Court Witness Training

I was sat in a hall within a police building, surrounded by nearly a hundred other police officers who I had joined with. We had come back for some training and today’s topic was crown courts. A barrister had been drafted in to explain to us what lawyers will try and do to trip police officers up when giving evidence.

Once he had explained the court set up and the underhand tricks that are used, he revealed to us that he had a pile of witness statements that we had written earlier in the week relating to robbery we had watched on a television screen. In it, a female had had her laptop bag stolen by a hooded male.

Unbeknown to us, our instructors had earlier in the week faxed them over to him and he had gone over them in minute detail. I shifted uncomfortably as he revealed that some people would be called up where he would proceed to destroy them. I began to start feeling warm and undid my top button and loosened my tie somewhat. Only five people were going to be called up and out of nearly a hundred, our individual odds were pretty good.

Slowly people were called up, taken out of the room and then when the signal was given, led back inside for the long walk to the front where a mock court had been created, complete with a jury which was made up of willing volunteers. I decided to stay rooted to my seat as I watched the back of the barrister’s head as he peered over the statement. I looked up at the witness box and saw my colleague looking rather grey.

The barrister meticulously picked apart the statement and had the officer spluttering as he fired questions at him. The atmosphere in the room was tense; nobody moved as they waited with baited breath to see if he survived this verbal attack.

He managed to find an incorrect detail within the statement and had the officer on the ropes as he bullied him into admitting it was wrong.

“I suppose that is incorrect, yes,” he stammered.

“Well officer,” he replied theatrically. “What else is incorrect in your statement?”
Suddenly the barrister looked up at the judge and said he had no more questions. The officer looked exhausted and he made his way back to his seat as we applauded before the barrister had a debrief and gave feedback.
This continued three more times until time was running dangerously low. He called what we thought would be the final witness and feeling more confident I went and sat in the seats of the jury. Now I could watch the ‘witness’ get destroyed from a different position and prepared to savour every moment.
It came to an end quite abruptly as the barrister looked at his watch.

“Now,” he said in a casual voice. “I think we have time for one more.”

He picked up a handwritten statement and my heart began beating. That handwriting looked oddly familiar.

“Bill. Bill Newman, is he here?”

“Shit,” I muttered loudly as I raised my hand from the jury seats.

“Ah good,” he beamed. “Go and get ready.”

I had left my statement under my seat in the main audience which was on the other side of the hall from the jury seats. I escaped out of the hall and wondered if I could give my evidence without it. Suddenly I was given the signal and was taken up to the box.

“Officer,” he started slowly, peering at me. “Did you have a good view of the incident.”

“Yes,” I replied, my throat now somewhat dry. “I was overlooking the road and could see it.”

“So it wasn’t the best view then?” he said sarcastically.

“It was a view,” I said.

“Yes, you didn’t answer the question. It wasn’t the best view then?”

“I was happy with it, yes,” I said.

He looked at me annoyed and continued.

“Officer, you say in your statement that the victim had a handbag stolen from her. Is that correct?”

I knew I was on shaky ground and knew what he was getting at. When we had seen the incident it had been just a few seconds long and we had to record as much as we could. At the time I had thought it was a handbag she had been wearing over her shoulder. Once our statements had been written we had been informed that it was in fact a laptop bag.

“Yes at the time I believed it was a handbag.”

“So it couldn’t have been a rucksack?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“So it couldn’t have been a briefcase?”

“No.”

“So it couldn’t have been a satchel?”

“It was a bag on a strap over her shoulder, I believed it was a handbag.”

I could see the audience smirking as they knew, as did I, what he was getting at. I had mistaken a laptop bag for a handbag but I was determined not to admit I was wrong. He looked back at my statement for a moment before looking directly at me.

“And officer, it couldn’t have been a laptop bag?”

He said the words ‘laptop bag’ slowly and deliberately before looking back at my statement. I could hear a few people giggling and I felt slightly amused. The audience knew I was lying and the barrister knew I was lying. He looked back up at me.

“No,” I said confidently. “I do believe it was a handbag.”

He glared at me and looked annoyed before telling me to go and sit down as people applauded. He looked over at me and asked how I felt.

“And do you think you’re appropriately dressed for court?” he sneered.

I was wearing a suit, as were many of the other males in the room. In fact, some had not even worn a suit jacket, but just a shirt and tie.

I felt confused as to what he was getting at. We had come for courtroom skills and not tips on how to dress. We would be in our best uniform at crown court, not a suit anyway.

“Erm, I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“Just answer the question yes or no,” he spat.

I felt a little shocked at his reaction and wondered what was going on. He was still in the role-play mode and attacking me. This wasn’t meant to happen; with the other people he had talked to them kindly after they had sat down and offered them advice on giving evidence, not on their dress style.

“Yes,” I said. “I am dressed appropriately.”

“I would disagree,” he said sternly. “Your top button is undone and your jacket was open. It’s all about appearance,” he barked.

I recoiled back into my seat and sat there stunned for a moment. Granted, my top button had been undone because I had been hot, but I wouldn’t have done that in a court – in fact, I wouldn’t even be wearing a suit in court. And as for my suit jacket being done up, I had never seen people wear one all buttoned up.
I’m not quite sure why he attacked the way I was dressed but I shall now always ensure my clip on tie is firmly fastened when I venture into the witness box.

Guarding a Crime Scene

Crime scenes are an unpopular task for officers and it’s usually the probationers that are rewarded with guarding them.

Quite often you can be dumped outside a house with nothing more than a shaky promise that your colleagues will return with food and drink. Then you hear them on the radio later on getting tucked up with a job and you realise that you’re not going to be relieved for several hours. Usually it’s at night and normally always raining. I look forward to a crime scene beside the river on a warm summer’s day, with a small café nearby so that I can grab refreshments with the crime scene still in sight.

Fortunately, for my first crime scene I had the lucky advantage of having a car which I could sit in. It was a night duty and earlier that day a cannabis factory had been found inside a house down a quiet residential cul-de-sac. A mistake had been made and somehow the man who was living in the house managed to get away. It was suspected that the building had been booby-trapped and so officers were not allowed to enter until the electricity board had been down and isolated the power. That wouldn’t happen until the morning and so for now the house had to be guarded. The Vietnamese gang that had been running the factory had got away and there was a possibility they might return.

I was sat in an unmarked car across the street from the house and told to watch for anyone that may try and gain access. If they did, I was told not to approach them but to call for backup. I sat in the car and was determined not to let anyone slip by. I stared at the house intently, barely daring to blink in case I missed something. I was staring so hard that the shadows from the trees blowing in the wind began to look like people. I squinted as my heart began to race. Surely they wouldn’t dare to return to the crime scene and risk being arrested I thought to myself. I held my radio in my hand and memorised the road name in case I needed to call for assistance quickly. I could see the front door from my position and had a jolt in my stomach when it appeared the door was opening from the inside.

