Shoulda got their facts straight.
My mate used to live at 6 Cathcart Crescent, a local hash dealer used to live at 6 Cartha Crescent (which is just round the corner). One day in 1996 the DS show up at my mates house with a search warrant. After the mistake is realised my mate is straight on the blower "Ross get everything to fuck, DS on way to yours, give you full story later. Police found nothing. I wonder if this kind of mistake is common? Not a particularly funny story but Ross is a good guy who always gave decent sized bits, so it was great to see the police mess up their bust.
(trip2themoon, Fri 6 May 2011, 9:44, 20 replies)

So this one time, right, I was in the jungle, and then my parents came over to visit.
Quick as a flash I boiled up some parrots with vegetables in some stock, and served it to my guests.
"What's this" my father asked.
"It's the Polly Stew" I replied.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Fri 6 May 2011, 9:34, 3 replies)

dodgy parking
When I still lived in Manchester, I went to my local chippy one hot, sunny day. Just to paint the picture a touch, this chippyy is in a row of shops, with flats above and a pedestrian corssing right outside.

For quite a while, there had been a proper shitbox Ford Orion parked outside the chippy, normally on the zig-zags for the crossing. As I was waiting for my dinner to be cooked (I'd ordered chinese stuff, which normally took a little while), two traffic wardens pulled up behind the shitbox Orion and started putting a ticket on it. As they were sorting out the ticket, a typical Manc chv came out of the door for the flats above the shops, in the Manc chav summer uniform of a pair of trackie bottoms and nothing else, and started having a go at the traffic wardens.

At this point, I wandered to the door to have a bit of a nose. As I got within earshot, I heard the words "not insured" and "towed away" and the chav went utterly ballistic. Now, I didn't see the traffic wardens using their radios, so they must have panic buttons because a police car pulled up and two coppers jumped out.

More verbals ensued from the chav and he started to attempt to get into the car, presumably to stop it getting towed away, and the police attempted to stop him. Then a riot van arrived and about six more coppers joined the fray. There was much swearing and threats of violence and the chav was getting pretty lairy as well.

So, to summarise the scene at this point, there are two traffic wardens with their scooters, eight coppers on the pavement, a police car parked up with a police van right behind it, both of which have their blue lights on. There was a lot of shouting going on and a bit of a crowd was forming.

And then somthing amazing happened that brought the whole thing to a halt and silenced all the shouting. A woman pulled up in her car and went into the papershop next door to the chippy. In doing so she parked right across the pedestrian crossing. Not near it, not just on the zig-zags, actually right across it. Even the chav stopped his shouting and stared in wonderment at this woman's stupidity.

The it all kicked off again, but my food arrived just in time for me to be able to hear a copper tell the woman that she'd be getting three points and a £60 fine for her lack of obvservation skills.
(ScousersPet, Fri 6 May 2011, 9:33, 2 replies)

BANG!
Perfect timing for this question...

On my way home from work last night, I witnessed quite a nasty crime, and rang the police. There was quite a tense atmosphere as the assembled throng waited for the police and paramedic to turn up, with adrenaline running as freely as the blood from the victim's head, and muttered oaths about what would happen to the perpetrators if they were caught by the locals.

This electric atmosphere was thankfully broken up by the arrival of a paramedic first response car, followed by a Ford Focus with a couple of Old Bill in it. As the paramedic was first, he got to park on the side of the road of the incident, while the police moved to the other side and slowly parked up on the grass verge.

Suddenly there was a really loud bang from the police car, as the airbags deployed. Turns out that there's a raised drain in that verge that was disguised by the uncut grass, and as the police car inched onto the verge at literally about three miles an hour the sump had got caught on the verge, deploying the airbags which shocked the policemen and shattered the windscreen.

The passenger policeman came to our house later last night to take statements, where he gave us a first hand account of the incident, and told us that the driver - who was on their first day in the area - was back at the station filling out an RTA form; that he was greeted back at the station with a round of applause; and that the sergeant told him that he had to bring buns and cakes in this morning for everyone. He also told us that the lady who took the 999 call told him that she'd heard the loud bang on the phone, and that she'd save it for them to listen to when they were next there.

