I was stopped in Edinburgh a couple of months ago
"Sorry to trouble you sir, we're just stopping all the really old cars tonight".
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 5 May 2011, 23:13, 4 replies)

I was once stopped on the way home from the pub but two coppers in a patrol car.

After the usual who are, where have you been routine, the got down to business and asked two questions.

Q1. Have you seen anyone else while walking home?

Q2. Have you seen anyone who's black?

I decided to pass and not ask whether those questions were in any way connected.
(unity, Thu 5 May 2011, 22:58, Reply)

I
was arrested for having supermodel sex in my Honda Accord.

They let me go because I was so great.
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Thu 5 May 2011, 22:54, 8 replies)

i was a yankee cop once...
I was a cop once, and my best case was this: I tried to uncover a plan to assassinate Queen Elizabeth II, who was on a state visit to the USA. My main suspect was a rich businessman who had a way of turning anyone into an unknowing assassin at the press of a remote control.

On the case, I fells in love with the businessmans's assistant. She knews nothing about his plot, but was great and really dirty in bed, and after the we spend the night together, she helped me with my investigation.
( Avast is still alive!!!!, Thu 5 May 2011, 22:25, 5 replies)

Going to a house party at university
I was dressed up as the tin man (not a very good costume) and on my way to a friends house with some of the other guests.
We had made a rather large jelly and were carrying it with us.

The main road had been closed due to a road accident and the police stopped us to send us around the other way.
They then tried to confiscate the jelly off us because they thought it was vodka jelly and we were in a 'no alcohol' area of town. Bastards.
( thistle, Thu 5 May 2011, 22:12, Reply)

Another The Police Story
Couple of years ago, myself and the Mrs decided to spend 2 weeks at a rented cottage in Skye. Lovely place, converted gatehouse to the big hoose, which in turn was now a hotel. The guy who owned the gatehouse was the ghillie for the estate, and basically at the beginning of season moved out of his house into the ghillies office (as he would have fishermen turning up for permits at all times). Obviously, the house had a lot of personal effects, including a dining room wall covered in photos, people, places. Most intriguing was the one where the ghillie, as a young man, was sitting on a sofa in what looked like a record studio, Stuart Copland by his side. Curiosity got the better of us, and in conversation started chatting with him about the photo. Turned out, early in his life he was a band manager. Firstly for Curved Air, then for The Police, just before they became really big. Fascinating guy, fascinating life and was a joy to listen to. His only regret was when first moving into the gatehouse, he decided to sort out some personal possessions that had been held in storage, and burn the stuff he didn't need. Unfortunately, he mistakenly burnt a load of gold records, managing to save only one, which was on display in his office.
(GhostAtTheFeast Soup Sir?, Thu 5 May 2011, 22:06, 1 reply)

hi-LAR-ious consequences?
Three and a bit years loss of liberty. I can laugh about it now though.
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Thu 5 May 2011, 21:55, 1 reply)

It's the police! Run!
My mates and I went through a stage of baring our backsides to passing cars despite being in our late teens. I called it ‘revisiting my youth’. My mother, when she caught us doing it one night, called it ‘being a stupid prat’. Predictably, we always got our bums out after a few drinks and it ensured that a night was rounded off with a good laugh. After a couple of weekends of ‘pulling moonies’ we got bored with the traditional approach of simply waiting for a car to near before we dropped our trousers, so one Friday night after a few beers in the local park, we tried out a new technique.

At one end of the high street there was a large roundabout which had four turnings off of it; one obviously going into the centre of town, two headed off in different directions out of town and one led to the car park of a major supermarket. The shrubbery in the middle of the roundabout was quite unkempt and we decided that it would make an excellent hiding place for us to leap out at traffic from. Six of us took up our positions behind various bushes and trees on the roundabout and waited for the first car to approach. As it was late on a Friday night, cars were few and far between, but we were getting one every five to ten minutes.
I’d hear someone shout out excitedly from their hiding position, “Here’s one!”and then the road would be illuminated with the glow from the vehicles headlights. This was our nod to emerge from the bushes and gather as a group with our arses out, surprising the poor driver. Most of them ignored us, a few laughed and there was the odd driver that would erupt into a fit of rage and circle the roundabout numerous times before we all managed to scarper in various directions.