“I’m not getting out,” I said to myself, now rigid with fear. I had already locked the doors to the car and now sat frozen as I tried to make out what was happening. Was the door opening or was it just the shadows I could see?

My radio suddenly lit up and crackled into use.

“All units please be aware that the radios will be going down for about two minutes shortly,” our control room said.

I sat there with the nasty realisation that if anything was going to happen to me tonight, it would happen when the radios went down.

My radio light cut out and it went deathly quiet. The wind in the trees suddenly sounded like people in the nearby bushes whispering. A fox clambering over a garden fence was in my mind an intruder breaking into the house.

If the gang did return and got into the house and I was unable to call for assistance, I was not going to attempt to stop them, I had decided. But if they had spotted me and for some crazy reason suspected that I would attempt to arrest them, they might decide to try and take me out first. My throat was very dry and I sat extremely still, straining to see and hear anything that moved.
I looked in rear mirror and suddenly spotted a car gently purring down the road. My blood ran cold as I saw it had no lights on whatsoever.

Why would a driver be driving with no lights on at all? The only reason I could think of was because they didn’t want to be seen. And the only people in this road that wouldn’t want to be seen were the Vietnamese gang. I watched it pull in behind a car further up the road and then saw no movement for about 15 seconds.

Suddenly both the driver’s and the passenger’s car doors opened and I saw two figures dressed in dark clothing get out.

As I watched them, my eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw what they did. They both crouched down low and began creeping up towards the vehicle I was in. I was now in between them and the house and was certain that they had seen me and were going to silence me. A bead of sweat ran down my face as I debated whether I should stay in the car where I would be a sitting target or get out and face them with my baton and CS spray.

The figures grew gradually closer and I realised that I would now not have time to get out. I sat there, praying they would just walk past. They approached the back of the car and then went out of sight. I sat there motionless, barely breathing, waiting for them to crawl past the car. I looked in the mirror but could see nothing. In my side mirror it just showed an empty road. I needed to lean over to the passenger side and look in that mirror.

I shifted in the leather seats slowly as the material creaked and leant over the handbrake to see into the side mirror. I carefully raised my head, my heart now racing. The mirror looked empty.

Suddenly a figure I had not seen in the mirror leapt up behind the window and a man glared at me just inches from my face through the glass.

I went to scream but nothing came out.

Anyway, he looked oddly familiar. And why was he now laughing? I realised it was a guy from my team. He was now rolling around on the pavement laughing as his partner did the same. I opened the door and got out.

“Bastards,” I muttered. “I knew it was you,” I said casually, relief now searing through my body.

Secretly I was overjoyed that it had been them and not some real gang members. But I shall certainly never forget my first crime scene experience.

Issuing an FPN...

I was sat parked up with my driver Alan, tucked down a long driveway which came off a main road.

The early morning shift was dragging slowly and the radio was unusually quiet. Hidden from the view of motorists, we sat to eat our lunch while watching for any drivers, unaware of our presence, to give us an excuse to stop them.

Seatbelts, using mobile phones and even speeding would be our green light to shoot after them and pull them over.

“We’re the petty police today really,” Alan said amusingly as he studied the wrapper of a chocolate bar he’d just consumed.

“Do you know how many E numbers this thing has,” he asked me in a tone that told me I was about to find out. “That’s unbelievable,” he added, still staring intently at the small writing.

I saw a car shoot past along the 30mph road travelling at least 50mph.
“That flew past us,” I said.

“All the food I’ve eaten has got weird stuff in it,” he continued, picking up the empty crisp packet on his lap.

“Al, did you see that car that flew past,” I tried again.

“Mono… monosodium glutamate,” he stumbled. “What the hell is that? Wheat Malto… maltodextrin? That sounds like a poison.”

A blue Micra with four young lads in drove slowly past, the occupants looking at nearby houses.

“Wonder what they’re up to,” I said more to myself than anyone else.
“There’s garlic powder in my peperami,” Alan said, sounded disgusted. “Why would they put that in there, that’s just wrong?”

As I looked up, I saw a young male speed past while holding a mobile phone up against his right ear.

“He was on the phone,” I said.

Alan’s head darted up so quickly I thought his neck my snap and within a split second the car keys were being turned in the ignition.

“That’s just taking the piss,” Alan snarled, spinning the car around and catching up to the offender. “I hate mobile phones.”

We shot after the car and pulled it over a short distance up the road.

“Do you have any idea why we’ve pulled you over,” I said to the young driver who was now standing beside me on the pavement.

“Mobile,” he said sheepishly.

“Correct. That’s three points for using your mobile. It’ll push your insurance up and cost you more money,” I warned. “That’s a good result though for you,” I added. He looked at me confused.

“The bad result happens when you’re talking on your phone and don’t see something and end up killing someone and then go to prison. And I guarantee you won’t kill yourself, it’ll be an innocent person. The fact you didn’t see us behind shows you weren’t aware of what was going on around you.”

“Sorry”, he mumbled apologetically.

“On this occasion, take it as words of advice, but you were very close to getting a ticket there,” I said sternly.

He got back into his car and drove off slowly, probably thankful we had let him off. I’d never had an intention to stick him on for the offence; he’d been honest, was polite and I didn’t feel like ruining his day.

Moments later we were behind another car whose driver was idly chatting away on his phone.

“Give him a tug, he’s got no idea we’re here,” I said somewhat annoyed.
Standing next to the offender on the pavement, I began my usual routine.
“Why do you think we’ve pulled you over?”

He looked at me blankly, and shook his head.

“You’ve no idea whatsoever why we might have pulled you over?” I asked in disbelief. He was talking himself into a ticket nicely. “Just be honest with me.”
He again shook his head, so I helped him out.

“Mobile phone perhaps?” I said.

“Nope,” he said defiantly.

“There’s no point in lying mate, we followed you for about a quarter of a mile and you were completely unaware we were behind you.”

“I wasn’t on the phone, check it,” he said pointing at his car. Alan leant into his vehicle and retrieved the phone and brought it over.

“It says you last received a call five minutes ago,” Alan said cheerfully.
“I wasn’t on the phone,” he said once more.

A genuine apology and politeness and he’d have driven off with no more than a ticking off, providing our routine checks had all been okay. Instead, he’d talked himself into three points and a fine.

“Have a seat in the back of our car,” I said mischievously. “We’ll sort it out in there.”

Once I had filled out the ticket, our man was still defending himself.
“You can either pay the fine and accept the points,” I said. “Or challenge it and take it to court, and we’ll all have a nice day out, it really doesn’t bother me,” I said.