I'd love to see that RTA report.
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Fri 6 May 2011, 9:11, 2 replies)

Tenuous, but related to my favourite Policeman ever.
My Godfather, although I referred to him as my Uncle throughout my life, was in the Welsh force, working in the Vice Squad for the Newport Police. I am sure there are a million stories that i could have wheedled out of him over a few beers if I still knew where he was by the time I was old enough to drink, but sadly I have no idea what became of him. He and his wife divorced when I was about 17 and he disappeared off with some police woman he'd been having an affair with. (Great example setting there, Godfather).

For my formative years, however, I worshipped the man, he was tough, he was brash, he had a laugh like thunder and I am sure he had a temper from hell. I never saw it, I could just tell it was there (and I certainly would never have put it to the test by telling him that to me, his name - Vyvian - was a girls name). To me he was a god, the archetypical gentle giant and I would have followed him anywhere with complete trust that no harm would come to me. But the reason, above all, that I still think of him so frequently, is that he introduced me to curry. Well, I had had 'curry' of sorts before, Vesta Meals or tinned chicken curry with plain rice. But this man introduced me to the joys of the Indian Takeaway. At 12 or 13 years old, we were all staying at his house on one of our biannial visits to The Valleys (um..excuse the alliteration there, it was unintentional). My parents would only allow me and my brother one basic dish and rice, saying anything else would be too much for us, so I watched jealously as Uncle Viv ordered what seemed to be everything on the menu. A jealously that turned to joy as later he proceeded to let me have as much as I wanted from his mountain of food as I explored the joys and tastes of things I had never had before.

To this day, whenever I order in an Indian restaurant, I still order exactly the same as he did to accompany whatever main dish I have. Shish Kebab, Keema Naan, Sag Aloo, Onion Bhaji and Mushroom Rice.

And I'll always raise a (these days non alcoholic) glass to that great policeman 'Uncle' Viv. Wherever he may be.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 6 May 2011, 9:06, 3 replies)

Today.
On my train this morning there were three young lads standing by the doors. When we got to the station they saw a pregnant lady struggling with her bags. One of the lads stayed where he was, staring out the window. Of the others, one stepped off the train to help teh lasy down while the other carried her bags. Of the three, they were definitely the polite two.


oh.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 6 May 2011, 8:46, 1 reply)

The Perils of no-budget film making and how all policemen are not wankers
Back in my youth, I, along with a group of mates, had aspirations of becoming of a film director.
One of our group had already made a couple of amateur shorts and I decided I wanted to do one too.
I had the perfect location for my 'deal gone bad' masterpiece: underneath an flyover was a car park, with a suitably dishevelled appearance, which also had a path leading to the local train station and a grotty footbridge.

So we spend the day filming, chasing each other with toy guns. One of the guns however was a probably illegal blank firing Baretta replica that a freibd ahd acquired. We didn't have any ammo for it, for it certainly looked (and felt) the part.

As we were shooting the final scene in the footbridge over the train station, we were approached by a very pleasant policeman.

"Afternoon boys. What you guys up to then?"
"Oh, we're making a film ... for my college project"
"In the summer holidays?"
"Yeah, I wanted to get a head start"
"OK..."

At this point I could feel my bowels loosening. Not only were we in posession of a dangerous weapon. Not only that but in a suitcase we had what could pass to the casual eye as a semtex bomb, complete with cheap alarm clock timer.

"well, we've had several reports about young men matching your description chasing each other around the car park with guns. You know anything about that?"
"Yeah, that would be us. They're only toys though."

Out of the corneer of my eye, I noticed my friend had done a good job of shoving the baretta down the back of his trousers and was now leaning against the wall to conceal it.
I showed the policeman the shabby looking toy gun I had in my hand and he seemed satisfied.

"It's just that... welll... we've got an armed response unit sitting down there waiting to bust you lot. I clocked the camera and asked to come and talk to you lot first. Good job I did really."

At this point the train station manager had made an appearance. An appearance very much like Blakey from On the Buses, but with glasses as an added bonus.

PC: "Look fellas, if you're going to do something like this, it's probably a good idea to let us know first. Y'know, just in case"

He wished us luck and walked back to his car.