On this particular night, we had been pulling moonies for about forty minutes and decided that the next car would be our last victim of the night. Once again we all got into our hiding positions and waited for the next car, giggling with drunken excitement. A few minutes later, we heard a car approaching. First out of the bushes was one of our friends Ben, a rotund chap who was usually the butt of our jokes. As he reached the edge of the roundabout, he dropped his trousers and bent over. The rest of us were making our way over to join him when suddenly someone shouted, “Shit, it’s the police!”

A quick look beyond the headlights of the car confirmed that the shout was correct and Ben was now in full mooney position, his crinkled scrotum dangling like a hypnotists chain in front of two bemused coppers who were in the car. Ben heard the shout and peered over his shoulder to see them looking back at him, and then to his right saw the five of us sprinting full pelt towards a retirement home across the road. He tried to pull up his trousers and follow, but he was in such a rush, he could only succeed in getting them halfway up before he started on a pathetic waddle towards us. Trying not to laugh, we made our way into the gardens of the retirement home. Previous escapades had seen us use this as an escape route as you could either climb a fence at one end of the gardens and get onto a little back road, hide behind one of the numerous fruit trees in the ground, or jump over a high hedge which took you into the garden of the house next door. From here, it was possible to leap a few more fences and make a clean getaway.

By now, the two coppers were out of the car and in pursuit of us. To his credit, Ben had picked up quite a pace for someone who only had their trousers half on and as we jumped over the fence one by one, he was almost up with the rest of our group, charging like a demented rhino. The two coppers were slightly further back, but gaining ground fast.

“Quick Ben you fat fuck”, shouted Mike, the fifth person to drop over the fence. Ben placed one foot on the fence ready to climb, but as he did so, his trousers slipped down once more. Struggling to regain composure, he saw that the coppers were now very close. Every time he went to place his hands on the top of the fence, his trousers would slip down and he’d stop and try and pull them back up again.

“Lads, save yourselves! Run, run, run” he shouted, and we pegged it without hesitation as fast as we could, leaving Ben to explain his actions to the police.

We all hid in a nearby park for a while, laughing over the events beforehand when my phone suddenly rang. It was Ben.

“I’m not answering it” I declared, “It’s probably the police”.

One by one, each phone went off until Warren plucked up some courage and answered his. On the other end was Ben, now alone. We arranged to meet.

Ben was greeted not with thanks, but with abuse. ‘Gutted you fat wanker’, ‘Ha ha, you retard’ and ‘Nice one, Braveheart’ were a few of the insults I remember. We asked Ben what the two policemen had said to him and he explained that he’d only received a mild ticking off for his ‘immature and quite frankly, disturbing behavior'.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Thu 5 May 2011, 21:17, 3 replies)

Wee and weed
It's been told before, but I figure it's worth re-telling, as it's doubtful anyone will remember.

Many moons ago, while I was staying with my parents in the sleepy town of Ludlow, Shropshire, I spent a fine evening filling up on a variety of fantastic ales. As a result, my bladder decided to take a break in the doorway of a charity shop in a pedestrian-only street. Running silently, a bacon-mobile rolled up behind, presumably having built up speed and killed the engine 100' away. As a result, I turned around to two coppers standing right behind me. Given that this town was known for its drunken behaviour, they probably weren't too bothered, but they wanted to give me a dressing down for my public indecency. In my alcohol-addled mind, I decided to run for it. Given that I was all of 2 feet from them, and tried to run between them,I made it all of about 1 step before being collared. In restrosepct, I have a newfound respect for the evasion method of Jason Bourne. They decided that I could with a bit of time down the nick, which was all of 200 feet away. They put me in an interview room, left the door ajar, and left me alone. After about 5 minutes, with no-body seeming to be paying any attention to me, and beginning to feel a little parched, I decided to have a wander around. I strolled into what must have constituted the control room, and asked the three or so officers on duty for some water. They told me to help myself to the water cooler, and get myself back in the interview room. Another 5 minutes passed, and again my cup ranneth empty, so I repeated the same move. Again, they told me to go sit down. My interrogation consisted of about 3 minutes of asking me what the hell I was doing micturating upon private property, I apologised, and they threatened to take me home and wake up my parents. I spun them a flimsy yarn about my dad becoming physically abusive to me if they did, and they realised I was probably better of being let loose to get myself home. They charged me £80 for the act, and kicked me out.

