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.”