It seems my posts are down to about 1 per month which seems, to some of my erstwhile friends and family, to mean that I’ve run out of things to say. Well, I haven’t. It’s just that I feel it is important to ensure that the context and delivery of my blog is direct and effective in reflecting my truest perceptions of the Job.
I’m not one really for taking a high political stance on issues. I don’t go trawling the net for MPs or councillors comments in order to drag the soapbox out. Government policies on policing may well come and bite me in the backside at some point but I feel that there are enough of you out there dredging it all up to more than compensate for my lack of inertia on these topics.
Needless to say I am not apathetical about these issues. I do care. Honest. It’s just that I prefer to stick to the day to day realities (in an increasingly unreal world) of policing rather than delve the depths of political machinations. If that is your forte, then good on you. Keep it up.
A friend of mine from New Zealand emailed me the other week and asked how much of the stuff I blog about is made up. I was a bit taken aback by this. Was this a serious questioning of my integrity? How could I make all this up? I told him it was all true. There are bits that have to be embellished in order to keep the narrative flowing and the perceptions true but, on the whole I do not fabricate in order to generate interest or praise. It is as it’s written. I pointed him towards the likes of Gadget and Whichendbites to keep him on track.
Talking of other bloggers this was fantastic and the type of writing we should all, at times, aspire to.
I have a multitude of stories to pass on. When the time is right and my head is straight, you will get them.
Gaz
Monday, 14 April 2008
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
John Doe
I spent 14 hours on my last 8 hour shift dealing with the unexpected. Stumbling onto a nightmare like an errant burglar tripping over the family dog. Unsuspecting, whimpering and snarling, the beast awoken from its sentinel guard over a sanctuary few of us ever want to broach.
A seemingly minor call turning and biting, ripping into the flesh of my personal psyche like no other has done before in my brief time as a cop. And after, so much after, leaving me drained and hollow. Sleepwalking like the beast we had awakened.
No training really prepares you for dealing with “Offenders”. Nothing, especially when the evidence is staring you right in the face, can force you to accept the repellant truth of what sits in front of you in the interview room.
Control, during our brief (in the grand scale of things) encounter, is a common bond that we share. But the bond stops at that. His control is steeped in maintaining the lies he is manufacturing. Mine lies with the restraint in not reaching across the table and ripping out his windpipe.
Here lies (sic) before me is the antithesis of who I am, or purport to be. Father, husband, protector. He is guided by morals that are so far removed from my own that I have a great difficulty in accepting that a person can really descend to the nadir of such immorality.
But, I digress. Again I have to accept the unacceptable. The restraint is what separates us. The fact that I wholly believe in the course of Law and Justice. And that course will run. Without it, would I be as accountable? I do my job, to the best of my abilities. Realising how important it has suddenly become. All the stuff before, all the other cases, calls, dealings, arrests, detentions, the whole bloody shebang falls by the wayside. This, for once, takes dominion.
Driving home that night, as always, gave me chance to reflect. But I am still trying to sort out what happened. What (or who) I, and my colleague, actually dealt with. Trying, desperately, to keep my mind focused on the road whilst simultaneously clearing the dreaded distortion. Acceptances of certain truths are hard to come by and I could not help but feel somewhat tainted by the day’s events. This one will not be the last and that makes me fearful.
A scene replays in my head. Whether this is wholly relevant to what I have witnessed or not, is up to you, dear reader. It is one of many. If you have never watched Seven, go away and buy/rent the movie now……
David Mills: Wait, I thought all you did was kill innocent people.
John Doe: Innocent? Is that supposed to be funny? An obese man... a disgusting man who could barely stand up; a man who if you saw him on the street, you'd point him out to your friends so that they could join you in mocking him; a man, who if you saw him while you were eating, you wouldn't be able to finish your meal. After him, I picked the lawyer and I know you both must have been secretly thanking me for that one. This is a man who dedicated his life to making money by lying with every breath that he could muster to keeping murderers and rapists on the streets!
David Mills: Murderers?
John Doe: A woman...
David Mills: Murderers, John, like yourself?
John Doe: [interrupts] A woman... so ugly on the inside she couldn't bear to go on living if she couldn't be beautiful on the outside. A drug dealer, a drug dealing pederast, actually! And let's not forget the disease-spreading whore! Only in a world this shitty could you even try to say these were innocent people and keep a straight face. But that's the point. We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it. We tolerate it because it's common, it's trivial. We tolerate it morning, noon, and night. Well, not anymore. I'm setting the example. What I've done is going to be puzzled over and studied and followed... forever.
