Job Humour

A funny thing happened to me on the way to the office!

I was on the way to my early turn shift as Custody Sergeant at Chiswick Police Station. I was travelling north along the A3 on my motor cycle and entered the Robin Hood RAB. I saw a car was spinning towards me on its roof. I braked and managed to avoid it. I went to help and found a woman on the floor complaining about her lower back. There was a bearded man who I did not recognize standing by the car. There was another male arrived, who was the owner of the stables, whose fence had been demolished by the lamp standard hit by the car.

I exchanged pleasantries with this bearded male about dangerous driving and speed, and in particular the danger to me. I still did not recognize him. Other police arrived, followed by the Mumbling Armpit. I left for duty at Chiswick and I said to my fellow sergeant that I thought I recognized the bearded male. The lunchtime newspaper had an article saying that Ringo Starr and Barbara Bach had had an accident, and an off-duty police officer had given him a hard time, which was witnessed by the stable owner.

What a bugger I thought, I did not get his autograph.

Malcolm Dunne

About Cricket

Great to see the pictures from Adrian showing our prowess at cricket in the website gallery. A little known fact is that we invented 20/20 cricket at TDV and, for those who did not play in those epic matches, the rules were as follows:

1. Everyone (except the wicket keeper) bowled two overs.
2. You batted for 20 overs.

If everyone was out you started again until 20 overs had been bowled. These rules made for highly entertaining games. You will appreciate that not everyone can fully co-ordinate their bowling arm with their brain, so it was not unusual to see a batsman running several feet away from his crease to hit a ball that was more than a little wide, or trying to hit a ball that was some distance above his head. It also meant that there was no boring stuff like forward defensive strokes being played - every shot was meant to be a six, although very few ever were. We also knew that the game would last a fixed time and give everyone a good run out.

Another little known fact that has just surfaced from the depths of my ever-shortening memory is that I bought a load of pads and gloves at a very cheap rate - I think about £20 in total. It was only when we got them did we find that they were all left-handed. However, this was only a minor problem as the chances of getting hit on the legs or hands were only very slight - and we did look the part!! Does anyone have photos of the garage sports? Does anyone remember the unicycle or riding the quad bike through (under?) the river?

Tom Singleton

Can you lead a horse to water?

I had worked with Rob Tutchings over the course of 17 years at TDV and through three collective marriages (two for him and one for me) and, on reflection, probably spent more time in his company than any other person. During those years I got to know his strengths and weaknesses, and he, mine. Horses were not his favourite animal, and it fell to me to take the lead, whichever seat I was in, if the call involved an equine. It was either by luck or misfortune that, as a crew, we took a disproportionally high number of horsey calls.

One winter's morning, the A3 was crawling and slipping to a standstill at the junction of Upper Richmond Road. It was bloody cold and the road had a veneer of ice. Rob and I were dispatched in the old Range Rover OV26 to resolve the problem and get London back to work. Making progress, with lights and two tones, we were able to 'offside' almost the whole of West Hill. In any rush hour that was indeed unusual. Close to the Fire Station, we saw the reason for the impasse. A Young's Brewery dray was straddling the two westbound lanes and the rubberneckers were crawling eastward, inspecting the strange sight. Major was an experienced dray horse and knew the brewery routes. Sharing the shafts was Minor, a young horse that was serving his apprenticeship under Major's tutelage. In a similar vein to the Met's system of pairing old with young, the brewery was finding the same problem as the Met, where wild enthusiasm was pitted against wisdom or sloth. Major knew that, if the dray-man steered to climb West Hill, there was a long, slow, hard slog to the pubs off the Common. If he headed to Putney, the route was short, flat and easy. Major was in charge and knew where he wanted to go. Minor, however, didn't care and would follow, blindly, the instructions given via the reins, just like a young probationer.

Despite the vocal encouragement of the dray-man and frequent flapping of the reins, Major, on the left shaft, wanted to turn right, and Minor on the right was determined to go left. We arrived to see both horses having a dispute that involved much Lipizzaner-like prancing that caused ice chips and iron-shoe sparks to fly. The dray-man was perplexed, as he dared not turn the dray around and face the brewery, since Major would be off back to his stall like a racehorse, and he had already spent the last half hour watching the confrontational shenanigans of the two horses. To keep his job, the dray-man had only one route: forwards and upwards. Two traffpols in a two-ton 4x4 would tow anything on their roads, so the answer was easy. Shackle them up and we'll give them a pull.