As he did, a nearby coach pulled away revealing TWO unmarked white vans, with several tooled up SO19 officers (I counted six, but there could have been more).

The policeman couldn't have been nicer or more helpful. The train station manager was a complete cunt and threatened to prosecute us for trespassing (despite the fact we were on a public footbridge, and a cop had just had a word and done nothing).

I amnaged to wrangle some kind of cut from the footage we had, but sadly the tape has been lost to the ravages of a damp flat.
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Fri 6 May 2011, 8:32, 3 replies)

And another...
Shit, why do they all involve partaking of drugs and stuff. Damn you my mis-spent youth and early to mid twenties.

Moved to Australia almost a decade ago and ramped up the partying, mainly as I was a backpacker then a student, but also because the scene in Sydney was way better than rural England.

I am now forever known as the only DJ who can summon police within two tunes of getting on the decks. This has happened several times and has nothing to do with accidentally bumping the volume slider.

The most infamous incident is at a party on a rooftop, at about 3am the police burst in and demand to speak to whoever lives in the adjoining flat. At the time there were four or five people in a bedroom doing lines of coke off a tray.

Fortunately the police didn't go into the bedroom - one headed for me on the decks and with a grand dramatic gesture, picked up the power cord and extension lead and unplugged them. I pointed out that he could have just asked me to turn it off, but nearly got arrested.

Meanwhile my mate who lived there had emerged from the bedroom just as the other copper was barking "WHO LIVES HERE? I WANT TO SEE SOME ID!", and in one fluid movement pulled his driving licence out of his wallet, wiped both sides of one edge on his trousers, and handed it to the copper.

It was the most impressive handover of a formerly-cocaine-encrusted piece of plastic i've ever seen and the thing that made it so brilliant is that pretty much everyone in the room saw it. Except Officer Gdibble.
(squirrelysquirrel, Fri 6 May 2011, 8:22, Reply)

Just remembered another one...
I used to live on my own in a terraced house. My next door neighbours liked the occasional smoke, as did I (see previous story), and were rumoured to grow their own. Didn't speak to them much, didn't know for sure.

Anyways, i'm lying on the sofa at home with the flu, nothing but Lemsip, Lucozade and the last of my soap bar to keep me happy. This is back when I used to smoke in the house, horrible thing to do.

There's a kerfuffle from the back yard (a small patch of unkempt grass surrounded by fences, with a shed i'd never investigated having promptly lost the patio door key on moving in) which I ignore as Emmerdale or something is on. A minute or two later, more kerfuffle. Then a while later a knock at my front door. Two coppers.

"Evening sir, do you know what's going on next door?"

Thinking my neighbour had been busted for his alleged plants, I said no, and on finding out he'd been burgled, let them in to have a look in my back yard, aware of just how much my house probably stank of smoke, not the regular type either.

They shine their torches out through the unopenable patio door, where there's a bag of stuff in the middle of my garden. Turns out the neighbour came home to find the thieves looting his place, and they scarpered. Daylight the next day revealed that the thieves had demolished one side fence on the way in, and then the one between my house and his on the way out, dropping their loot in surprise.

Heard on the local grapevine that it was actually my house, containing turntables, hi-fi, playstation etc. that they were after and they got the fence count wrong.
(squirrelysquirrel, Fri 6 May 2011, 8:11, 1 reply)

Driving through an oh-so-classy area of Bloxwich
I got pulled over by a young lady copper who was quite sweet, if a little officious. As she was going through my paperwork and taking down my particulars she caught sight of the T-shirt I was wearing - beneath my unzipped hoodie and the seatbelt she could quite clearly see the image of a jolly policeman, beneath which was some writing that she wouldn't have been able to make out.

With that all friendliness dropped from her demeanour and she asked me to step out of the car so she could get a better look at it. Then she said "Wait here" and turned to the meatwagon parked a few yards up the road. After a quick conversation at the window, the doors opened and six or seven burly male coppers (presumably her back-up) got out.

"See," she was saying. "I told you you had to see this."