A seemingly minor call turning and biting, ripping into the flesh of my personal psyche like no other has done before in my brief time as a cop. And after, so much after, leaving me drained and hollow. Sleepwalking like the beast we had awakened.
No training really prepares you for dealing with “Offenders”. Nothing, especially when the evidence is staring you right in the face, can force you to accept the repellant truth of what sits in front of you in the interview room.
Control, during our brief (in the grand scale of things) encounter, is a common bond that we share. But the bond stops at that. His control is steeped in maintaining the lies he is manufacturing. Mine lies with the restraint in not reaching across the table and ripping out his windpipe.
Here lies (sic) before me is the antithesis of who I am, or purport to be. Father, husband, protector. He is guided by morals that are so far removed from my own that I have a great difficulty in accepting that a person can really descend to the nadir of such immorality.
But, I digress. Again I have to accept the unacceptable. The restraint is what separates us. The fact that I wholly believe in the course of Law and Justice. And that course will run. Without it, would I be as accountable? I do my job, to the best of my abilities. Realising how important it has suddenly become. All the stuff before, all the other cases, calls, dealings, arrests, detentions, the whole bloody shebang falls by the wayside. This, for once, takes dominion.
Driving home that night, as always, gave me chance to reflect. But I am still trying to sort out what happened. What (or who) I, and my colleague, actually dealt with. Trying, desperately, to keep my mind focused on the road whilst simultaneously clearing the dreaded distortion. Acceptances of certain truths are hard to come by and I could not help but feel somewhat tainted by the day’s events. This one will not be the last and that makes me fearful.
A scene replays in my head. Whether this is wholly relevant to what I have witnessed or not, is up to you, dear reader. It is one of many. If you have never watched Seven, go away and buy/rent the movie now……
David Mills: Wait, I thought all you did was kill innocent people.
John Doe: Innocent? Is that supposed to be funny? An obese man... a disgusting man who could barely stand up; a man who if you saw him on the street, you'd point him out to your friends so that they could join you in mocking him; a man, who if you saw him while you were eating, you wouldn't be able to finish your meal. After him, I picked the lawyer and I know you both must have been secretly thanking me for that one. This is a man who dedicated his life to making money by lying with every breath that he could muster to keeping murderers and rapists on the streets!
David Mills: Murderers?
John Doe: A woman...
David Mills: Murderers, John, like yourself?
John Doe: [interrupts] A woman... so ugly on the inside she couldn't bear to go on living if she couldn't be beautiful on the outside. A drug dealer, a drug dealing pederast, actually! And let's not forget the disease-spreading whore! Only in a world this shitty could you even try to say these were innocent people and keep a straight face. But that's the point. We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it. We tolerate it because it's common, it's trivial. We tolerate it morning, noon, and night. Well, not anymore. I'm setting the example. What I've done is going to be puzzled over and studied and followed... forever.
Friday, 22 February 2008
Collage
There hasn’t been the opportunity, of late, to add anything to the blog as work has been intense, involved and, as always, demanding.
The intensity has been constant and trying to take stock of events has been difficult. I have a collage of images and incidents wrapped around the grey stuff in my head and it takes time to take stock and order them into some sort of coherent and understandable form so that I can really assess what has been going on. Distortion. Again.
The dead, mostly men, have played a significant part in the collage. Their faces are dotted here and there amongst the insane, the criminals, the junkies and the drunks.
Most of the time when we are called, the dead are usually, well, dead by the time we get there. Having passed on alone and face down on the bedroom carpet or in bed. Sometimes, especially with the junkies, they’ve OD’d. Needles still in arms, the detritus of a wasted life lying around. Spoons, citric juice, empty wrappers, silver foil. Some of this you will have seen before. Usually on a bust or by chance that you’ve came into their property prior to them taking their final (and absolutely last) hit. Do I feel sympathy here? Should I? It’s difficult. This was somebody’s son or daughter, brother, sister, boyfriend, lover. It can be difficult to reconcile that with the fact that you’d maybe dealt with them before for theft or deception or fraud or assault. The general rules and morals the addicted have to live by are as alien to me at times as the thought of shooting all that crap into my veins would be. Ergo the difficulty in sympathy.
One occasion, recently, a male died right in front of us. Battered and bruised, lying in the street at some ungodly hour. He was still conscious and breathing when we got there. Trying to put all your training into place. Remembering what to look for, how to react. Trying desperately to stem the panic rising in your guts, hands shaking through fear or adrenaline, or both. He tried to sit up at one point. I don’t know if he could see me but his eyes were black. There was a murmur. Maybe a last shout before the darkness engulfed him and took him off forever. Was I the last person he saw? I can’t, no matter how much I try, remember what I was saying to him. Was I sympathetic and understanding? It’s gone. The rest of it flashes by. The ambulance and paramedics, securing the scene, waiting for others to arrive and take over and give orders and generally do what they have to do to make sense of what had happened. The call came in a short while later. DOA. Enough said. I got home that day and slept for 15 hours straight. Waking only to place his face on the collage and file it with all the rest before getting up, dressing and going out to face it all again.
