirty, smelly teeth into the forearms of one of my colleagues. Ohh joy, I haven’t even started work officially yet and there’s going to be paperwork !
With the arrival of a police van and backup from another nick, we were able not only to transfer ‘Teeth man’ into the back, but also provide transport to the chap he was scrapping with who,instead of taking the opportunity to disappear from the location during the kafuffle and confusion, decided not only to hang around but to continue his attempts at world annihilation with every and any passing member of the public he could. Round One to us !
Walking into the briefing room a fair few minutes late due to assisting my colleagues on the way in did not even excuse me from the immediate torrent of abuse from my colleagues about my time-keeping, and even my pleas to the sergeant, who had already been made aware of my situation, had fallen on deaf ears. Nothing, bar nothing, it seems, stepped in the way of the ‘Late Buys Cakes Act’ and so I had no option but to accept the guilty verdict passed against me.
In reality, i really didn’t have enough time to present my defence before briefing was rudely interrupted by the first ‘Grade One’ call of the shift …. “Any late or night turn available for a disorder outside the George and Dragon on Crown Street, reports of twenty plus fighting, chairs being used as weapons, any unit can respond ? …”
And so the night began. What troops we had available, from both lates and nights, set off into the night to encounter yet another drink fuelled frenzy of less than civilised buffoons who clearly need to lay off the wine gums if they can’t handle them. Myself and big Pete, who had jumped in with me, never got to that job to join in the fun (although we were told later there really were twenty plus fighting for a change and it had taken quite an effort between the six officers that attended to restore calm and order even for a short while), as less than two minutes into our blue-light journey we were diverted to a Grade One domestic assault taking place on the other side of town.
With a quick squeal of the wheels and a glance at the map book I always carry, we were about turned and on our way to one of the nicer parts of town where we very rarely get any calls. The Meadow Grange estate this wasn’t …. although the smartly lawned detached properties with flowerbeds and cars outside with all the windows and wheels still attached certainly drums up more feelings of streets that should be named after pleasant flowers than those in the reality of Meadow Grange.
“Not been up here before” piped up Pete as we scooted along the road, trying to spot the property we were looking for. In most parts of town, it’s fairly obvious where you’re going …. the massively increased noise; hoodie wearing crowds outside in the street hanging onto their trophy Staffie Bull Terrier on a bit of rope with one hand, whilst on the other arm is the ‘Trophy Tracey’, ill-fitting tracksuit wearing; nose, ear and probably many other appendage pierced; can of cheap lager in hand, heavily pregnant girlfriend. The house of choice itself, will of course have the bins chucked over in the front garden, sorry patch of mud where no grass has grown for a very long time, and a minimum of half a tonne of compressed aluminium which were, until the previous two dozen domestics, clearly identifiable as Frosty Jacks or Stella cans.
Not this time though …. the driveways here were lined with BMW’s and Mercedes, sprinkled with the odd Jaguar for good measure. Don’t get me wrong, domestic related incidents and violence occur in all walks of life, it’s not just something which afflicts the impoverished, but for good or bad, its fair to say we very rarely get calls to this part of town. As we pulled up outside the relevant address, I must admit to a double-take … there were no outward signs of disorder, no inkling of disarray, no hordes of nosy, interfering neighbours waiting our arrival, no camera phones on ‘pause’, holders hoping their wibbly-wobbly footage would earn them fifty quid from the local news channel. No, it was the epitome of calm and tranquillity … and there was a Bentley on the drive.
Pete called up on the radio, much I guess to ensure we were in the right place (this may come as a shock but it’s not in the slightest unusual for police officers to be sent to completely the wrong address after a calltaker, many, many miles from where you are and without any local knowledge just types in the nearest sounding street name to what they thought they’d heard and hopes for the best) only to have it confirmed that on this occasion, yes the details were 100% accurate. The Control Room despatcher also told us they had played back the recording of the initial call and thought possibly it was a child calling so most likely an argument between the parents.
As mum answered the door, I’m not sure who was the more surprised – her seeing two Ninja Turtle clad blokes in black on her front doorstep, or us seeing a rather glamorous lady dressed up to the nines, looking as if they were on the way to some posh doo at a top London hotel. Certainly not looking like a person who until several minutes ago had been in the throws of a nasty domestic. On explaining why we were there, m’lady called her husband “Dominic …. there’s two police officers at the ‘front’ door” (with quite and emphasis on the word ‘front’). “Blimey” I muttered to Pete “maybe we were supposed to go round the back”. Pete sniggered back “I’ll get a CAD warning done when we get back to the nick”.
Dominic then appeared. A gentleman some considerable age older than the lady of the house, but equally well dressed in Dinner Suit and bow tie. ”I’m terribly sorry officers” he said “I think our daughter may have telephoned you, she does have a habit of getting rather excited if she doesn’t get her own way”. I spoke with daddykins whilst mummy took Big Pete to have a word with their darling daughter Natasha but it wasn’t very long before I heard Pete’s raised voice followed very shortly afterwards by him stomping down the stairs pursued by a very apologetic mother.
“Of all the things …..” Pete was saying is one of his ‘not very happy’ tone of voices. Without saying a word to me, Pete turned to the father of the house and said “It’s half past ten on Christmas Eve, there are few enough of us on the streets as it is. I’m afraid Sir that we really don’t have time to deal with children ringing us up on the nines saying she’s being abused just because you won’t buy her ANOTHER pony for a present. We’ll wish you a Merry Christmas and leave you to speak to her Sir, madam. have a good evening.” And with that Pete was out the door before I could say anything more.