And so it was that I found myself standing by my car in a rough, debris-strewn part of town while the police stood in a line, pointing and laughing at my T-shirt. They asked me where I got it. "Viz", I replied. It was an enlargement of one of their adverts that read:
MUGGED? BURGLED? RUN OVER?
WHY NOT CALL THE POLICE?
THE POLICE: TEL 999

After they had finished laughing, they started talking amongst themselves, apparently forgetting I was there. After what seemed like an eternity - I was certainly drawing looks from passers-by at this point - I raised my hand and asked in a deliberately meek voice: "Can I go now?"

The young lady copper was all smiles again and even apologised as she sent me on my way, but I still wonder how the whole thing might have turned out if they hadn't had a sense of humour about it. Also, I was younger back then (obviously) and regularly wore a selection of "dubious" T-shirts but as a result of this encounter I became a lot more circumspect in what I wear; the marijuana-leaf PWEI shirt now only comes out at hippy festivals, for example, though annoyingly I've not got any more circumspect about buying them. Christ only knows when I'm going to get the chance to wear my Kunt and the Gang "FUCKSTICKS MOTHER'S CUNT FUCKSTICKS" shirt without getting nicked by the first copper to clap eyes on it :/
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 6 May 2011, 7:54, 2 replies)

got maced by the police after an Iron Maiden show
it was post show and me and my mate decided we hadnt had enough to drink so went to a near by bar (which was and still is an absolute shit hole). I had stumbled into the toilet and was on my way out, reaching for the door handle when BOOM! a cop kicked in the door and gave me a face full of liquid mace. I cannot describe the pain, initially i thought he'd thrown acid in my face. Anyway, him and his burley mates had me on the ground in cuffs and i could hear them yelling and kicking in the toilet cubicle doors and generally making a huge ruckus. I have NO idea what is going on but am more concerned with the fact that my face is burning off and gallons of snot, puke and tears are coming out of every oriface in my head.
Im hauled off to a waiting paddy wagon where they leave me for 5 or so minutes until a paramedic comes in and starts washing my eyes out with some sort of solution. it takes about half an hour of continuous flow for me to be just able to squint and see whats happening around me. Theres cops and cop cars everywhere. All the punters from the bar have been brought outside and mill around on the street. Theres even some knob with his digital beta-cam filming everything.
Ends up there was some other madman seen in the area waving a gun around and generally being crazy who looked just like me. so the police thought they'd take the heavy handed approach. Cunts.
Makes for a good story though...
(technocore, Fri 6 May 2011, 7:26, Reply)

Won't bore you with the intro...
...but we pick up the story where four people are sitting at a table outside a pub in my hometown. Money and drugs have just changed hands, when all of a sudden there are shitloads of coppers swarming around, and a very firm "keep your hands where we can see them lads".

End up back at the local nick wondering how i'm going to get away with the 1/2 ounce of soap bar and three eccies in my pocket. Signed in etc, then off for a strip search with two coppers. Fun. Not.

Copper #1 says "right empty your pockets". I pull out the soap bar, chuck it on the bench in the cell with a cheery "well you might as well have this then". Both coppers look at it, giving me the chance to neck the three pills, still wrapped in clingfilm, before looking back to me and continuing the search, where they find... nothing.

So I get ushered into a cell, and via a near-death experience over the next hour or two, then subsequently manage to piss off the duty cops by pushing the cell buzzer every five minutes for either a glass of water or to be let out for a smoke.

Then it was my turn to be interviewed, by which time i'd made up a rubbish story so as not to dob my mate in. In my mind I thought it went brilliantly. Listened to my copy of the tape a few days later, and I have no idea what the hell I was talking about.

Anyways, get let out and go home, sit there gurning for about 12 hours, then get in my car and go on the holiday i'd purchased things for. Spent my comedown in the biggest fucking traffic jam on the A34...

Length? Not for about three days after...
(squirrelysquirrel, Fri 6 May 2011, 7:24, Reply)

4.30am December 18th, Parma, Italy
Two Italian policemen spot a strange figure walking down Via Emilia Ovest, a dual carriageway stretching roughly 64km from Piacenza to Parma.

They pull over their patrol car with a cursory whirr of the lights and the shambling figure turns to face them.

