- Posted in Police Blog
I arrived at the training school. I was ready. Ready to make a difference. I wanted to help people. Now was the beginning of my destiny. I would save the city, the dark city, the city of love and hate. I would come to both love and hate the city that I policed. But first, I was to be trained.
Our instructor stood at the gates, a big moustache, trousers tight across muscular thighs and well toned buttocks. He’d turned so his profile was reflected under the searchlights that crossed the yard in front of the fortified training camp. We all stood together, innocents in a new world of battered virgins. We got down and did press ups. We weren’t asked to, it just seemed right.
We moved when the delivery van sounded it’s horn behind us. The driver hailed us, ‘bunch of fucking idiots’, as the gates rose to allow him access. As the rear of the van disappeared, our instructor appeared in it’s space. He slowly kissed his pecs, staring at us without blinking. The young man next to me fainted. He was dragged away by security. He was never seen again. He wouldn’t be the last. This was real. Real life. Living and breathing, sometimes coughing and having to blow your nose. On your sleeve if you’d forgotten your hankie.
Call me Ishmael. The fish delivery driver introduced himself as I checked his ID. I shouldered my toy rifle, and examined his library card under the light of my flashlight. I’d been given the first guard duty. Private security guards were employed, but they’d asked me just to keep an eye out for a couple of minutes while they nipped to the loo. They had been gone for over four hours. The instructor came. I cleaned up. He asked what I was doing. We hadn’t learnt to salute, that came later, so I gave him the only respectful sign I knew - The Ted Rogers 3-2-1 sign with your fingers. It went wrong. I gave him the finger. He stared impassively, then turned. He bent forward to touch his toes, looking up at me coyly. ‘This won’t be the last guard duty you get Brackenridge.’ And then he was gone.
The next morning someone blew the Instructor’s trumpet. We all got up, and lined up at the bottom of our beds for inspection. The drill Sergeant came in. He had a big ceremonial stick and wore his cap low over his eyes. Too low. He tripped over someone’s PE kit on the way in. He gave us all detention because nobody would admit to laughing. He didn’t notice I was naked.
After kit inspection, we all did star jumps. We weren’t asked to, it just seemed right. I had been nominated Junior Class Captain. Big ‘Phil’ Phallus was our Class Captain. I was put in charge of the under 5s. I had never changed a nappy. On a two year old. Big ‘Phil’ Phallus was ordered to keep order. We were all given numbers. The rural guys got 1-5 because they didn’t count so good. The Instructor tattooed our numbers on our inner thighs. He gently blew then dry. Big ‘Phil’ Phallus had his done on his lower calf for obvious reasons. He was ordered never to wear shorts for the same reason. Helmet.
We had breakfast. We were the new kids on the block. The hall fell silent as Big Phil led us in. We were in number order if you ignored the first five. They were giving each other piggy backs. Mounting pigs made them feel like it was home, so we humoured them. We had had word that covert officer training was taking place. We couldn’t see any of them. This would be a theme throughout my career. There were a number of postboxes eating in the corner. I’ve always wondered if there was any connection.
The riot police were in. Porridge slid down their visors. One had worked out how to spoon the food under the visor and into his mouth. He was a Sergeant. I didn’t know at the time, but I would go on to write a chapter in a book about them. And others. It’s the next chapter. In this book.
We were the last in line to get fed. The cooks were big gangsters from American prisons. They were on federal charges and had been shipped over by Federal Express. They were employed at vast expense, despite the fact that there were big gangster cooks in British prisons just looking for the opportunity to make police officers eat their slop. Wastefulness would be a theme throughout my police career. One of the cooks winked at me. I winked back. He winked again. I winked back. He had a twitch. I didn’t realise, and did a really big children’s entertainer wink. He hit me with a ladle. I was still naked. I’d forgotten to dress.
The drill Sergeant was yelling. He still hadn’t adjusted his cap, so he was shouting at the drinks machine by the fire exit. Someone pushed the fire exit open, so all the alarms went off. We all legged it, leaving the drill Sergeant to take the blame. He was never seen again. Some of us made it to our first class. Others were caught on the barbed wire and were shot. One man grabbed a motorbike and jumped over the wire. Most people know this legend, and think he got away. He didn’t, he just got put back in solitary with his baseball and glove. He wasn’t shot because he was actually a famous Hollywood actor who’d joined the police because he was a method actor.
Some of the guys had sweethearts back home. Every Friday we’d get to write letters. Some of the rural guys couldn’t read and write too good but they could artificially inseminate chickens which was useful on talent nights. Those guys tended to just send pictures of their genitals. The rest of us had to get the letters through the censors so we didn’t give away our position or operational movements. These censors had been doing the job since 1945, but nobody had told them the war had ended. At first it was a laugh, but after thirty years it was decided that they may potentially have breakdowns or sue the Met leading to a series of high profile and corporately damaging employment tribunals so they were left in post. They both had senile dementia but worked hard. Here is one of the letters Big ‘Phallus’ Phil sent to his sweetheart by way of example:
Dear &%$£,
I wish you were %&R£$ you %$&*. I heard you %&*&^& with ^*&%* and gave him a &%*^%*& on stage. If that’s true I’ll *&^%&^%^ him and &%$%£ you. I mean it. I $%$%& with %&$£ and now I’ve got a dose of %$^££$. He got it from you. I now %$%£ when I go to the toilet. Training is %$£%^ and I have to wear a big helmet. The class are a %$$£% of %$£%£.
Anyway, love to your mum and give the girls a big kiss from me.
Always yours, Big PP.
At the end of our first lesson The Instructor kicked me in the bollocks.
‘I want to be a murder squad detective Sir! A real life detective!’ I yelled from my foetal position. He looked down and smiled. I knew that I had his blessing. He was never seen again.