It was one thing saying it and a completely different thing to do. Shire horses are bloody big, and after half an hour of tangoing they were sweaty beasts with a great deal of attitude. Rob confidently attached the tow-rope to the Range Rover and presented me with the other end. I looked to the dray-man, and he confidently raised the reins and implied that my licence didn't cover his class of vehicle. I crouched and edged forward. The hooves were huge and were reinforced with thick, shaped iron. They also moved randomly up and down as the horses danced and then slid on the icy road. Nearer and nearer I moved towards the chain shackle that united the two horses. Hot breath was blown over my geltex jacket and I felt globules of horse sweat or spit land on my neck. I carefully looped the tow chain over the shackle and snapped it closed. That, for Major, was the final straw, and for Minor the starting gun. Both horses resumed their danse macabre. I dropped the tow chain and that further noise spurred them to try harder. The dray-man, luckily, was quick-witted and released the brakes, and both horses were jerked backwards and stopped. I bolted forwards and clambered towards the safety of the open road. I gave a quick thumbs-up to Rob and the slack was taken up, and Major and Minor were given a bit of direction and assistance. The two-horsepower 'assisted' procession was off and away, and the congestion was cleared. However, as I walked between the Range Rover and the horses, I had time to watch the expressions of the great motoring public. To some there were smiles of incredulity; others reacted as though this was a commonplace event. To Rob and I, it was another story with which we could bore our family and friends.

Pete Tussler

Assorted Thoughts

TDV was a very happy garage. This was probably because for most of the time it ran in spite of the senior officers and not because of them. The canteen was where quietly fought darts matches contrasted with noisy card games. If we had had next door neighbours, John Ross would certainly have received a noise abatement order. Don't forget the sailing team, courtesy of Commander King and Ravens Ait, and the hard-fought battle against the RAF. This gave some garage members a lifelong interest in sailing. It was certainly the only police garage where the troops were supplied with tea and ham rolls by the National Rescue boss, Andy (during protracted incidents and closure on the Esher Bypass). You ask for memories of the garage. For me they tend to be the silly things, with an element of that special laid-back police humour that is not found in other walks of life.

For instance, the memory of Ken Oberg, who, being Welsh, was sometimes difficult to understand, and at the same time often seemed to find difficulty in understanding English. After taking details from a motorist's driving licence he said, 'Now listen carefully Mr Embey, you will be...' The motorist interrupted crossly, 'Listen officer, my name is Jackson. M.B.E. is my decoration.' Ken replied, 'Please don't interrupt, just listen to me Mr Embey, you will be reported for...'

Another memory is driving through a country lane in Cobham and coming across a large estate car with the rear door open and smoke curling up from it. The windows were smoke-blackened and four well-dressed gents were standing on the verge. 'It's all right, officer,' said one. 'The car caught fire but we put it out.' I asked, 'Anyone hurt?' and as I did so noticed the unmistakeable figure of a person lying on the verge under a blanket. I immediately assumed they had either lost control and run someone over, or one of their number had been hurt in the fire. 'Is he alright?' 'Yes, we managed to get him out okay.' 'Why is he covered up?' 'We're undertakers, officer. He's dead. His funeral is tomorrow, he's going to be cremated.' Another is of needing to close the Bypass at Copsem Lane because of an accident, and on going to the large locker on the roundabout which held the equipment, finding a tramp was sound asleep inside with all his belongings. As he was filthy and we had better things to do, we left him there. Never say the police haven't got a heart.

My most embarrassing memory concerns the time on night duty when, as it had quietened down by 3am, I slipped into a small camp bed in the Inspector's office, removing trousers and shoes to be more comfortable. I was awakened by a phone call from Wimbledon nick, which wanted the A.T.S. 'out of order' signs which were kept at the garage. Being nice and comfy, I made the excuse that I might have to go out, and told them I would leave them outside on the forecourt for collection. I slipped down and carried them out to lean them against the fence, but as I did so the side door clicked shut behind me. (The large sliding door was already locked shut.) Dressed in shirt and pants, I considered my alternatives. First I took my epaulettes off, as I realised these wouldn't help. I thought of pretending to be a solitary jogger and running to the nearby police station where I knew they kept a spare key, but that would have given foot duty an endless superiority over Traffic Patrol. I then climbed on the window sill to see if I could reach the top, and was surprised, on looking over the painted part of the glass, to see a figure asleep in the Garage Sergeant's chair. What a relief. Unbeknown to me the night duty were 'resting their eyes' after their refreshments, and to my relief were able to let me in. Thus tragedy was averted.