"Good evening Santa," says the first. "Do you have any ID?"

The pissed Saint Nick fumbles underneath his red felt pants and pulls his wallet out of his trousers. After two or three minutes of struggling, he turns to the officer and says, "I can't get my ID out, I'm wearing mittens."

The officer obliges, taking the wallet and checking the ID. "What are you doing out here at this time?"

"I've been to a party in Piacenza." Santa points into the distance.

"And where are you going?"

Santa turns slowly 180 degrees and points in the other direction. "Parma."

It took me 50 minutes to walk home.
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Fri 6 May 2011, 7:23, Reply)

Well

I've never been picked up by the fuzz but I have been swung round by the tits......

Over the years I've had a few run-ins with plod. Worst was where I was stopped riding a motorbike I'd rebuilt and had the book thrown at me. Pretty much every motoring offence bar drunk driving they could pin on a 15 year-old. But, to be fair, if I hadn't been cheeky - demanding to see their IDs (they were in plain clothes) they probably would have let me off with a warning. Coppers are like that. If you're nice and polite to them they'll generally let you off with a warning.

One of my first brushes with the law was when I was 16 and was stopped leaving a pub by a copper who was convinced I was under age. If I'd kept my wits about me I probably could have blagged my way through but I was a little pissed at the time.

"Name?" asked copper

"18" I mumbled.

"Date of birth?'

And, of course, I got this wrong and gave him a date that made me 21.

"Which football team do you support"

"Eh? Err - Newcastle of course"

"Well that accounts for your total lack of brains. Go on - bugger off" says copper.

What a nice man.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 6 May 2011, 6:21, 1 reply)

I applied for the police once
and failed the entrance test. I passed the written and physical exam but I was disqualified when I told them I knew who my father was
( Clay hopes this bit is long enough to promote my websi, Fri 6 May 2011, 6:11, 1 reply)

Never been arrested...
...but Police seem to love pulling me over, not that i'm a bad driver (clean licence, never had so much as a scratch). Maybe I just look suspicious...

Anyway, when having a licence and my own car was still a novelty I used to take friends out for random drives all over the place at ungodly hours. This lead to quite a few run ins with the law which, thankfully, I managed to blag my way out of. They include:

Being pulled over with a car full of lads in their early 20's and all being asked what we were up to separately. Panicking, none of our stories matched because 'We came looking for badgers' (which is what we were doing) would have probably gotten us carted away for a drug search. This lead to them asking me to open the boot. I explained that the boot could only be opened with much fiddling with a screwdriver because the catch was broken. They got bored and we went on our way. What they didn't realise or find out is that I had another friend stowed away in the perfectly operational boot...

After visiting a local reservoir and mucking about, said boot-dwelling friend asked if he could put something in my car. I assumed it would be his wet jumper and trainers so let him get on with it. On the return journey we were pulled over and yet again, I was asked to open the boot. Safe in the knowledge that my boot was a boy-free zone I complied. However, it was not a buoy-free zone...
My friend had decided to take a souvenir and had stolen a buoy along with a bit of rope, some signs and an old beer keg. I stood in silence with the officer for a moment, staring in to the boot, not wanting to make eye contact (he would've most likely burst out laughing whereas I would have most likely burst in to apologetic tears) until I sheepishly mumbled something about my Dad's boat (he doesn't own one) and a party. Amazingly, he either believed it or took pity on me. They sent us on our way.

One more... I always let my drug dabbling friends know that if they chose to carry stuff whilst in my car, they'd be on their own if we were ever stopped. Not that it would stop me from getting in to a bit of bother if we were stopped and searched but it prevented misguided attempts at trying to cover for each other and ending up getting in to more trouble.
Anyway, we were on the way back from the train station after having picked up a friend of one of my mates, who i'd never met. Mid journey, he produced a massive bag of pills and swung it about gleefully so I could see it in the rear view mirror. Before I could say anything, what else should I see screaming towards us but blue flashing lights...
After hastily telling him that it would be his own problem and to hide it on himself, not in my car, I tried to pull over as respectfully and diligently as possible.
We probably looked guiltier than a dog next to an empty tray of biscuits and were shitting ourselves. I slowly wound down the window as the copper approached...
'Alright lads? Nothing to worry about, we just thought you were car thieves! But obviously not or you wouldn't have stopped. Have a nice night lads!'
And off he went. We must have sat there for about 5 minutes in silence just waiting for our sphincters to relax enough to be able to speak.