More later.
The intensity has been constant and trying to take stock of events has been difficult. I have a collage of images and incidents wrapped around the grey stuff in my head and it takes time to take stock and order them into some sort of coherent and understandable form so that I can really assess what has been going on. Distortion. Again.
The dead, mostly men, have played a significant part in the collage. Their faces are dotted here and there amongst the insane, the criminals, the junkies and the drunks.
Most of the time when we are called, the dead are usually, well, dead by the time we get there. Having passed on alone and face down on the bedroom carpet or in bed. Sometimes, especially with the junkies, they’ve OD’d. Needles still in arms, the detritus of a wasted life lying around. Spoons, citric juice, empty wrappers, silver foil. Some of this you will have seen before. Usually on a bust or by chance that you’ve came into their property prior to them taking their final (and absolutely last) hit. Do I feel sympathy here? Should I? It’s difficult. This was somebody’s son or daughter, brother, sister, boyfriend, lover. It can be difficult to reconcile that with the fact that you’d maybe dealt with them before for theft or deception or fraud or assault. The general rules and morals the addicted have to live by are as alien to me at times as the thought of shooting all that crap into my veins would be. Ergo the difficulty in sympathy.
One occasion, recently, a male died right in front of us. Battered and bruised, lying in the street at some ungodly hour. He was still conscious and breathing when we got there. Trying to put all your training into place. Remembering what to look for, how to react. Trying desperately to stem the panic rising in your guts, hands shaking through fear or adrenaline, or both. He tried to sit up at one point. I don’t know if he could see me but his eyes were black. There was a murmur. Maybe a last shout before the darkness engulfed him and took him off forever. Was I the last person he saw? I can’t, no matter how much I try, remember what I was saying to him. Was I sympathetic and understanding? It’s gone. The rest of it flashes by. The ambulance and paramedics, securing the scene, waiting for others to arrive and take over and give orders and generally do what they have to do to make sense of what had happened. The call came in a short while later. DOA. Enough said. I got home that day and slept for 15 hours straight. Waking only to place his face on the collage and file it with all the rest before getting up, dressing and going out to face it all again.
More later.
Monday, 21 January 2008
Advance to GO
Haven’t really had much to say of late, hence the lack of entries. However, time for an update and a catch up.
Since barrelling through my 2 weeks at college, I came back to force to find I was on the move. New station, different part of town but on the same team. And, to be honest, the move couldn’t have come sooner. I had hit a few low points in my, so far, short career and was in desperate need of a fresh start away from the stress and constraints of city centre policing.
Suffice to say there were a couple of times when the warrant card was almost out my wallet and onto the sergeant’s desk. But I managed to bare my soul and tactfully explain frustrations to my receptive superiors and, thank god, they sat up and listened.
But there has to be an element of perspective here. In so much as I am by no means a spring chicken. Suffice to say I’ve been around the block a few times. Not that I am denigrating my younger colleagues for their lack of life experience. Far from it. It’s just that my outlook tends to be based on more older, traditional values and these tend to be reflected in my perceptions of how policing should be done.
I like being pro-active. Getting stuck into stopping people and cars, gathering intel, catching criminals at it, being highly visible, speaking to the young and old alike and generally getting noticed by the types of people that either don’t want to see us or those that are more than glad to see a bobby doing his job.
For some time, that was what was lacking at my old station. Coupled with the dreaded admin weighted round my neck like an anvil, I felt I wasn’t doing the job I’d set out to do some 18 months ago. But, the chance came along and I have grabbed it with both hands, stirring up a new vigour and far more positive outlook on things. There are still plenty drawbacks but, I feel, the time is ripe for the aforementioned “getting stuck in”.
And what a beat I have. A couple of large housing estates, one of the older more “characteristic” parts of the city, some green belt developments, a main arterial route and, if that wasn’t enough, an equally diverse population within. As one of my colleagues tactfully stated, “It’s Brown on the Monopoly board”.
Superb.
Gaz
Since barrelling through my 2 weeks at college, I came back to force to find I was on the move. New station, different part of town but on the same team. And, to be honest, the move couldn’t have come sooner. I had hit a few low points in my, so far, short career and was in desperate need of a fresh start away from the stress and constraints of city centre policing.
