"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.”