As grateful as I am that was the course of action he chose to follow, I can't help but feel that maybe he should have investigated a bit further? I mean, we could have just been very polite thieves suffering from a sudden attack of conscience...
(Megamoss, Fri 6 May 2011, 2:59, 1 reply)

I came home from work
once when the kids were very young, to find my nanny talking to two Policemen at the door.

Apparently one of the children had picked up the phone and randomly dialled 999 - the person who took the call had thought that the 2 yr old's random gabbling was someone in such great distress that they were unable to speak coherently, and sent the police out.

Had to let them in to look around and make sure there was nothing untoward happening.

Got a phone lock after that.
(Freakmandu, Fri 6 May 2011, 2:54, 2 replies)

Many years ago
when I lived in Plymouth (awful place), I had a Cavalier SRi - a very old (D reg) Cavalier SRi, which for some reason was a bit of a magnet for TWOCers looking for a quicker and lazier way home.

Over the year or so that I owned it, it was stolen five times, each time found within a mile or two of where it was taken.

On the last occasion the Police called me to tell me they'd found the car and asked if I could go and pick it up, which I duly did. About three weeks later, I was taking the kids down to Cornwall for the day. We were about a mile or so outside Newquay in quite heavy traffic when the Police car which had been behind me for some time put on his blue lights and indicated I should pull over. Apparently the car was still on their files as stolen - despite them having found it three weeks earlier.

So yeah, I was stopped for apparently stealing my own car.
(Freakmandu, Fri 6 May 2011, 2:43, Reply)

When I was travelling through England.
I stopped and bothered the police for directions quite a few times, mainly because I have no compunction in doing so - they're there to help - I needed help finding my way.

However, one particular time I asked for help stands out for me.
This was at the very beginning of December, when all that snow had hit. Half of my trains had been cancelled, and I had eventually made it to Manchester Picadilly Station. I knew that I had to get to Manchester Victoria station, and that to do that, I had to catch the tram from Picadilly to Victoria.
At this point I'd been travelling for about 5 hours, and having wandered around the station trying to find the tram for about half an hour, I was getting quite upset because I thought I was at the wrong station, and needed some help.

So I went and found those policemen who wander around the station making sure everybody is behaving, and explained (while trying not to cry) my predicament. The one who helped me was absolutely lovely. He helped me with my suitcase down the stairs, waited with me at the right platform til the tram came in, then quickly hopped on and showed me which stop I had to get off the tram at before wishing me luck and going about the rest of his day.

I know a lot of people bang on about how the police don't care or that they're too harsh, but my experience with the British police was really quite the opposite. The officer who helped me was patient and nice and didn't laugh at me for being a lost tourist at all.
And I got to spend that night with some smashing b3tans.
(Poppet some assembly required., Fri 6 May 2011, 1:39, 9 replies)

Korean cops
Here's an explanation of how Korean cops work here.

In order to drive a scooter 100cc or over, you need a licence. I don't have one. Thus, I drive a 99cc scooter. The day I got it, I was driving it home and I ran a red light. It was a small intersection outside a US army base where nobody ever comes out, and I was following another scooter driven by a local anyway.

We both got pulled over by a cop. Even worse, the cop spoke English. First, he asked me for my licence. I told him I didn't have one. He asked for registration of the scooter, but all I had was a signed piece of paper from my friend. Last, he asked for my national immigration card, which I'm required to carry on me at all times. I had it with me, but I didn't really want him to see it, so I said it was at home. The whole time, I was being courteous. He, finally, knowing I was in violation of at least four laws in front of him, decided the paperwork just wasn't worth it, and waved me on.