John Bayless

Immortality lives in words

People are normally remembered for events that left a mark on the world but, at TDV, we remember people for other achievements. One man will always be remembered for his verbal belly-flops into the pond of life. Dave Springle was a governor to whom TDV meant something, and those that knew him must accept that he kept the garage open far longer than the protozoic senior management teams really wanted. However, despite his fervour for TDV, he had a failing that undermined his good intentions. In 'The Rivals', Sheridan called them malapropisms. At TDV, they were spronglisms. Every day, we hung on his every word, waiting for the inevitable gaffe. Some were priceless. When he was riled, he went straight for the jaguar. When AIDS was becoming a Health and Safety issue we were warned of the dangers of becoming HGV positive. On delivery of a Harley on evaluation, we were asked to treat the Harley Ferguson with respect.

However, few of these verbal own goals were as public as one hot June day in 1992. Steffi Graf was on course to win the All England Lawn Tennis Championship, and so was Andre Agassi. In the spotlight of global sports press coverage there were also rumours that the potential champions were dating. This news opened the floodgates to the tacky feeding frenzy that is the tabloid press. The refined gardens of SW19 were alive with photographers who were to become famous as 'the paparazzi'. This was a relatively new word to the English then, and not so commonplace as it is today. However, the Met Police were at a loss as to how to deal with people who would secrete themselves into hedgerows on private property and invade others' privacy via a telephoto lens. As the Wimbledon fortnight progressed, so did the cunning of the paparazzi, as they learnt the lie of the land surrounding the tennis club. Finally matters came to a head.

Together, the famous couple left the safety of the All England Ground in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Their progress along Church Road was frantic, as the baying press pack pursued on foot into Victoria Drive. They then decanted into cars and onto bikes for the final wacky race along the A3. Things got so bad that the driver feared for his life and dialled 999. Police on the tennis serial knew nothing about the call, as they were not monitoring channel 12, but the crew of OV26 confirmed a press posse stampeding west from Tippets as they travelled east. The Met reacted swiftly to this outrageous harassment and, the next day, Insp. Springle arrived to brief the Wimbledon Traffic Serial of the contingency plans that had been formulated. Foot duty serials would be deployed to the temporary rented homes used by the players, and they would call, via R/T, to the traffic squad whenever the players were to move. If the traffic squad were needed during any refreshment break, the warning would be given over the tannoy system at the remote temporary police compound.

During the lunch refreshment period the air resounded to the voice of Insp. Springle stating, 'The pepperoni are in Steffi's bush.' The bikes didn't deploy. They couldn't move for laughter.

Pete Tussler

The Horse and the PC

A 'certain offffffficer' went to the Magic Roundabout in Mitcham. He spied a local 'caravan dweller' riding a horse bareback over a bridge at Commonside East. The horse was being galloped at a fast pace and whipped with the reins. The horse wavered from side to side, frightening pedestrians, especially a woman and child (although the proverbial nun with a pram was not there). The traffic officer, not showing a morsel of fear, stepped out and stopped the horse and rider. The officer noticed that the horse, which was sweating badly, had been ill-used, and it had spread a plate (a horseshoe had come loose). Whilst standing on the common reporting the miscreant for 'riding a horse to the common danger', the local area car passed and told him that the rider (a Mr Penfold) was wanted on warrant at Wallington Court.

The prisoner was taken to Mitcham Police Station by the area car, followed by the officer's posted mate. Yes, you guessed it, leaving the 'certain officer' to ride the horse across the common to the nick. This he did with aplomb, tying the horse to the railings of the charge room ramp (for some reason the Station Officer did not want the prisoner's property in the charge room). The man was charged with riding to the common danger and duly appeared at the said court, pleading not guilty. The court filled with officers who came from afar to witness this major case. A 'not guilty' plea was taken. Evidence was given, with the ultimate skill of a Black Rat.

Question by the defendant: As a Traffic Officer, you know nothing about horses?
PC: Yes I do, I worked at Epsom Police Station, where they deal with horses of all types.
Question by the court: Can you explain what a spread plate is?
PC: One of the horse's shoes had come loose.
Q: How did you know?
PC: You could hear it.
Q: What does it sound like?
PC (after careful thought): Well your Worships, you get five clops instead of four. In other words, every now and then you hear a clink clop!

Then the whole court, including the officer, but with the exception of the defendant and Mr Hicks the Court Inspector, burst into uncontrollable laughter. Mr Penfold was convicted and fined £10 with costs. The officer left court to the ribald comments of his fellow officers. This story proves that Black Rats are professional and adaptable in all situations.

Malcolm Dunn