“I’ll see you in court then mate,” he said before walking off.

He knew we’d caught him in the act, we knew we’d caught him in the act, but for some reason he’d insisted to play the silly game that ended up in him getting points. On the whole I dislike giving tickets out to motorists because the majority of them are decent people who’ve never committed a crime. I would suggest that every driver has at once stage committed traffic offences, and I am fully aware of that. But getting caught and then deciding to lie to the police is a silly way in getting an easy ticket.

“What an idiot,” I said. “If he hadn’t have lied I wouldn’t have bothered giving him a ticket.”

I looked up to see Alan studying the back of my sandwich packet with a deep frown.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.

If You Stand Still, The Dog Shouldn't Bite

I was kneeling in ankle high grass which was wet from a heavy down-pour that had occurred only moments earlier.

Feeling uncomfortable from the length of time I had remained in the same position, I shifted my weight onto my other leg and popped my head above the fence I was shielded behind. I could hear a dog on the other side of the fence in a garden, sniffing strongly and moving about. I looked behind me at the live electrical railway line which was just a number of feet away from me.

Its low humming got louder as a train in the distance approached me. Feeling slightly concerned that I might be spotted from the train and mistaken for a trespasser, I pulled my coat back in the hope that any sharp eyed passengers would see my handcuffs. I also grabbed my radio and pretended to listen into it, hoping that if the handcuffs didn’t reassure anyone that I was a genuine police officer, the radio might. As the train passed me, I couldn’t hear anything coming from the garden and decided to take a peak through the crack of the fence.

Looking through I came face to face with an eye looking back at me. I frowned, wondering how long someone had been staring at me without saying something and stood up to look at them. As I did so the eye disappeared and was replaced with ferocious barking, and a shaking fence as the dog tried to scramble over to reach me. I stood up fully hoping that the police dog would recognise my uniform as that of a police officer. It seemed that it did not, and continued to try to get to me, its teeth flashing just yards in front of me as it reared it’s head. I had an angry dog in front of me and 25,000 volts behind. And I couldn’t remember covering this role-play at training school.

I was working a pretty mundane early shift which had produced a couple of calls but nothing major when we heard a colleague come out on the radio. It’s easy to tell when a colleague is stressed or in trouble because of the tone of their voice, often they’re shouting or sound panicky. In this instance, a female officer had been driving down a residential road when two young men who had been walking down the street spotted her car and began running. One of them was detained by her, while her colleague chased after the second man. The female officer directed other units in using the radio and we arrived at a street where her colleague had last been seen chasing the suspect. We tried to contact him on the radio but got no reply.

“I think they’ve gone into the train station,” the female officer shouted across the street at us while she dealt with the man she had managed to catch.

Myself and a colleague went down onto the platform to look for our colleague.

Passengers stood waiting for an imminent train looked at us with surprise but none offered any insight into the whereabouts of our colleague.

“They can’t have come down here,” I said to my mate. “They would have told us which way they’d gone.”

As soon as I had said the words, we spotted him walking down the side of the railway line with his baton out which he was using to search bushes.

“Do you want a hand James?” we shouted. He looked up and nodded and gestured for us to come down.

“Should we walk down the side of the line?” I asked gingerly. “If the bloke running wants to get electrocuted then we should just let him.”

“It’ll be fine,” was the reply I got. “Just keep an eye out for where you’re standing and don’t go anywhere near any of the lines.”

We reached our colleague further down the track and I could see that either side of the line backed onto people’s gardens.

“He went over that fence,” he said. “I’m certain he went in there. I’m going to go in and have a look.”

“I’ll come with you,” my driver said. He turned to me with some instructions.

“Stay here and keep a look at down the line in case he pops out of another garden and carries on running.”

“Yep, no problem,” I replied, knowing full well that there would be a problem if he did re-emerge. No way was I going to get into a roll around with a bloke inches from a railway line. For all I cared he could run, I wasn’t going to go after him.
I watched the two disappear into the long garden and began to feel slightly lonely when I could no longer hear their voices.

My radio was in constant use as other units were directed around the area in the hunt for this mystery man. I wondered if he could be hiding somewhere near me. He might even be watching me and take his chances; the odds were better with just me to fight rather than three of us. I tried to show a facial expression that would indicate to him if he was watching that I was quite casual about this job and would let him go without a fight.

Suddenly my radio began ringing and I saw it was my driver private calling me.
“Bill, just so you know, stay out of the garden, they’re letting the dog in.”
With that he was gone and I was left wondering if the mutt might flush the hiding man out. Suddenly I realised that I was standing where my colleagues had told the dog handler the man had disappeared from. The dog would catch my scent and could potentially come after me.

I crouched down to remain out of sight while I wondered what to do. I thought about making my way back along the track to the platform but decided not to in case the dog ran after me. I was sure I had been told that running from a dog would make matters worse. What if I walked backwards so it didn’t think I was trying to escape? I didn’t fancy that idea, on the basis that I would be inches from the live rail. I looked at my radio and tried to private call my driver back for some advice. As I switched channel, I could hear another radio from the garden. I looked over the fence and saw the handler coming in with a huge German shepherd which was off its lead. I thought about calling out before realising that the dog would also hear me so quickly crouched down again, sweat now running down my forehead.

It was at this point that the train came past me and I decided to have another look through the fence, coming face to face with the dog as I did so.
Standing up, the dog became even more excited and I saw the surprised expression on the handler before she started shouting at her dog.
“Get back,” she screamed at him, unable to quite reach him herself as he scrambled to get to me.

I stood still, from fear rather than instruction.

“Get back here now,” she shouted at the dog again. He finally crept back enough that the handler could clip him back onto his lead, giving me the opportunity to climb over the fence.

“That gave me a bit of a scare,” I said to her as I walked back through the garden warily, as the dog kept staring at me.

“To be totally honest,” she said, “you gave me a bit of a fright. I thought you were our man.”

“Sorry about that,” I said sheepishly.

“If ever that happens, the best thing is to just stand still and the dogs shouldn’t bite,” she said casually. “Although this one is a bit disobedient at the moment,” she added in a strained voice, as she pulled the dog back on the lead once more to stop him going for me one last time.

Why Do Some Prisoners Always Fight?

“Be careful when you do your checks on him. He flashes violent, weapons and drugs and has really hurt some people in the past.”

I was posted in custody as the gaoler looking after the prisoners and the words of advice were from my sergeant. My duties were to assist the custody sergeant in basically keeping the prisoners alive; I was a glorified babysitter. In between that, I would keep them fed and watered, let them out for phone calls and interviews and fetch them other items such as blankets or magazines.