Clearly, I was in the wrong for both pissing on the doorstep and trying to run away, but that £80 still stung me. Until, that is, a year or so later when a couple of friends and I went to pull a desk out of a skip in Brighton police station car park, and found an old evidence envelope containing about 3 ounces of weed. We couldn't believe it, and bolted sharpish. I took my oz. share of the booty, smoked until I felt retarded, and decided the sell the rest to buy myself an external sound card for my laptop. All in all, I ended up being about £30 up on the Police force. Cheers guys.
(mofoitk Vulcanising the whoopie stick in the ham wallet, Thu 5 May 2011, 20:54, 1 reply)

W-a-a-a-y back in the late 1970s
I got onto Capital Radio's lunchtime news quiz. (I could have posted this last week because I won!)

I sat in the Green Room waiting to go on with the other unlucky contestants, where we were joined by two bands who - at the time - I'd never heard of. No surprise that one of them was The Police. The other was Squeeze. One or more of the members of Squeeze smelt fucking terrible.

Contrary to what is now commonly believed, Gordon Sting seemed to be a perfectly pleasant, quiet, straightforward sort of chap. But that Glen Tillbrook - what an arse.

Around the same time I was arrested for twatting a Police Officer in Leicester Square; I'd just come out of the tube station and walked straight into some sort of melee, and one copper made to give me a good crack on the head with his truncheon, so I smacked him. They let me out after two hours with a caution, with the whispered aside that the PC in question was a bit of a twat and deserved it.
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Thu 5 May 2011, 20:21, 1 reply)

Arson
When I was 4 I burnt a four acre field because I'd been playing with matches stolen from my granny. The policeman who came to see my mum and dad terrified me. It has left a lasting scar and a healthy respect for the police.

Two years later my little brother and his friend put cinders in the petrol tanks of 18 cars. The same policeman came round to the house. Apparently I ran up the stairs screaming. My brother got his arse well and truly tanned for his misdemeanour, as dad had to foot the bill for the cars!

They should never have done away with village bobbies.
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 5 May 2011, 20:15, 1 reply)

Does this count?
I went to school with Stewart Copeland's son.
( gp_guineapig, Thu 5 May 2011, 20:03, 6 replies)

Don't push your luck sunshine.
I'd had more drinks than I should have and so when some kids decided to throw stones at my window because my dog was barking at them for sitting on HIS wall, I lost my normal mild mannered attitude.

After chasing them halfway down the road....not easy when you're running in zig-zags, and threatening to maim/kill them, one of the neighbours in the area I had ended up (about 20 minutes walk from my house), decided to call the Police. The kids had run off, but I was too pissed/knackered to move anymore. I think I was probably heaving into some poor sods flower border.

They questioned me about the prior events and I was 'drunk-calm' telling them about the stone throwers, i.e. I didn't realise but I was actually being a bit sweary and shouty. After warning me twice, the copper nicked me and I spent a night in the cells until I sobered up.

They fined me £40 and since I couldn't afford to pay it on time, they charged me another £75 on top of that in legal recovery fees.

Don't get arrested. It's expensive.
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Thu 5 May 2011, 19:47, Reply)

The story of the great riparian getaway
Once upon a time, when we were younger and more impressionable, there was a tale told by the elder children of a group of schoolkids who liked to jump off bridges.

They would wake before dawn and cut a secret and silent path to the banks of the Thames, where they would find the nearest bridge and jump off it into the dark and turbulent waters.