I met up with the other scooterist at the next set of lights and he offered me a cigarette.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Fri 6 May 2011, 1:39, Reply)

Friendly Rozzers
A good friend of mine had a birthday party at his house last summer. We had a lovely old evening getting tipsy in the sun in his garden, then as night time lolled around and the hot day stretched and yawned, someone produced and emerald package - only serving to increase the joviality and warm contentedness in a smoky haze.

Someone pointed out, quite rightly, that the only possible thing that could improve the evening was a game of twilight frisbee, and by a stroke of remarkable serendipity, a frisbee was produced. We headed out into the somnolent country lane in front of the house, the last beams of light dappling the leaves quietly. The frisbee sailed back and forth, cheers erupting when its path lead straight and true into the eager hands of the recipient, more spliffs appearing as if by magic to egg the action along. Only the occasional passage of a four by four interrupted the merriment.

After a while it got properly dark, and concurrently we got a bit more wiggly. The frisbee seemed intent on increasingly frequent interludes sitting in the hedge just out of arm's reach. Eventually it hid itself so well that a full scale rescue operation was put into action, and just as we were contemplating giving up the hunt until morning, blue flashes appeared round the corner a few hundred feet away. Oh shit! I threw away the joint that had made its way round to me and winced at the thought of my crimson, distended eye sockets. The police pulled up and we all tensed, our good moods vanished in a flood of paranoia.

'Evening lads.'
'Evening officer.' Deadpan as possible.
'None of you boys know anything about stolen bikes?' We looked at each other, a small, wonderful flower of hope blooming in our stomachs, counteracting whatever stoned delusions we might have concocted.
'Bikes? No officer, Haven't seen a thing.'
'Oh no? Some kids, we reckon aged about fourteen of fifteen, have been on a bit of a spree this evening. Last we heard they'd made off in this direction.'
'Oh no, we haven't seen anything and we've been out here for hours.' (Possibly not really hours).
'No worries then gents, as you were.'
They made to leave when, with a flash of inspiration, a friend piped up,
'I don't suppose I could borrow your torch officer? Only we've lost out frisbee.'

Ten minutes later and both policemen were buried in the hedge along with a few of our more agile friends, torches shining on the frisbee high up in the branches. The battle against the wilful and contrary toy was evetually won when one got on the other's shoulders and, arms at full extension, strained and managed to hook it with his truncheon. A huge cheer went up, triumphant grins on the coppers' faces - presumably this was far more rewarding policework than tracking down teenage hoodlums.

Thank you officers for being such good sports, and thank you just as much for not throwing the book at us when we were all clearly baked out of our tiny minds.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Fri 6 May 2011, 1:27, Reply)

Not me but a story told by my Mum...
In her younger day's my mum was returning from a camping trip late at night driving her friend's car, everyone else being asleep in the back seats. Suddenly in the mirror she sees the flashing blue lights, as she is pulling over she wakes up the owner of the car to tell him she is being pulled over but was not speeding and was not sure what was happening.

They pull over and stop, and the coppers get out of the car, by this point everyone in the car is awake and trying to find out what me mam had done. There is a tap on the window, so my mum rolls it down, "Is there a problem?" she asks...

"Nice car!" one of them replied, she got out of the car told the owner to speak to them and took his place in the back, apparently he had a half an hour conversation about his jaguar with the police on the side of a motorway.
(eggs and spam *insert witty sig here*, Fri 6 May 2011, 0:41, Reply)

It was a perfectly ordinary night.
The missus was crashed on the couch on account of her back being knackered. I was pottering in the kitchen, sorting out dinner. Sweary Jr was in his room, single-handedly slaying a mob of bloodthirsty villains through the medium of pixels.

There was a knock at the door. I say knock, it was more a hard and persistent banging at the rear entrance (Darth Foxtrot, control yourself). As we live in an upstairs flat, I scurried downstairs to find the key, as we rarely use that particular door. I couldn't find it.

The knocking persisted, more urgently than before. "I can't find the key", I yelled.

"POLICE!" Came the reply. "YOU NEED TO OPEN UP, NOW!". Sure enough, I could make out the outline of two policemen from behind the frosted glass in the door.

Oh, shit. "I can't find the key for this door, you need to come round to the front."

"OPEN UP!"