A young lad called Pete had just been brought in for a violent assault on somebody which had left them unconscious in hospital. Pete was well known in custody – he was always in and out and for a 17-year-old he had an impressively long criminal record.

He was placed in his cell and I went to see him in case he needed anything.

“Pete, do you want anything to eat or drink?” I asked him through the wicket.

“Would it be possible to get a cup of tea please mate?” he asked politely.

“Yep, no problem, anything to eat?”

“Yeh, can I have the chilli con carne please mate?”

I went and prepared the food and returned with it, opening the cell door and taking it to him.

“Cheers mate for that,” he said again. “I’ll have this and then probably get some sleep, can you dim the lights?”

I knew that I would be unable to because of a fault and told him so.

“Ah go on,” he pleaded with me.

“I’m not being difficult,” I said, “it genuinely doesn’t work.”

“But I won’t be able to sleep.”

I disappeared and had a chat with my skipper before returning to Pete’s cell.

“Right, the skipper has said I can move you to another cell with a light that does dim,” I told him. His face lit up into a smile.

“Ah cheers mate, that’s great,” he beamed. He picked up his food and blanket and trotted off down the corridor into his new cell.

“Mate I really appreciate this, thank you so much,” he said as I shut the door.

I began making my way back to the custody desk and saw that another male about 35 years old was being booked in for a public order offence.

“I don’t give a f*** who you are,” he slurred loudly at the skipper booking him in. “Do you not have a f****** clue who I am? I own a multi-million pound company.”

He was over six foot tall and well built, wearing expensive looking clothes and was leaning over the counter glaring at the sergeant.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you some questions that I ask everyone…”

“Oh f*** off,” he replied.

The sergeant attempted again to run through the risk assessment questions before he was interrupted again.

“I pay you’re f****** wages don’t forget, so just remember that,” he shouted angrily. “I’m an innocent person and I’m going to complain about all of this.”

“Sir, you’ve been arrested to…”

“Oh f*** off, Im quite clever” he slurred at the sergeant again. I winced, wondering how much patience the sergeant had left.

“Take him to a cell,” my skipper sighed.

The arresting officer tried to lead him to a cell, when the male began struggling.

Other officers became involved and moments later I was also on the floor struggling with the man.

It turned out he was indeed the owner of a multi-million pound company. He was well educated, completed university and was now living in a decent part of town. He had only been in trouble with the police once before for a public order offence a few years back and on paper should have been easy to look after. Yet he was determined to argue and fight with us.

Then there was Pete who has a huge criminal record, is violent, conceals weapons and can put people in hospital. Yet whenever he is in custody he is as good as gold. He knows the score and realises that being rude won’t help him. He is polite and civil and so is treated with respect. He knows that treating us properly means his life is more comfortable and he is more likely to get out quicker. I think I know who the clever one is.

Police Also Have High Pressure Targets

Watching the news last week I found it amusing to see a report on traffic wardens who give tickets to motorists simply because they have targets to hit.

People were outraged that fines were being issued instead of a bit of discretion, purely on the basis that the wardens had figures they were aiming for. Sitting in the police canteen at work, I raised an eyebrow. Sadly the police is not too dissimilar in that we also have high pressure targets to hit.

Although results are a way in which the police can be measured, unfortunately I see it every day having a negative effect on the genuine victims of crime. When an incident happens, the first police unit should head for the victim, make sure they are okay, obtain as much information as possible and circulate it to the other units. The officers could spend a lengthy period of their shift depending on what they’re dealing with, consoling the victim, taking statements and looking after their wellbeing. While this is happening, another officer could breeze in, arrest the suspect and get the points which go towards their personal target. Suddenly, going to help the victim doesn’t seem so appealing anymore, when everyone knows it won’t help them hit their quotas.

The other day a call came out that a shop had been robbed by a number of males who were armed with weapons. The surrounding area was flooded with patrol cars searching for the suspects who had been seen nearby. As vehicles began sweeping roads and officers on foot patrol started checking front gardens, calls continually came in from other informants stating they had seen suspicious males jump through their garden. Each time one of these calls came in, pandemonium would occur with cars passing each other in a desperate bid to collar the crooks.

I happened to be in one of these cars and had my belt off, ready to get out sprinting after anyone that I happened to see hiding somewhere. Twenty minutes had passed since the original call came out and we needed more information.

“Officers with the victim,” I said into my radio. “Do you have any more descriptions on the suspects?”

The radio went quiet so I tried again. Suddenly our control room crackled over the airwaves informing us that they had no reports that anyone had gone to the victim. On hearing that at least one suspect had been arrested by a nearby unit, we dashed to the victim and found them alone and upset.

I then spent the next four hours gaining information and writing a painstakingly detailed statement from the victim which I had no problem with doing. I knew that my behaviour would have a direct impact on how the victim felt and how they portrayed the police. What I did not get however, is any recognition of my work and more importantly in the eyes of the management team, any points for the arrest which could make me appear a lazy officer.

I have seen cases where units deliberately take a longer route to get to the scene of a crime in order that they are not first on scene and so do not have to deal with the victim – instead cracking on with their hunt for the valuable points.

I think it is sad that officers are now under so much pressure to get results that they will avoid dealing with the victim in order that they can get an arrest instead and therefore get the management team off their back. It’s a shame that senior officers become politicians and forget about real policing. But if better statistics is what they want rather than best policing practices, then that is what they shall get.

It Sounded Like An Interesting Call

One of the reasons I joined the job was to help genuine innocent victims of crime and to make sure that justice was served on the crooks that make people’s lives a misery.

A large percentage of the time though is wasted by people who misuse the police to score cheap points or to get something done.

The other day a call came out that the informant’s neighbour was in the street armed with a machete. It sounded like an interesting call and we took it. As we raced along busy streets my mind thought to what would greet us when we arrived on scene. Either it would be a machete-wielding maniac that could need CS spray or use of batons to comply with our instructions, or it would be all quiet on our arrival.

In typical fashion, it was the latter so decided to approach the door of the house where the neighbour with the alleged machete lived. Holding my baton covertly in my hand, I was surprised to see an elderly woman answer the door.

“I’m just unlocking the door,” she shouted through the glass pane as I heard the noise of a key clicking into the lock.

I took a step back from the door in the unlikely event that she would suddenly spring out armed with some sort of weaponry and was almost disappointed when I realised she wouldn’t. She looked confused to see us and I explained why we had been called.

“My neighbour came to my door threatening me,” she said. “But I never unlocked it and I most certainly was not waving a machete about,” she added almost indignantly.

I began making my way next door when the door flung open and a young man, about 22 years old age appeared looking quite excited.