Many of these tales I heard myself, although the jumpers themselves were lost in legend. Until now. For you are in the presence of a jumper now. I took it upon myself to leap from a bridge and be forever carved into the headboard of my history in B3ta, another notch of accomplishment added to what is now a long list of achievements and accolades.

Following in the footsteps of our unknown heroes, three brave souls and myself met at 6am on the football fields. Our mission: to jump from a bridge into the Thames. It was a long, cold walk to the site and scarcely a word was spoken. We all were tense, secretly anxious of the dangers but outwardly stoical.

Once we had scaled the bridge we peered out over the railing at the swirling waters, gauging the height by the occasional boat passing underneath. Fifteen minutes later we brought ourselves to draw lots, to see who would climb over the railing first. I lost, and so over I went, feeling oh-so precarious balanced on the 6 inches of concrete 20 m above the water. A car slowed, flashing its lights and honking its horn before driving on. Another of us climbed over the edge.

It must have been almost an hour before we were all on the other side of the railing, stalling and prevaricating and cajoling one another. And then the cops arrived. Lights flashing and sirens wailing, a police car screeched to a halt at the end of the bridge. A lone officer leapt from the car shouting "Police! Stop!"

We all looked at each other, and jumped. All but one of us. And as we surfaced we caught a glimpse of our companion being dragged back over the railing. Moments later the officer was sliding down the steep embankment, as we drifted with the current, and running along the riverbank shouting and pleading with us as we paddled further out into the river. He stopped and we swam around the next bend where there was an easy place to get out.

We had got away, but we knew the game was up - the boy who was too afraid to jump would most likely be the boy to crack under the pressure of police, school and parents and give our names out to mitigate his inevitable punishment. So we walked dejectedly back to the officer, who was still standing on the riverbank.

Needless to say there were many reprimands and much of the force of the law was threatened. However, after dealing out an earful, the officer became more amiable. "So why did you come back?" he asked, and we explained. He laughed, saying, "very clever! But not what I'd have done at your age. You know I used to jump off this very bridge when I was a kid! Now run along and we'll not say any more about it."
(IdlePeAcEsign if trouble were my mistress, i'd send her to them, Thu 5 May 2011, 19:34, 1 reply)

i saw a police once
it was blue.
or maybe red.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 5 May 2011, 19:26, 2 replies)