The rest of the night shift was one complete blur of pub fight, club fight and domestic fight; the two interlinking factors in both being the words ‘fight’ and ‘copious’ as in the vast amounts of alcohol ingested by every single person we had the great displeasure of dealing with. Add to that more drink drivers than you could shake a stick at and the odd ruffian for one or another piece of criminal damage and you get the general picture.
By not much after midnight, the cells at Bigtown were full, and we were having to take prisoners to Medbury, some 30miles away. it sort of focussed your mind a bit, worrying that if we had to make that journey, followed by a long wait to book your prisoner in, followed by the drive back, it would keep us off the streets longer than we liked and more importantly, leave your colleagues short staffed back at base. For that reason above any other we probably let go a lot more people than we would have done under normal circumstances, but it really was a case of flying by the seat of our pants ……. again !
Things hadn’t really calmed down by 4.30am on Christmas day morning, when we were mostly all back at the nick doing paperwork and handovers to explain why we’d spread half of the towns night-time revellers across four different cellblocks in a fifty mile radius when the next big job came in. A farmer out in the rural section was on the way to check his cattle when he’d come across an old van, well planted into an old wooden electricity pole, which was now dangerously swinging across a country lane.
The power cables, once so neatly and professionally fixed to the upper arms of the pole were now dangling only a few feet above the road surface itself, and were putting on quite a spectacular light show all of their own; indeed when we arrived, we were most impressed and I must say, it was a far better show than last years bonfire night effort by the Bigtown Rugby Club – sparks and arcs of shorting light flew in every direction – mainly ours – and gave Pete and I the distinct impression that they really didn’t want us getting any closer to them ….. which was fine by us !!
Having called the control via our radios, and asked them to get the electrical emergency people out on the hurry-up (at 4.30 on Christmas Day morning yeah right !!), we then decided it was (relatively) safe enough to check the crashed vehicle for anyone still in it. Thankfully there was not, but things never being that simple, especially when we had every intention of not being late off from work that morning, there was a bit of blood around inside the van and even more empty beer bottles.
So now we had a missing potential casualty, with injuries, and probably drunk, somewhere in the pitch black, at silly o’clock in the morning, with no idea how long they’d been out there, and no idea which way they’d gone. And on top of that, we had our own version of the Northern Lights right in front of us, and a farmer who cared for none of this as he had a couple of hundred cattle that not only needed checking on but would very soon need bringing back this way to the farmyard for milking. “Not this time they won’t be” Big Pete said to the farmer in a very lame attempt at bringing some humour to the situation “not unless you want to start producing flame grilled steak a-la-carte”. I don’t think the farmer saw the funny side in fairness.
“How we going to find this muppet quick then ?” I asked Pete hoping for once he had some intelligent brainwave of an idea just bursting to get out.
“Scratch me” he said “dogs went off at 4, helicopters not been running all night so I hope you got a good torch”.
“Only one thing for it then” I replied as I called the Inspector up on his radio and broke the news to him that we would need every available man, woman and Senior rank (aka him) on duty to come and help find this guy before things got worse than they already were. While the Inspector did his best to rally us some extra troops and come up with the most plausible reason why he himself should not have to leave the relative warmth and safety of his office Pete and I, aptly assisted by the farmer and his son who had by now appeared on the scene set off to start a first cursory search of the surrounding lanes and fields.
After fifteen minutes of getting very cold, wet and muddy, and finding absolutely nothing we reconvened at the scene of the crash to await for our reinforcements to arrive. And then our Christmas miracle happened. In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, seemingly out of nowhere appeared Santa Claus ……. albeit not very podgy, and without the long curly white hair and beard …. and without the ho ho ho, but still, dressed in a santa suit came, or rather staggered, a very inebriated young man, sporting a very nice bump to the head and the odd scratch or two in other places.
“You alright Santa” Big Pete called over, now having regained his sense of occasion, “what’s the matter, you look like you’ve crashed your sleigh !”
“F*** of you fat b*****d or I’ll f*****g do you right” came the short but to the point reply.
“Ten quid that’s our man” then” Pete quickly said to myself, the farmer and his son. Before we’d even taken a couple of steps towards the lad he piped up “I didn’t f*****g crash it on purpose anyway, I wasn’t f*****g drivin’ ….. “
“Bets are off” Pete shouted “can’t take your money on this one, too easy” and promptly informed our newest friend that he would be spending the majority of Christmas day as our guest at Bigtown Police Station.
Now you’d have thought he would have been pleased about that; a nice clean, warm bed to sleep and sober up in; free food you didn’t have to cook yourself or wash up afterwards, and pleasant company, but no, ohh no, Muppet Chops had to want to fight the world didn’t he. So ….. at 5 o’clock on Christmas Day morning there we were, rolling round in mud, wet and god knows what else, on a farmers country lane with still the electrical equivalent of the Millennium Fireworks going off all around us.
By the time another crew arrived to assist, and with the help of farmer & son, we had our man trussed up better than a turkey waiting for the oven. The other crew were happy to take our prisoner off our hands and into the back of our van, but weren’t so polite about telling Pete and myself that neither of us smelly, cowpat covered degenerates was getting anywhere near their nice clean police vehicle and that we should both go and find the nearest pond and jump in it to clean ourselves up before even thinking about returning to Bigtown nick.
As they started to drive away, one of the guys stuck his head out of the van’s side window and shouted “Merry Christmas Chaos” and off they went into the night.
“Yeah, and a stinking Merry Christmas to you too” I shouted after them, then turned to look at Big Pete who was in just as bad and filthy a state as I. What else could we do, but just stand there and laugh at each other.
“Happy Christmas Pete” I said. “And the same to you with Jingle Bells on” was the reply.
And we both jumped back into our panda, wound down the windows, and took a leisurely drive back to the police station to start another round of paperwork …..