Suffice to say there were a couple of times when the warrant card was almost out my wallet and onto the sergeant’s desk. But I managed to bare my soul and tactfully explain frustrations to my receptive superiors and, thank god, they sat up and listened.
But there has to be an element of perspective here. In so much as I am by no means a spring chicken. Suffice to say I’ve been around the block a few times. Not that I am denigrating my younger colleagues for their lack of life experience. Far from it. It’s just that my outlook tends to be based on more older, traditional values and these tend to be reflected in my perceptions of how policing should be done.
I like being pro-active. Getting stuck into stopping people and cars, gathering intel, catching criminals at it, being highly visible, speaking to the young and old alike and generally getting noticed by the types of people that either don’t want to see us or those that are more than glad to see a bobby doing his job.
For some time, that was what was lacking at my old station. Coupled with the dreaded admin weighted round my neck like an anvil, I felt I wasn’t doing the job I’d set out to do some 18 months ago. But, the chance came along and I have grabbed it with both hands, stirring up a new vigour and far more positive outlook on things. There are still plenty drawbacks but, I feel, the time is ripe for the aforementioned “getting stuck in”.
And what a beat I have. A couple of large housing estates, one of the older more “characteristic” parts of the city, some green belt developments, a main arterial route and, if that wasn’t enough, an equally diverse population within. As one of my colleagues tactfully stated, “It’s Brown on the Monopoly board”.
Superb.
Gaz
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Passers By
My boots squelch as I step through the vomit and broken glass. The sodium street lights do little to dampen the visceral mess in front of me. A heeled boot lies at an odd angle and the stench of urine hits me at less than ten paces.
I dig deep for my gloves and strap them on. They are a size too small and my fingertips now resemble some of the discarded condoms that lie nearby.
A quick nervous glance at my partner. We both don’t want to be here. I crouch down, trying not to gag.
She is young probably about 14 or 15. Her hair is wet and matted from the rain and puke. She stirs, thank god.
I shake her shoulder, her sequined top throws oddly placed sparkles against the darkness. There is a murmur, “fuggingeddoffmeyabas…” I explain we’re here to help. We don’t want to see her die. “Jusfuggoffwillya”.
We sit her up. A gush of saliva dampens the sequins and flecks of spittle land on the shiny toe cap of my left boot.
My partner calls for an ambulance. We are unable to get a name. She is very drunk. Very incapable.
She has been here for the last fifteen minutes at least. That’s when CCTV picked her up. Amazed that no-one had stopped to help.
The well to do exiting from the nearby theatre, the lager louts and their boozy girlfriends, the late night revellers, the whole fucking ensemble all passed by without a care.
The paramedics arrive and bundle her up in blankets, strap her in and shoot away just as quickly. This is the last I will see of her.
Nobody notices. Nobody cares. This is, after all, just another Saturday night in the town. Someone will sort it out. Won’t they?
I dig deep for my gloves and strap them on. They are a size too small and my fingertips now resemble some of the discarded condoms that lie nearby.
A quick nervous glance at my partner. We both don’t want to be here. I crouch down, trying not to gag.
She is young probably about 14 or 15. Her hair is wet and matted from the rain and puke. She stirs, thank god.
I shake her shoulder, her sequined top throws oddly placed sparkles against the darkness. There is a murmur, “fuggingeddoffmeyabas…” I explain we’re here to help. We don’t want to see her die. “Jusfuggoffwillya”.
We sit her up. A gush of saliva dampens the sequins and flecks of spittle land on the shiny toe cap of my left boot.
My partner calls for an ambulance. We are unable to get a name. She is very drunk. Very incapable.
She has been here for the last fifteen minutes at least. That’s when CCTV picked her up. Amazed that no-one had stopped to help.
The well to do exiting from the nearby theatre, the lager louts and their boozy girlfriends, the late night revellers, the whole fucking ensemble all passed by without a care.
The paramedics arrive and bundle her up in blankets, strap her in and shoot away just as quickly. This is the last I will see of her.
Nobody notices. Nobody cares. This is, after all, just another Saturday night in the town. Someone will sort it out. Won’t they?
Sunday, 16 December 2007
Back to the old school
Home again at last after nigh on two weeks of fairly intensive studying and exams at the Police College.
It never ceases to amaze me how much info you've got to remember for these kind of events, let alone the tests themselves.
The college prides itself on being one of the top Police training centres in the UK, if not the world. And it's not hard to see why. We were blessed with the usual array of solid, dependable and well knowledged training sergeants backed up by the support staff who make everything go like clockwork. It is often the fact that their efforts are overlooked and I, for one, would like to say a big thank you for their support, encouragement and assistance during, what was for many, a fairly trying time.