Far more than I care to remember...
however...
Back in my days of MASSIVE drugs, I was pretty nocturnal. The nice man that used to deliver a green cheque to my door every two weeks stopped doing so as I refused to go and sit in a room and be taught how to use a pencil (anyone else remember 'restart' interviews?).
The upshot of this was that I needed a job.
I applied for bloody hundreds (well, tens certainly), and to my surprise (this was the late 80's) I was offered two!
One was in a kitchen of a nursing home and the other was a seasonal job behind the bar of a holiday camp. The wage for both was quite frankly a piss take. If I added both together, then by about the second Thursday, I'd have pretty much the same as the figure on the cheque that the nice man used to give me.
Still, I took both, as the bar job started at 8.00.
The Kitchen job started at 7am and finished at 8. This gave me somewhere between none and fuck all minutes to get from the nursing home to the bar.
Somehow, this was never a problem, and I'd get changed in the car on the way. The bar job finished about 30 mins after the bar closed at 1am, so as you can see, there wasn't much time for a social life.
Thankfully, another stoner that I knew lived close by my house and was also nocturnal.
We had an agreement that when I got back from work I'd press the button on the zebra crossing outside his house, he'd hear the beep-beep-beep and come out and we'd go for a spliff somewhere. If I'd knocked on the door or rung his doorbell, it may well have woken his parents. We were considerate stoners, if nothing else.
This worked flawlessly for weeks, until one night, I pressed the button. At that time of the morning in a small village there were no cars passing the detector in the road and so the lights would go red pretty quickly and start making the 'beep-beep-beep' noise.
Only this night, just as the lights turned red Old Bill and his mate came round the corner; saw me and instantly flicked on the flashers.
I ran.
They chased.
I ran through an alley way that lead back to the main road, jumped across the safety gate, and.....landed on the bonnet of another bloody police car.
I rolled, got up, continued running across the car park.
"I know where you live, you plonker!" came a shout from behind.
...and he was bloody right too.
I decided, that rather than wake up my parents, I'd go back.
I went back.
I was trussed up like a turkey and shoved in the back of the car.
"Why were you running?" they asked.
I honestly didn't have an answer, the drugs were gone. I'd dropped the hash in the alley on my way to the second police car's bonnet.
"No reason. I just saw you, and ran"
I told them how I was pressing the button on the crossing as a mate of mine and I used it as a sort of 'doorbell'.
Of course, the pigshit he had for brains couldn't quite comprehend this, and so he knocked on my mates door, duly woke his parents and was informed that their doorbell didn't work.
It didn't matter how many times I told him what I was actually talking about, he simply couldn't get the simple concept into his tiny brain and said,
"Right then. I believe that you've been stealing car stereos...etc...."
So on we went, to every car in every road that was attached to where I was first seen. Every car, he got out, shone a torch in the car, then moved to the next one.
After about an hour he realised that all the car stereos were in fact, in their alloted spot and clearly I hadn't nicked any.
Eventually, after giving me a lecture, he came around, opened the back door, undid the cuffs and let me out.
Defiant, and outraged as only a teenager can be, I said, "Where's my apology?"
"You fucking what?"
"You heard me. Where's my fucking apology?"
The answer to which was to be dragged down the aforementioned alley and thrown up against the wall.
I flinched, hard.
In turn, so did he.
I stood, looked him in the eye and said "Ok. Let's do this."
He walked back to the car and drove off.
Of course, in hindsight, I can actually see why they would think I was up to no good. I can also see that he wasn't walking away from me in fear, but most likely in pity.
Still as thick as pigshit though for not being able to grasp the concept that I might just not want to wake anyone up at that time of night.

Length? Unlike this post, it's tiny.
(dchurch bah, Thu 5 May 2011, 19:22, Reply)

Plain Clothes Officer
My uncle bikes to his station in his bike leathers each day and gets changed into uniform when he's there.

A few weeks ago he had to spend the whole day in plain clothes because his two year old daughter had gone through his rucksack, hidden his uniform and replaced it with a pair of pink dungarees and her fluffy sweater. When questioned about this, she claimed she wanted 'daddy to look pretty at work'.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 5 May 2011, 19:22, 5 replies)

They ask questions when you get arrested.
Like "Do you have any aliases?"
Do. Not. Laugh.

They control when you're allowed to use the bathroom.
( Lisette von Falcon, Thu 5 May 2011, 19:12, 3 replies)

the owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea roast boat
I had three less than favourable encounters with our pork flavoured friends in my late teens.

The first was when I was an officer cadet in the merchant navy at the tender age of 18. We had been at anchor in the bay of Gibraltar for two weeks whilst waiting to offload 2k tons of scrap in Algeciras.

When we finally got alongside everyone needed to let off a little steam. The first mate, the ChEng, two ABs and the engineer cadet all jumped in a taxi to Gibralter. To cut a long story short we came across a squaddies bar serving jack and coke for a pound a throw. The last thing I can remember is sitting on the road, alone. Then I woke up in an unlit room with a door yet no door handle. I looked at my watch to try nd figure out how much time had passed. It was gone. To get from Spain into Gib I needed my passport. That was gone as well. Along with my wallet and most worryingly, my belt. I began to wonder what was happening when I heard some screams and a lot of banging. Luckily this was back in 1999. When I think back to what happened I cant help thinking about movies like Saw and Hostel. Anyhoo, amidst all the screams and banging I decided to find out who had locked me in this room so I took the bull by the horns and started signaling for attention in the only way I felt was appropriate. I firmly rapped the door whilst saying "excuse me!".

Eventually my captor grew tired of the anguished moans of my fellow detainees and came to my door. I heard the key in the lock and then there was a blinding light (courtesy of the strip lighting in the hall outside). As soon as my eyes adjusted I found mysel face to face with a Ron Jeremy look-a-like wearing a uniform. I had been found nearly passed out on the street and had been taken in as "drunk and incapable". I got all my stuff back (including the tenner I still had in my wallet) and was politely told to get the fuck out of dodge.