“I called you,” he said as he pointed at the elderly female my colleague was talking to. “She’s crazy, let me show you what she’s done.”

He began walking down the side of his house into his back garden and I followed somewhat confused.

“What I need to do is find out why you’ve called us,” I started to say.

“Yes, I’m showing you,” he snapped.

He took me into the back garden where I could see there was no fence between their adjoining gardens.

“I put up a line of string across the length of our garden to mark out where a new fence would go and look it at,” he pointed, almost disbelievingly.

I looked across and saw a limp bit of string attached to one stick. I looked back at the man confused.

“Sorry, what seems to be the problem?” I asked politely.

“She’s cut my piece of string,” he said glaring at me. “Can’t you see? That’s criminal damage, I want her arrested and charged please, it cost me £7 to buy that ball of string.”

I nearly laughed out loud from frustration. Whenever a police officer responds to an emergency call, there are always risks involved. Driving through the streets with blue lights and sirens can be somewhat dangerous, to us and to other members of the public. I accept that everything is done to minimise the risks, but there is still a risk and sadly sometimes people do get hurt when mistakes are made. I don’t mind risking my safety to help a genuine victim in an emergency. But what I cannot stand is timewasters who risk lives by abusing the 999 system.
“You called 999 because she’s cut your string,” I said slowly.

“Not just that,” he said annoying. I was beginning to dislike him more by the second. “She’s cut it three times now. I want her arrested.”

“She’s an 80-year-old woman,” I said.

“And?” he said, his tone of voice getting higher in pitch as he became more agitated.

“You said she had a knife…”

“It was a machete.”

“Ok machete. But she didn’t open her front door, she hasn’t committed any offences.”

“I see,” he said angrily. “You’re not going to do anything. Well thank you very much for your help,” he said sarcastically.

“What I advise you do is don’t put any more string up if it’s winding her up and let the council do it when they plan where the boundaries are.”

“Fine, I’ll take your shoulder numbers and report you.”

I left the property feeling confused and frustrated. Technically I could have arrested her. But there was no way I was going to arrest an 80-year-old woman for a bit of string. It most certainly was not in the public interest and I like to think I applied common sense. Whether or not I now get a complain out of it remains to be seen, but I await it with humorous anticipation.

Welcome To Officer Safety Training...

“Get back,” I screamed pathetically as the well aimed punch caught me on the side of the shoulder. I moved my feet to try and stabilise myself but it was no good. The punches were coming in at me too quickly and I was unable to prevent myself from being pushed back. I was just about clinging on to any dignity I had left when the punches changed to powerful kicks, the first of which knocked me backwards. It was a humiliating defeat and for a second I wondered what on earth I was doing. I then heard a voice from our trainer and was quickly reminded: “Welcome to Officer Safety Training folks.”

Throughout training school and every scenario or role play we would do, the same message was drilled into us.

“What’s the most important thing on the streets?” a trainer would ask. “You are. Your safety is the most important thing. Then it’s your partners. And then it’s the public. If you’re hurt, you can’t help anyone.”

I instantly warmed to this idea and was comforted by the fact that such an emphasis was put on keeping officers safe, regardless of how much trouble someone else could potentially in. My fellow recruits would spend hours talking about how they would put themselves in between an armed robber and innocent children. I on the other hand had spent weeks biting my lower lip, anxious that somebody might realise that I instead would probably take the uniform off and hide. Surely I would be rumbled eventually? But until I am, I was expected to fulfil my duties to the best of my ability and that involved regular officer safety training.

I had heard various reports about the training day which ranged from the wild claims that it was “the most punishing day I have ever had,” to “it really isn’t that bad” so was unsure what to expect. But half way through, I was struggling to keep up the façade that I was relaxed and that my composed expression was genuine. I was starting to tire and pain was beginning to set in. I looked around the room and was disappointed to see that nobody else seemed to be struggling. I was completing circuit after circuit, press ups, squats, sit ups and both I and my body knew that I wouldn’t be able to continue for much longer. I began taking short cuts on the circuit, took twice as long to complete a press up and wondered if I just laid on the mat without actually doing a sit up whether I would be noticed. The session came to an end and I was a quivering wreck, my body screaming at me that it couldn’t continue any further.

The trainer’s voice boomed throughout the hall we were in.

“That’s the warm up complete, well done.”

Warm up? Was he serious? I looked around and saw nobody laughing, they just accepted it. Surely that wasn’t the warm up? I was exhausted and didn’t know how much longer my legs would support me.

“Get some handcuffs and protective equipment please,” the voice boomed again. I felt sick and wondered whether I would have to produce actual vomit to be excused from the class.
Twenty minutes later I was being attacked by various members of my team. I was holding a mat in front of me to cushion the punches, kicks and baton strikes but it did little good.
While standing sideways on so a colleague could hit me with his baton, I turned my head to see when he was going to strike. He did so as I turned and the mat was pushed into my mouth.

“Well done,” I said cheerfully as I felt pain rip through my tooth. Was it broken? Had I inadvertently swallowed my own tooth?

“Wasn’t hard enough,” he replied.

You just nearly broke my tooth, I felt like screaming. Instead I smiled and said, “Have another go then.”

I was seeing strange behaviour in the room. Fellow colleagues had turned and they were trying to outdo each other in a weird macho display of strength. Why we were practising painful moves on each other anyway I didn’t know. But surely we shouldn’t be getting too carried away?

“This is what they want,” I tried telling a partner. “We shouldn’t be hurting each other, we’re on the same side.” My pleas did little good.

As I was thrown across the room for the third time I landed at the feet of a passing trainer. I felt sure he might have a word with the brute that had nearly destroyed me. Instead he began offering him advice.

“The power comes from the hips, turn with the hips,” I heard him say as I scrambled to my feet, praying I would survive until the end of the day. “You’ll deliver a much more powerful blow if you turn like this.

As I was turned into a human bunch bag, I noticed some began smiling as they delivered incredible kicks and punches to my torso and I became concerned for their mental health. I gasped for breath and realised it could be much easier to let a suspect escape rather than risk getting this pummelled.

The following day I was aching in places I didn’t even know I had muscles. Getting ready for work my colleagues all seemed blasé about the whole experience.

“How was officer safety training,” I was asked by a friend who had not yet completed it.
“Nothing to it mate,” I shrugged. “You won’t have any problems.”

The words came out before I had a chance to think. Why I said it, I’m not sure but already dread has set in for the next round of officer safety training.

Haunted Nick?

I was sat on a grassy bank in streaming sunlight sipping a cool drink with a friend who worked in the front office of the police station I was attached to.

“It’s haunted you know,” he said seriously.

I used my hand to shield the sun from my eyes, only half listening to what Michael was saying.