The pressure of re-examinations can take it's toll. Especially on old gits like me. Not so bad if you're fresh out of Uni, but, in my case, the brain cells can get a bit rusty and inevitably take their time to gel together.
Nonetheless I managed to pass all that was thrown at me and have come away with a fresh perspective and confidence boost for when I return to duty.
And what a return it will be as I have been reliably informed I'm moving onto a new station in another part of town. Still on response but, hopefully, here I may be able to get stuck in to some more pro-active and traditional policing that I have yearned for since I started in the city centre unit.
The downside being (although on the same team) I will be away from those I have come to trust, respect and work alongside for the best part of 2007. All I can say is that I won't be too far away and am looking forward to settling in with an equally dedicated shift.
So to those of you (you know who you are) at home and "Doon the road", Thanks.
All the best
Gazza
It never ceases to amaze me how much info you've got to remember for these kind of events, let alone the tests themselves.
The college prides itself on being one of the top Police training centres in the UK, if not the world. And it's not hard to see why. We were blessed with the usual array of solid, dependable and well knowledged training sergeants backed up by the support staff who make everything go like clockwork. It is often the fact that their efforts are overlooked and I, for one, would like to say a big thank you for their support, encouragement and assistance during, what was for many, a fairly trying time.
The pressure of re-examinations can take it's toll. Especially on old gits like me. Not so bad if you're fresh out of Uni, but, in my case, the brain cells can get a bit rusty and inevitably take their time to gel together.
Nonetheless I managed to pass all that was thrown at me and have come away with a fresh perspective and confidence boost for when I return to duty.
And what a return it will be as I have been reliably informed I'm moving onto a new station in another part of town. Still on response but, hopefully, here I may be able to get stuck in to some more pro-active and traditional policing that I have yearned for since I started in the city centre unit.
The downside being (although on the same team) I will be away from those I have come to trust, respect and work alongside for the best part of 2007. All I can say is that I won't be too far away and am looking forward to settling in with an equally dedicated shift.
So to those of you (you know who you are) at home and "Doon the road", Thanks.
All the best
Gazza
Monday, 26 November 2007
The Gift of the Gab
One of the most valuable tools of both defence and attack in a copper’s arsenal is his/hers mouth. Good cops can talk their way out of anything. Bad cops can talk their way in but find it difficult to get back out.
Recently I have used this tool to reasonable effect. Usually on the self defence front whereby the following logical reasoning was applied to a junkie on the verge of breaching the peace:
I didn’t want to end up with a broken nose
I didn’t want my partner to end up with having a broken nose.
The paperwork involved if I actually used the likes of my baton or CS is phenomenal.
The paperwork involved if I’d actually arrested or detained him is phenomenal.
I will get more credit for extracting intelligence data from this person than by arresting him.
So you can see why we all tend to speak first and act later. Obviously there are times when the patter just doesn’t wash and you find yourself rolling on the floor with Mr Angry. Goes with the territory. Nonetheless I still believe in the gift of the gab as being the best option.
Which leads me to my reasonable explanation as to why it took my colleague and I almost 2 solid hours reasoning with said junkie who was up and down like a yo-yo. After all that effort, we dropped him off with a sympathetic relative who was willing to take him in after we explained that he was feeling a little depressed and just wanted to get his head down for a while.
Luckily for us we got the chance to visit the relative the next day, to see how she was coping after the sly bastard had nicked her purse and buggered off to score.
It’s good to talk. Bah, Humbug!
Recently I have used this tool to reasonable effect. Usually on the self defence front whereby the following logical reasoning was applied to a junkie on the verge of breaching the peace:
I didn’t want to end up with a broken nose
I didn’t want my partner to end up with having a broken nose.
The paperwork involved if I actually used the likes of my baton or CS is phenomenal.
The paperwork involved if I’d actually arrested or detained him is phenomenal.
I will get more credit for extracting intelligence data from this person than by arresting him.
So you can see why we all tend to speak first and act later. Obviously there are times when the patter just doesn’t wash and you find yourself rolling on the floor with Mr Angry. Goes with the territory. Nonetheless I still believe in the gift of the gab as being the best option.
Which leads me to my reasonable explanation as to why it took my colleague and I almost 2 solid hours reasoning with said junkie who was up and down like a yo-yo. After all that effort, we dropped him off with a sympathetic relative who was willing to take him in after we explained that he was feeling a little depressed and just wanted to get his head down for a while.
Luckily for us we got the chance to visit the relative the next day, to see how she was coping after the sly bastard had nicked her purse and buggered off to score.
It’s good to talk. Bah, Humbug!
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