Luckily I had a working cash card which allowed me to get the £50 I needed for a taxi back to Algeciras. Knowing I was likely to be packed on a flight home as soon as the Captain found out (I was 6 hours late for my watch, there was no avoiding it) I thought I may as well get the taxi driver to take me to McDonalds for a shake and some fries. Happily slurping and munching these as I walk up the quayside I hear the cry "CADET OFFICER OTT, COME STRAIGHT TO THE BRIDGE". The old man had been standing on the flying bridge and had spotted me tucking into a McDonalds as if I didn’t have a care in the world. To his credit he listened to my story and told me to fuck off to my cabin for the rest of the day and didnt mention it again. It probably helped that the 1st mate had done something similar but also lost his passport and that the 2 ABs had been arrested for brawling. Happy days.

And that is how I learned to stay away from spirits........


for a while. I left the Merch after breaking my leg and then found suitable college course and a nice wee job. Things were good and I went to Germany on holiday. The people I went with turned out to be incompatible and ran home to their respective mummies. I bravely forged on and had a wonderful time. After about a month bumming around the Fatherland I returned to Frankfurt the day before my flight home. As I was now alone the youth hostel advised I would need to share an 8 bed dorm as opposed to the 4 bed room I had shared with my former companions when we arrived. It was there I met Gus. An affable yank who shared my wariness of our fellow roomies. We decided to hit he town for a few drinks. My last memory was of drinking Jack and Coke whilst playing electronic darts with Gus and a suspiciously tall South American "woman" in a Brazil themed bar. Then my memory cuts to a taxi, then a field, then darkness.

I had gone from the centre of Frankfurt to a field on the beer scooter???!!!

It didn’t help that I had been reading Len Deighton and Robert Harris novels throughout my holiday. One moment I was fine, the next I was taken over by a paranoia so strong that I ran for what seemed like miles, certain as I was that the Stasi was chasing me. I stumbled through the field until I came to a road. A narrow country road in the middle of a wood/forest.

It must have been about 2am but I decided to flag down a car. In most slurred, drunken and broken German imaginable I asked the driver for a lift whilst opening the door. I had one foot in the car when he/she? hit the peddle and accelerated away from the mad drunken potential car jacker. I was left rolling down the road, mercifully uninjured. I saw some more headlights in the distance and felt it was worth another shot. I stuck my thumb out and the van stopped. I peered in and was greeted by two mustachioed German coppers looking at me with bemused expressions. I got bundled in and taken to the local cop shop. I had sobered up somewhat and remember the desk sergeant looking me up and down and then telling my two new friends to cut m loose. And there I was. Safe and a bit more sober, back on the streets of Frankfurt city centre. That should have been the end of it. However, the Stasis re-appeared (in my mind) and I made a break for it. Running full pelt up the street as fast as I could. Sure enough, the security forces caught up with me. Not the Stasi but my two friends from local law enforcement. Luckily they took pity on me and after a lot of slurred attempts, I managed to correctly pronounce the name of the street the youth hostel was on. They took me there and I knocked on the glass door. They guy at the desk shook his head whilst motioning to the curfew sign. Again my new friends helped me out and gestured to him that I should be allowed in.

Somehow I found my room and tried to enter as quietly as possible. I failed miserably by tripping over the unconscious form of Gus the Yank where he had fallen on the floor after returning from our memorable night.

