Police, they are not gods...
Picture the scene, it's one in the morning and a lone weary figure is blatting back through north London on a 20 year old Honda CB250 after the world's longest day at work.
The only other people on the road are minicabs and the occasional lethally drunk fucktard. So when a rusty, dented, blue Fiesta with smoked glass windows pulls up next to me at a set of lights I'm more than a little wary and pull away pretty sharpish to make sure they're nowhere near me.
Once I'd got some distance I took a peek in my mirrors and was somewhat worried to see the Fiesta barrelling towards me at monstrous speed. So I twist the throttle a little harder and keep a good eye out behind as these guys, instead of pulling a massive hooning drunken overtake, pull up to within inches of my rear wheel and then lean on the horn whilst flashing the full beams like disco was making a comeback.
I daren't slow down, cos these fuckwits are right on my arse, there's no place just here to pull in because of the parked cars but the rest of the road is clear, they could go round me any time they wanted.
They didn't want to go round, they wanted me off the road and as far as I could tell they wanted me off the road in little crispy pieces. So I gave the poor bike all the throttle I had (not a hell of a lot) and prayed they weren't the same drunked fuckwits I'd read about in the MAG newsletter*

So there's this Fiesta, weaving gently back and forth two feet from my back wheel, horn blaring, lights flashing, but sticking neatly into their lane when we come to a bit of a hill. I start to lose speed, and quick as a flash the car pulls out round me, rockets fifty yards down the other side of the hill and slews sideways to a halt right accross my path.
So I brake, harder than I'd like, back end of the bike fishtailing left and right until I come to a stop about ten feet from the drivers door of this Fiesta.
Door opens and a bloke steps out, white shirt, black trousers, crew cut, and holding a long stick down by his side, clearly absolutely fucking livid.
He's stalked about two paces towards him when I clock the uniform on the lass who's just climbed out of the passenger side.
"Oh thank fuck" says I, "You're police..."
"Yes sonny Jim" says he, "We're police. We're police and you're an idiot, aren'cha, the kind of idiot who rides at 60 in a 30 zone. Worse, you're the kind of idiot who rides at 60 in a 30 zone with a fucking POLICE CAR on his tail. We pulled up beside you at the fucking lights. How fucking thick do you have to be not to notice a big white car with the word "POLICE" written on it in easy to read letters... eh ?"
"But you're not driving a police car" says I, clearly confused.
"What the fuck is THAT THEN!" says Mr Angry, turning back to point at the rusty, dented, Ford Fiesta with the smoked glass windows.

At that point the WPC took over and things went a little more smoothly, beginning with the usual "Is this your bike sir" etc...

Eventually once the paperwork was done Mr. Angry got a slapped wrist** and I ended up with no fine and no points.

Still have no idea what two coppers were doing driving such a beaten up old piece of shit.


* the ones who had recently run a biker into a hedge and then, because he hadn't sustained any entertaining injuries from the accident, broke his shins with a tyre iron...

**Engaging in persuit in an unmarked car without lights or siren, accosting a member of the public whilst out of uniform, use of offensive language, and whatever else a rather embarrased police complaints commission bloke decided to throw at him.
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Fri 23 Sep 2005, 16:18, Reply)