“I’m not joking," he added, seeing my sceptical expression. "I’ve seen it. He freaks me out.”

I looked up at him and became concerned at the resolute expression plastered across his face. Maybe he genuinely believed it. Would that mean he was mentally unwell? Surely he hadn’t actually seen a ghost.

“When I’m there on my own throughout the night, I see things happen,” he said.

I laughed out loud at the absurdity of what he was saying.

“I’m serious,” he went on. “Ask anyone. It’s alright for you, but when you’re there on your own all night, it’s creepy.”

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“Our station officer is off sick,” my sergeant declared in our briefing before we started our Night Duty. He paused as he looked around the room, his eyes falling on me. “Bill, can you cover the front office tonight please?”

“Of course Sarge,” I replied, compensating myself with the thought that at least I could watch some telly.

An hour later I was settling down to a night in front of the television, praying that nobody would wander in halfway through the night and thus ruining my night of chilling. I watched the response vehicles pour out of the yard on the bank of CCTV camera screens I had in front of me and suddenly realised how quiet it was.

I turned the TV onto a music channel and started cranking up the volume, listening to my personal radio whenever it crackled into use.

As I sat there, I heard a noise in the corridor. I paused for a second, straining to hear. If it was my skipper still wandering around, I’d prefer for him not to catch me with my feet up. Hearing nothing, I relaxed, remembering I had watched him drive out only minutes earlier. I relaxed back into my chair and thought about getting a bit of sleep until I heard something else that sounded like footsteps.

I picked up the remote control and muted it quickly hoping I would hear the odd noise. I couldn’t and began to worry that I was not alone.

“It’s haunted you know,” Michael’s voice sounded in my head. “Someone died at the station years ago and his ghost haunts the station.”

I realised I was being foolish and tried to relax, my heart still racing furiously. I was a police officer, in a police station and was getting spooked by a few noises. I didn’t for one moment believe it was a ghost, but was concerned that there could be intruders.

Feeling thirsty and knowing that the lights on the top floor were not working, I was unsure about venturing to our canteen.

“This is ridiculous,” I scolded myself, wondering what people would say if they could see me. I was probably in the safest building for miles around and was also probably the most scared.

I reached for my torch from my body armour which was lying on the floor and undid my baton from my belt in case I needed it. I half thought about putting my body armour on, but decided against it on the basis that ghosts could probably penetrate stab vests as easily as walls.

Fumbling around the canteen with torch in one hand and baton within easy reach, it was a complicated tea-making process but I managed it and retreated straight into my office, keeping the television volume low so that I could hear any strange noises.

For the next six hours, I sat alone, with just the noises for company and myself fast becoming a dishevelled nervous wreck. Once the sun began to rise and Early Turn units began turning up, I looked stressed and tired.

“Busy night?” my relieving station officer asked as he dumped his bag under the desk.

“Not too bad, never a dull moment here,” I smiled cheerily.

“Really?” He sounded surprised. “Normally it’s dead.”

Targets Are All Wrong

Sitting in a small booth, cooped up for hours on end with no fresh air and just plastic cups of water for company, I was beginning to learn what it was like working in a call centre.

The air conditioning machine had been broken for days and the old windows wouldn’t open enough to dispel the stifling stagnant air.

I had been working at the company for a number of weeks and my job was to cold-call members of the public to try and persuade them to answer questions relating to a specific service they had recently used.

Often people were confused over the call and unwilling to help but every so often I would come across a gem of a person who would want to give their opinions and help me get one step nearer to achieving my target. I received a basic wage for my troubles but had an elusive target which if I achieved, would get me a bonus.

Short of cash one week, I changed my working tactics and began pushing harder than ever in a bid to reach my target. I got in earlier, skipped lunch and was the last to leave at the end of the shift. After a gruelling number of hours talking, persuading and convincing people to answer questions I eventually hit my target. Overjoyed that I had achieved it, I took my confirmation slip up to my supervisor who eyed it suspiciously.

“The target’s just been increased,” he said lazily.

My heart started thumping with frustration.

“What do you mean, increased?”

“To be honest, too many of you were hitting it, so we’ve raised it,” he replied without even looking up. “Good effort but keep trying.”

I walked back to my booth furious at the underhanded way they had changed the goalposts.

So perhaps you can imagine my shock when I joined “The Job” and learnt that I once again, would have targets. I would have targets for the number of convictions that I secured. Targets which, many people struggle to achieve and which simply adds extra pressure to the job.

“It’s like being a salesman,” someone told me not long after I had started.
The target brings unusual working practices and arrests that border on the ridiculous up and down the country.

One West Midlands’ officer was told to caution a man who had thrown a glass of water over his girlfriend. Another woman was arrested on her wedding day after her foot slipped on the accelerator pedal and her car damaged a car park barrier. A man from Cheshire was cautioned for being “found in possession of an egg with intent to throw” and a child from Kent was arrested after removing a slice of cucumber from a sandwich and throwing it at another youngster.


I could see the relief in people’s faces when they hit their target knowing they could now focus on real police work for the remaining few weeks of the year. Until that is, the senior management appeared, wearing a similar expression as my call centre supervisor. I recognised that look anywhere and knew what was about to come.

“Ladies and gentleman, well done to the majority of you in reaching your targets,” one of our top cops said. “Be aware that it has now risen for this year and you will not be getting points for as many offences as you did last year.”

When I spend my time dealing with a sudden death, sitting with an assault victim at hospital, breaking world-shattering news to a family that a loved one has died or been killed, sitting on a crime scene or helping an elderly person who is confused or lost, I am not hitting any targets. In the eyes of the management team, I am not working, and I will - I have been assured - be hauled into their offices at the end of the year and made to explain my figures.

"I Hate Coppers!"

The alcohol fumes from his breath wasted no time in crossing the table and hit me full on in the face. I started to recoil but then paused, aware that by doing so, I could look rude. Instead I chose to breathe through my mouth, concerned at what I could be inhaling.

“So you’re a copper?” he slurred at me. His blood-shot eyes had difficulty focussing on me for a moment, but once they did I felt them penetrate through me. He lifted the remains of his drink and finished it in an instant before looking back at me.

“I hate coppers,” he growled.

I smiled weakly, trying to think of something witty to say. I couldn’t and began wondering whether or not I would even feel the punch if it knocked me unconscious.

An hour earlier …

I had been stood at the bar, waiting to be served while my friends danced away waiting for the clock to strike midnight. It was New Years Eve and a group of us had escaped city life and fled to the country for a few days. We were in a small country pub, joined by the whole population of the tiny hamlet where we were staying.

Everybody knew everybody and I began to feel a little self conscious at the strange looks I was getting.