About four months after this I joined my very good friend Mark at the Local Wetherspoons. It was his leaving do and there was much to be celebrated. He and I decided to do this by consuming a few pints. Unfortunately these were in the form of pitchers…..each filled with six shots of Jack Daniels and then topped up with coke. I remember finishing my second one, then I remember standing at the main entrance to Central Station. Then things get really blurry. I was in a field. Again! Then I fell down an embankment landing up to my ankles in muddy water. I was drunk, uncoordinated and trying to get up a 45 degree incline. The only thing I had to hold on to were the stinging nettles growing up the face of the embankment. The scariest bit of all (in retrospect) was that I can vaguely remember walking down the middle of a train track. I have told a few people about this and some have said that it was fine because no services run at that time anyway. I dread to think that a freight train or a placement run could have been scheduled that night. Anyhoo, I found myself in a grass clearing in front of a giant fence. So……I climbed over it. There I was, resplendent in my baggy jeans, white long sleeve t-shirt and skate shoes, standing inside the perimeter of a naval Defence Munitions centre, 20 miles away from Central Station

I was quickly spotted, huckled to a guard post and shouted at. Things went quiet and a few minutes later the cops arrived. I was handed over to them and bundled into their van for the short journey to the local town. They took my mobile, called my dad to make sure he had some cash to pay for a taxi and then bundled me in the first cab they could find. It was at worst a £30 fare. The driver relieved my dad of £80 that night. My hands were numb for about a week afterwards. When I woke up the next morning my first thoughts were for Mark. So, I called his home number to make sure he was OK. His mum answered and laughingly told me he had spent the night on a bench in the city centre. I then, in my still drunken state told her all about what had happened to me. I like to think she took a shine to me for my honesty and candor.

I didn’t drink a drop for 10 months after that and now drink cider with PLENTY of ice (half and half). I also have a bottle of Jack Daniels at home. It has 3 shots out of it at the moment, all of which were for people other than myself. Come Christmas time it will be six years old.

Narrow escapes, I’ve had a few. Luckily the boys in blue in Gibraltar, Frankfurt and Scotland took pity on my happy, grinning, drunken, beaming features. Thanks to their charitable approach I am now a teacher.

PS: At over 1600 words everyone has my sincerest apologies for the length.
(OTT, Thu 5 May 2011, 19:11, 1 reply)

The police did once tell my missus who was trying to enforce an injunction
in a domestic abuse case that they couldn't attend the site to deal with the husband threatening to murder his spouse if she didn't let him see the kids until they had done a risk assessment which would probably take some time.

She asked if she should tell the husband to wait until they had finished it before killing the wife.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 5 May 2011, 19:05, 2 replies)

Polite and sensible policewoman in reasonable behaviour shock.
We were several sheets to the wind. It was 2 in the morning. We were bored. The milk crate dolly cart looked absolutely ideal for a bit of impromptu street go kart action.

She watched us race up the street. She watched us race back down. She approached the group of four pissed up blokes all by herself and told us "Yes the racing was very impressive" but that it was time to "sober up, grow up and go home". She was right. We did.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 5 May 2011, 19:02, Reply)

My auntie's a police officer.
She was working in a particularly hilly part of the middle of nowhere when we had the snow this winter. A gritting lorry had slid to a halt in the middle of a ditch, in a country lane. A squad car was sent out.

They got to the top of the hill and started sliding. Frantically trying to miss the lorry, they instead slid gracefully sideways and crumped into the side of it with all the grace of an icescating Prescott. They shook themselves off and called up another gritting lorry. Which got to the top of the same hill and... yup... started sliding too. Into a tree.

They phoned in my aunt's patrol car. By the time she got there the original lorry driver had, with classy British brevity, said 'Fuck this,' and gone to the pub. The second lorry driver followed when they suggested calling in a third lorry.

Those lorries could still be there, for all I know...

EDIT: Also, VIth!
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 5 May 2011, 18:55, 5 replies)

Yes
yes I have.
( broadsword now that's fresh, Thu 5 May 2011, 18:52, Reply)

4th!
Resultlols.
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Thu 5 May 2011, 18:49, Reply)

Racist.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 5 May 2011, 18:46, Reply)

Second

(rocknroll_pirate had a dream involving holly willoughby and custard, Thu 5 May 2011, 18:45, Reply)

First.
I once saw Sting in a McDonalds in Glasgow. He gave me twenty quid and we did some coke in the toilets.
( JessAction Give me all your expensive brandy and hubcaps., Thu 5 May 2011, 18:44, 7 replies)