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.