As I stood there waiting patiently, wondering if folks were deliberately ignoring me for being an outsider, a man sidled up to the bar next to me.

“Alright kid,” he growled in a London accent. “I’m Brian.”

I looked at him and smiled politely, curious at this impromptu introduction.

Fast forward 45 minutes and I was getting into the swing of celebrating New Years and enjoying more drinks with Brian. He wasn’t the best company, but I quickly found that when he was ordering the drinks they were coming significantly quicker than when I had been trying. Eventually I noticed he soon started buying each round and I was delighted at the money I was saving.

Brian was 65, but looked considerably younger and had an incredibly powerful left punch, which he had a habit of jabbing into my stomach after he made a ‘joke’.

“I’m only playing with ya kid,” he would cackle as he delivered another well aimed jab to my side.

We swapped tales and continued talking. He pointed out his wife who was on the dance floor not too far away from my group of friends, who seemed oblivious that I had not returned to join them, and began reminiscing. It turned out that we lived near to each other and had even been visiting the same pubs for a number of years.

“Fancy that,” he laughed loudly again. “We’ll have to meet for a pint,” he cackled as another side splitter was delivered on target.

“What are the chances?” I stammered, slightly winded.

I was aware that the conversation could be about to reach the dangerous stage. All police officers are aware of it and it is a topic that can make or break a social night out: what do you say when asked what you do for a living?

When I first become a police officer, I was proud to tell people what I did. The questions that followed were to be expected and I had no problem answering them. I soon realised that everybody asked the same questions. No matter where I went or what sort of social event it was, people’s questions were always the same.

“Have you ever arrested anyone,” they would ask eagerly. “Who’s the worst person you’ve arrested,” was another popular query. But it always went the same way and would end up with: “Would you arrest me if I had drugs on me?” or a similar scenario. Once their confidence increased, they might then start teasing me or slagging off the police. I soon found it easier to lie about my job and simply say that I worked in marketing.

I had never been met with any open hostility but am aware of people who have encountered problems when their occupation had come to light.

I sensed my conversation with Brian could be heading in this direction and felt utter relief when two of my friends joined me at my side.

“There you are!” one said. “We’ve been looking for you,” she beamed before giggling with another friend.

“Hello ladies,” Brian said, oozing charisma, before turning back to me.

“I tell ya what kid, things are looking up for me now,” he said. “After getting out of the nick I’ve realised I’m going to stay on the straight and narrow for my Sharon,” he nodded towards his wife.

“The nick?”

“That’s right kid. I was in prison for best part of ten years. Been in and out all my life, but only got out last year,” he said as he finished his drink. “Another one?”

“Just popping to the toilet,” I said before slipping away and disappearing into the crowd.

Just minutes later, my friend who had stayed chatting with Brian found me and grabbed my hand.

“Quick,” she shrieked playfully, “You’ve got to come and speak to Brian.”

“I’ve spoken to him,” I said pointlessly as she pulled me up to the table he was sat.

“Brian’s been in prison,” she said loudly, as the last remnants of Frank Sinatra’s dulcet tones came to an end and people’s conversations could now be heard.

“Do you know him Brian?” she asked even louder, the drink clearly having an effect on her ear drums. The song came to a perfect end at the point she opened her mouth for the final time: “Bill’s a police officer.”

Old Sweat Syndrome

During training, I was informed that life as a probationer would be tough. The uniformed cops who had been responding to the emergency calls for a number of years were referred to as ‘old sweats’ and descriptions about this strange breed would only be given while the storyteller smoked an imaginary cigarette.

I realised that this cigarette was of immense importance to police officers who wanted to boast about something they had achieved, closely followed by the phrase: “I’m an old sweat”. Not long after I had joined the response team, I found I too had become an addict to the imaginary tobacco, chain smoking as I told stories of my achievements.

“How come you’ve got access to that?” a colleague would ask me, referring to a particular computer programme I was using or a new bit of kit I had been sent.

I would look up at them, lean against a nearby wall, take the imaginary cigarette in between my forefinger and thumb, have a quick puff on it while squinting slightly, before proudly declaring: “I’m an old sweat, I’ve done the course.”

“And I suppose you’ll do the bloody area car course next month,” they would grumble as they left the room.

I had heard that life out on the beat was changing and for the most part, for the better. But I had also heard that the more experienced police officers could be quite tough and there was a strict hierarchy in place. Although all police constables are technically equal in rank, in practice the PCs who have been on the team for the longest are more superior.

“Area car drivers are Gods,” I was warned at Police College before leaving to join my team. “Make sure you don’t upset them or you could be in for a rough time.”

I remember my first day on the team as though it were only yesterday. I walked into the police station and saw the area car driver on my team. He eyed me suspiciously, probably aware that I looked new, with impeccably ironed shirts and polished boots.

I asked him if he was on the day shift and he confirmed he was.

“Today’s my first day,” I said pathetically.

“No problem,” he smiled, before telling me what I needed for the briefing. “When you’re ready, come on up.”

This wasn’t what I had been told in training; area car drivers wouldn’t have spoken to a probationer in the times of Gene Hunt, but here he was helping me out.

Throughout my first few weeks, this particular area car driver was always happy to help me, on one occasion even staying on at the end of the shift to finish something for me because I had an appointment to get to.

My own tutor – a PC who had been assigned to guide me through my first few weeks - was the same, always more than happy to help me. But I quickly learnt that help would only emerge when nobody else was around.

During breaks and meal times, I would be the subject of most jokes and windups. But I soon learnt that when I needed help, the team was there backing me up. On one occasion, one ‘old sweat’ who told me ten times a day that I would be doing all the writing if I was posted with him, took great delight in heckling me in front of the team just as I was about to go to court for the first time.

“You’re going down,” he laughed and pointed. “You’d better take a change of clothes,” he cackled as everyone else broke in to hysterics, “You’ll need them in prison.”

I smiled weakly, wondering what I had let myself in for. An hour later, when the room had emptied, he took me to one side.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “The first time is always the worst but you’ll be fine,” he added warmly. At that point another PC walked in.

The ‘old sweat’ stopped abruptly and said in a loud voice: “So you refer to the magistrates as Your Highness, okay?” he said winking at the other PC.

I soon had lots of people giving me advice in the safety of an empty room or car and I realised that the banter I had been receiving was just that: banter.

I was touched at the effort some people were going to in helping me and realising what an impact it had on me, I vowed to do the same to fellow probationers who began after me.

Six months after I had started, I bumped into someone in my locker room. He was sorting through a mountain of uniforms and looked up at me hesitantly before saying hello. I recognised the look in his eyes as that of the fear that only a probationer has on their first day.

