The truth, the whole truth…and a little bit of poetic license

Having announced my decision to give up on the cancer treatment, I was invited to join the lads for a little soirée in Exeter. “Not just the lads but the proper lads”, Mark told me. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

It felt like a farewell do and I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by “the proper lads.”Anyway, I needn’t have worried; it was great to see everyone together again and ‘swing the lead’.

Since leaving the police on retirement five years ago I had barely given a thought to my former life. The old stories were retold and embellished and I thought it might be an idea to share some of my own experiences here. 

Of course, policing was very different in 1988 when I joined as a fresh faced 21 year old. And by the time I retired in 2018 it was almost unrecognisable. 

Everyone I speak to now can’t wait to leave. Most have left. 

Policing used to be fun. We were a band of brothers and sisters, united in a common cause. 

We worked hard and played hard, and most police stations had a bar. 

Political correctness hadn’t been invented at the beginning and all one needed to survive was a pen, a stick, a Mk.1 eyeball, a sense of humour and a good right hook. 

Swinging the lead

My introduction to Camborne, the first posting of my career with the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, was a baptism of fire: well, alcohol actually. 

Two of the front row of the Cornish rugby team, who happened to be policemen on the side, took me to a pub in Redruth. Alan ‘the Animal’ Milliner and Phil ‘Magua’ Angove sat me at a corner table and began my unofficial induction. 

Alan, looked at me in menacing fashion, as if I were his opposite number in a particularly feisty rugby match, motioned with his finger to swing an imaginary piece of lead that formed the pendulum at the end of an equally imaginary piece of string. 

“Tell me a story!” he demanded. 

I don’t remember much else about that night but I must have passed the interview as I was immediately accepted into the fold. 

The Facsimile machine 

I did remember something of that night:

Phil had told the story of the fax machine, which I had found particularly hilarious. 

In those days crime reports were written by hand in triplicate, in a consecutively numbered crime book; There were no computers to occupy our plump index fingers and technology consisted of an intermittent UHF radio and a more powerful VHF set in the cars. 

When the first facsimile machine appeared at Camborne Custody interview suite, it was naturally put to good use. 

Phil and his mate had a a local ‘*scrote’ (*noun: short for scrotum and slang for criminal; now a prohibited word; ‘hate speech’) in for questioning and the poor naif chap didn’t need a solicitor because he, ‘didn’t know nuffin’, gov.’

After several “no comments” and outright denials the trap was set.

“Okay prove you didn’t do it,” said Phil. “Put your hand on top of this new lie detector machine and we’ll find out won’t we.”

The scrote looked agitated at first, then doubtfully surveyed the machine. 

He complied and placed his hand on the top of the machine in the same position that Phil had drawn a useful outline of his own hand with a felt tip pen prior to the interview. 

Phil continued to ask some control questions then those pertaining to the alleged thefts. 

“I didn’t do it!”, “You’ve got the wrong fella,” protested the scrote -still with one hand on the facsimile machine. 

Phil nodded to his partner who activated the machine. After much clicking and whirring, the scrote looked with utter astonishment as a piece of paper came out the contraption with the words, ‘He’s lying’ written upon it. 

Granted, the handwriting was an untidy scrawl, but it was still enough to convince this Camborne tea-leaf. 

Legend has it that a full and frank admission of guilt was made, the series of thefts were written up as detected (to the envy of the local CID) and the technological era was launched. 

Of the stories that I am able to tell, I’ve just selected a couple more:

A day in youth court

Duncan or Dunc was a sweaty-sock (noun: Rhyming slang for Jock; Scotsman)

He had a very strong accent and used to get annoyed by his English colleagues for constantly asking him to repeat himself. (Now probably defined as racism) The Scot’s accent can be difficult to understand at times and sentences are often punctuated with swear words. Conversely, the English accent and phraseology can sometimes prove confusing to your average scotsman. 

On this occasion Dunc was required to give evidence in youth court. 

He confidently stepped up to give his evidence. 

Procedure is more friendly in youth court and Duncan forgot to give the children’s version of the oath- a promise- instead giving the full adult oath: 

“Och! I SWEAR by Almighty God to tell the trrruth the whole trrruth and nothing but the trrrruth,” rolling his r’s.

The Magistrate, too slow to interject, said,

“Ah you see constable Cameron, in the youth court we PROMISE we don’t SWEAR”.