"I can't find the bloody key." Heart pumping, what the fuck are they doing here? "One of you come round the front and I'll let you in."

Thirty seconds later there was a knock, and I opened the door. A big, burly copper asked if he could come in. What was I supposed to do? I invited him in.

"Sorry to interrupt, but we've had a complaint of..." he trailed off. "Nice Dalek".

"Erm, thanks".

"Can you get inside it?"

"No, it's a static prop and the top half is solid."

"Oh. Anyway, we've had a complaint of a domestic happening at this address; the phone call was received about 8 minutes ago and we're here to investigate. Has there been an incident?"

By now, and thoroughly confused, I replied that there hadn't been, and went on to explain that I was busy in the kitchen. The missus, roused from her slumber by the unearthly banging and clattering, arrived at the top of the stairs inquisitively and Mr Plod repeated his reason for his attendance. He was now followed by his erstwhile colleague, who stopped only to swivel the somewhat baleful Dalek's head and draw a cdc in the dust on the dome, before dropping his pants and shoving the Dalek's plunger up his puckered and quivering arsehole.

OK, that last bit is a lie, but this is QOTW. Cut me some slack.

So, the missus confirmed what I'd said. They asked if there could have been any reason for someone to assume that something had happened; loud music, raised voices, TV on. All answered in the negative. The rozzers asked if they could have a look around the place; sure, why not? We had nothing to hide. A cursory look around to check that there were no weapons about, no signs of any struggle, and they apologised for interrupting our evening and went on their merry way. All we managed to glean was that they had received a phone call from a woman who had stated there was a domestic incident happening at our address.

On the face of it, the scenario was a bit unnerving. On the positive side, the fact that the response took eight minutes from receipt of the call to nearly smashing in our door, I actually find quite reassuring.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 6 May 2011, 0:37, 9 replies)

I was coming out of Edgware Road
Tube Station. There was a young black guy in front of me. He was stopped and searched by two policemen standing next to the barriers.

He kicked off (quite understandably), about why they hadn't stopped and searched me (a young, suited and booted, white man), if it was supposedly a random stop and search?

The police therefore stopped and searched me. It made me feel proper gangsta, innit...

Then they let me go and kept him back. To be fair, I think it was because he had a big bag of skunk in his bag, and I didn't, but maybe I'm wrong and they were massive racists.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 6 May 2011, 0:37, 5 replies)

In my younger days
I was arrested three times for being drunk and disorderly, each time getting a furious lecture from my dad - letting myself down, letting him down, all that stuff. Then he got arrested for being drunk and incapable.
(Sod, Fri 6 May 2011, 0:08, 1 reply)

A policeman once tried to start a fight with me.
After finding me having a piss behind a burger van after the club closed. He seemed really quite annoyed that I didn't retaliate to him shouting in my face and pushing me about.

I've been pushed down stairs too. Not by the fuzz though. That was a pair of bouncers at an Italian night club. I was innocent.
(Woodlouse say it with flowers. Send her a Triffid, Fri 6 May 2011, 0:03, Reply)

My sister's got a criminal record.
Whatever possessed me to buy her "Frankie" by Sister Sledge as a birthday present escapes me at this moment.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 5 May 2011, 23:48, 6 replies)

As a foolish drunken 16yo, I was in town with some friends
We tried, unsuccessfully, to set a bin on fire. Being drunken twats, we failed miserably, instead just making (highly visible) fools of ourselves.

We staggered off through town afterwards (this was about 2am, so fairly quiet), and promptly got pulled over by the police; someone had seen our inebriated arsonistic intent, and probably while laughing at our ineptitude, had called the police.

Pulling up and sauntering over to us, a couple of police officers asked our names and addresses. I gave my name, and spelt my unfortunately distinctive surname out. Say, replied one of the officers, doesn't your grandma live at xxx some street (which she did). Fuck me. This copper knew my grandmother! Turns out he was her next door neighbour son.

I sobered up quick sharp, apologised profusely and begged not to be grassed up to my family, who would no doubt make me wish that I'd been arrested instead. Thankfully him and his mate, after pissing themselves laughing, gave us a warning and sent us on our way.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Thu 5 May 2011, 23:30, Reply)