I reeled off everything he would need for the briefing and his face radiated relief.
“I haven’t been here long either,” I said. “But if you need any help with anything, just ask and I’ll be more than happy to lend a hand.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said happily. “I bet you know loads?”

I casually leant against the locker, reached for my imaginary cigarette and put it up to my mouth.

“I’ve got five minutes service,” I smiled. “I’m an old sweat now.”

Sometimes I feel as though I'm wasting my time...

I applied to become a police officer so I could help genuine victims of crime, and to make a worthwhile difference in people’s lives. It sounds like a sentence from a recruitment brochure but it is the truth.

There are other reasons which make the job attractive; the fast cars and excitement are certainly appealing, but those were the most important in my mind.

Sadly a police officer doesn’t get to do as much of this as I’d thought, and most of his or her time is spent dealing with allegations from petty criminals, followed by the counter allegations from the criminals they have fallen out with.

The next day they’ll be friends again and all the time you spent trying to deal with the alleged crime will have been wasted. I thought the same way towards drunk people and still think they are, to a certain extent, a waste of time. Not only for police, but also for the Ambulance Service who normally have to deal with the drunks that haven’t broken the law. I have yet to meet a drunk that has never been arrested before.

Recently I was on a night duty when I attended a call to a man in his fifties who was drunk beyond recognition and was causing problems on a quiet residential street. He was unsteady on his feet and shouting abuse at people walking past, including homeowners who were intimidated by his behaviour.

“Go home mate or you’ll be nicked,” I said instantly, really not in the mood to mess about.

“F*** off,” he replied eloquently. “I hate you c***s.”

I walked towards him. “Go home or you’ll be nicked,” I said again, losing my patience. “Last warning,” I added hoping he wouldn’t call my bluff.

He started to back away as I moved towards him and I was satisfied he would disappear into the night and make his way home. I saw a family walking down the street towards me and was pleased that I was in control of the situation.

I smiled as they walked past and at first could not understand their shocked faces as they looked in the direction of the drunk. I followed their gaze and saw him standing in the road, in full illumination from the street lamp, urinating on the side of someone’s house. There was also a car parked up nearby with a young couple sat inside, also watching in disbelief. I groaned to myself, knowing I would have to act quickly for the sake of my audience and began making my way towards him.

As I got nearer I could see him clearly still urinating and hesitated for a moment. I really didn’t want to try and arrest him until he had put his bits away.

“Right fella, you’re about to be nicked,” I told him, feeling I should say something while I waited. “Put it away.”

“Put what away,” he slurred, smiling.

“You know what. You’ve been given enough chances but you’re taking the piss now,” I said firmly, not deliberately using a pun that was so apt at that moment. He did his trousers up and began backing away from me.

“Come here,” I said, wishing I was anywhere but here. He got round the other side of a parked car and began to run round it. It had potential to be rather embarrassing, especially if for some incredible reason I could not catch him. I tried to put the Benny Hill music out of my head and focus on reaching him.

As soon as I did so his mood changed instantly and he began fighting with me. I grabbed his arm and used leg sweeps to try and unbalance him and get him on the floor which would be the safest option for both of us but he somehow managed to stay upright. It wasn’t until my third attempt that he went down and I was able to handcuff him.

He was screaming and swearing but I was now in control and felt happier, even though he decided to start spitting and blowing mucus from his nose which ran down his face and made me feel slightly sick.

With some help I transported him back to our police station. Thinking he would calm down, he went the opposite and it became a battle to get him into the cell.

He was trying to spit, punch and kick at myself and my colleague and I suspected he might have taken drugs as well as the empty bottle of vodka we found on him. Standing in the confined space of the cell with him, the smell of his body odour and feet became overpowering but I eventually escaped the cell safely and disappeared to write my notes.

The next day I saw him at court by chance. He did not see me and I find it highly unlikely he would have recognised me anyway, but he was sat in the magistrates’ court concourse, waiting to be called in. He was polite to staff members and sat silently and patiently, a completely different man to how he had been the night before.

What I had initially perceived to be an unimportant job the night before, I later realised it was a job well done. To begin with I had been reluctant to arrest him, thinking that my time would be better spent elsewhere. But I soon realised that the public who had passed him and nearby residents who were concerned at what he would do next were all genuine victims.

For that short space of time and in that small stretch of that road, I had made, in my own mind, a small difference.

They didn't teach me this at training school..

I was laying face down on the couch, struggling to control the prisoner during my first violent arrest when I became acutely aware that we had never had a role-play quite like this at training school.

Whenever I had arrested and cautioned my prisoner in the classroom, he had submitted relatively quickly. There was the odd shouting and swear word as we progressed further into the course, but once he had been politely told to stop - he did so.

Handcuffing was easy too; the prisoner at training school, who only minutes earlier had been arresting me, fortunately also knew the exact procedure and so helpfully held his arms out in the perfect position so that I could apply the cuffs without too much trauma.

And the Section 32 pat down was even quicker, with the suspect and arresting officer making a joke as a warrant card was pulled out from their trouser pocket. “Oh dear, you’re a police officer? You are in trouble,” we would joke.

But it was during my first real arrest, as I was desperately holding down the man’s legs to prevent him from kicking out at my colleagues that I suddenly realised what an odd job being a police officer is.

Only an hour earlier, I had been inside another house, speaking to the extremely distressed former partner of this man, who had been assaulted by him during a heated argument. I sat there reassuring her that she was safe while at the same time regretting that I sat down on her sofa which was covered with dog hair. In fact, most of it had now been transferred to my trousers and I soon realised why my tutor had so politely declined to sit down.

As I took a brief holding statement from the victim, the dog whose hair was now deposited all over my trousers was humping my leg. I attempted to discreetly nudge it away as his owner continued to sob about the incident earlier that day. Undeterred, the mongrel was not put off and continued crawling all over my leg, shedding more hair as it did so. Again I tried pushing him away but to no avail.

Feeling frustrated, I gently flicked my leg sideways causing him to be thrown across the room a short distance, yelping in fright. I looked up at the victim who had managed to contain her sobs for a second, as she looked between me and her dog, her eyes narrowing.

And only a week before this incident, I was sat in a classroom in my final exam with my classmates- reading questions on police legislation and the law, and ticking one of the four multiple choice answers that were in front of me. “If this is policing,” I thought to myself, “then it’s not actually that hard.”

And just six months before this, I had a job with set hours, no weekend or night work and no dangers of being assaulted or spat at.

Here I was now, rolling around on the floor of a dingy flat, being screamed at and assaulted by a man so angry I actually thought he would explode.

Life as a police officer is certainly strange, and my life, I think, has just begun climbing the dizzy heights of the rollercoaster that I expect this job to be.