A collection of short stories and journalistic commentaries depicting my simple life
and how I fit in with the modern day universe of our times



 “Kindly blow into this bag sorr.” PC Boyle, the stockier of the two policemen demanded in a broad Glaswegian accent.

           I could hardly believe it. It was only just three hours into the New Year, and having had my fill of all the revelling around me, I had finally decided to make my way home back to my pit. Staggering through the streets full of scantily clad twenty-something year old female partygoers, hugging and kissing everything within their paths, although slow, my progress was still somewhat entertaining to say the least.

            Edging ever nearer the outer boundaries of the bustling city centre, things were getting much quieter now and my progress was steadily increasing. All I had to do was arrive at my friend Simon’s house and collect my bicycle from his back garden. After that I would be only minutes from the comfort of my own place and the safety of my trusty mattress.

            Within only seconds of mounting my charge, and wobbling my way through the seemingly endless side streets to my destination, I was accosted by the police.

            “Good morning sir,” said the taller of the two officers, “we have reason to believe you may be over the legal limit for being in charge of that machine.”

            “You must be joking? It’s only a bike!” I slurred in reply. “I was going to be a policeman,” I added in a vague attempt of invoking some degree of sympathy.

            “Really Sorr? And what stopped you?”

            So early in the proceedings, and knowing my plan was already floundering, I answered somewhat disheartened, “my parents got married.”

            “Very good sorr, now about this breathalyser …” reiterated an unimpressed PC Boyle. I instantly refused it.

            “Are you sure about that sorr? Another refusal will force us to take you down to the station...”

            “This is preposterous. It’s only a bike!”


            “Let’s go then,” I replied, “do your worst.”

            Back at the station, I was taken into the custody room.

            “Sorr, you are here because you have refused to take a breathalyser test. You have been arrested on suspicion of being drunk in charge, and are now requested to give a urine sample. By law we have to have a doctor present and while we are awaiting his arrival we will read you your rights and process you for our records” said my newfound Scottish ‘friend’.

            The custody sergeant, a man who seemed far too nice for his chosen profession, took down my vitals. Name, address, age, gender, telephone number, colour of underwear etc. Mug shots were taken along with DNA swabs.

            “Now Mr. Wilson,” said the custody sergeant, “all we need next is your Monika here, here, here and here. If we are successful in charging you, these details will be held on file for ten years. If not, then you will be free to go and all this will be returned to you for your own disposal. Good luck when the doctor gets here, but in the mean time, I hope your stay in cell three is a comfortable one. My shoe laces and belt were removed and I was escorted into my cell.

            “Oh and just one more thing…” he passed me a small plastic container with a screw on lid, “should the need take you.” He smiled.

            Contemplating my navel, life, the universe and everything, I was laid on the bed in my new, bijou but compact police housing unit, juggling my new prize canister between both hands. The cell door opened and in walked Doctor Gartside.

            “You must be Mr. Wilson?” he said staring down through his tortoise shell, half rimmed glasses.

            “That’ll be me.” I replied.

            “Well Mr. Wilson, I’m here to supervise your sample, so to speak,” he said. “To see that nothing untoward is included if you get my drift. So, if we may proceed…”

            “Wh…hat? I have to do this now?… In front of you?… Just like that?… Here and now?” I protested.

            “Afraid so lad, no time like the present.” the doctor replied non-committed. “Don’t be shy lad, I’ve seen it all before.”

            After a few false starts, it was eventually a case of mission accomplished. I passed my golden chalice over to the doctor for his appraisal.

            “There lad, wasn’t too traumatic was it?” he quipped as he took the pot away and labelled it. After sealing it up he placed it on the worktop opposite the bed. “Right, that’s me. Just wait here and someone will be along presently.” And with that, he left the room.

            A couple of minutes into my wait, alarm bells began ringing out all around the police station and coppers were running here there and everywhere. A major incident had gone down and it was all hands on deck. Not really knowing what was going on and believing I was in more than enough trouble already, I decided it was best that I stayed put. Slowly getting more and more bored in my cell I waited as the time dragged by.

            One hour, two hours, three hours went by and nobody came to see me. Something obviously more important was going down and I was never going to be a part of it. Silently, the clock over the custody sergeant’s desk was screaming at me how insignificant I was in the new grand scheme of things so I decided it was time for me to consider leaving.

            Just like that, I picked up my sample, slowly pushed the unlocked cell door open and crept off into the night pocketing my prize. Nobody saw me and my escape from the police station was unhindered. I rushed my way home taking the quickest route known to mankind and once behind the safety of my own front door I went into hiding, spending the rest of the night in darkness, pretending I wasn’t there at all. Two days I lived like this as I waited for my fears to subside. That’s how long it took to get back to the mendacity of everyday living.

            Three weeks later and back squarely in the realms of normality, I was sitting at home watching some television when there was a brusque knock at the door. Switching the volume down on the television, I got up to welcome my new guests.

            “Hello Sorr, I’ve come to arrest you sorr.” it was my old friend PC Boyle.

            “And what is the charge?” I enquired as my heart sank.

            “Taking the piss!” he grinned as he slapped me in cuffs.

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1 Comment:

  1. godders said...
    LOL...too funny!

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