Duncan, open mouthed, uttered an “Och, Aye?” in acknowledgement of this surprising instruction and cleared his throat. 

Once more he gave the full oath.. “I SWEAR by Almighty God…before obediently adding a very sincere… “And I promise not to swear!”

The courtroom erupted with fits of laughter and Dunc made it into policing folklore. 

Don’t Twist it

Early in my service I joined the Tactical Aid Group. A version of the Met. Police TSG.

Our primary role was to travel around this rural police force (now a service of course) kicking in doors and windows, dealing with scrotes (now clients or suspects), drug dealers, prostitution (sex workers) football hooliganism (risk supporters) and just about anything that required a decent number of size 10 to 14 boots on the ground. 

We were trained in abseiling, specialist building entry, and sitting in the van and amusing ourselves for long periods with puerile games and healthy banter: The sort that would cause Sadiq Khan to call “Maate” whilst leaning out the window of his Range Rover in a ULEZ zone to avoid having to address the issue of real crime and community priorities.

On one occasion we were tasked to travel from Devon, to an isolated house in the depths of Cornwall to execute a search warrant on a brothel that was attracting clients from as far afield as mainland Europe to the consternation of the good village folk. 

On the way down we played a card game called “W*nker” in the back of the van and had to stop off in a lay by for the loser to eat some jellied eels I had bought as a forfeit. 

We arrived a couple of hours later in good spirits- apart from the loser who’s stomach had become enraged by the dreadful insult to its equilibrium. 

There was no hurry to force entry to the premises as drugs were not part of the warrant application. 

We spread out around the perimeter and I found myself alone at the front door and knocked with the firm, authoritative knock that says ‘we’re coming in’- as opposed to the ‘knock with cotton wool gloves’ that one employs when one does not wish to deal with your petty complaint of theft of a garden gnome. 

For some time there was no answer and I assumed that the main occupant and householder, a Mr. Roger Scrobe-Shrapnel, aka Miss Whiplash was getting dressed. 

Eventually the door was opened and I was met by the apparition of a man with a large adam’s apple and five o’clock shadow dressed in a polka dot mini dress, a red *syrup, blue eyeshadow and badly applied lipstick. *(syrup of figs- wig)

“Oh!” I said, staggering backwards slightly.

“Err, is it Mr Scrobe-Shrapnel?” 

“I don’t go by that name anymore” says old Rog in a rather haughty tone.

“I’m Miss Whiplash”, he said making his voice contort from a low baritone to a high falsetto. 

“Ok mate. We’ve got a warrant to search your house.” 

I called the lads round to the front and I amused myself by watching their reactions on seeing Miss Whiplash. 

“This is Mr Scrobe-Shrapnel,” I said, feeling the introduction necessary.

Eyebrows were raised- nay they danced. Mouths gaped and lips curled with mirth. 

Of course nowadays I’d be sacked for misgendering him (or her) or not asking their preferred pronouns, but this lexicon of lunacy didn’t exist back then. And no one had heard of irresponsible surgeons mutilating the breasts of vulnerable young children because their teacher told them that they could choose their gender.  

Lord knows how we arrived here but the past is another country as they say. Another planet I’d say! 

Anyway, what followed was most enlightening- can perversion and depravity be enlightening? Is that the right word? For us lads it was pure entertainment. We discovered gimp masks, bondage gear, and a dungeon room with torture racks and a gimp cage for hoisting up ‘naughty boys.’ 

Of course there were a few photos taken for the team scrap book with the instamatic camera but I’m sure they’ve long since disappeared. 

It was a memorably funny day at work which would these days, no doubt, end in misconduct proceedings for us and some sort of community diversity award for old Miss Whiplash. 

The ‘don’t twist it’ heading comes from the video recording that we found and Tony thought it a good idea to press play to ‘check for evidence’. I cannot describe here in any detail what was on the tape but it haunted me for years. You can probably guess. 

We told some of the old stories at my farewell do; About the days when we called a spade a spade. We had a laugh but we worked hard and we had that most elusive of character traits- integrity! 

I was told that the new Chief constable has already been suspended for allegations of inappropriate behaviour. One of a long line of senior officers who have fallen foul of the new Puritanism. 

Perhaps some things belong to the past but when I think of modern policing and the progressive liberalism running through all our public services and institutions, I’m with Isaiah when he writes, 

“Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!”

In many ways I don’t think much has changed since these words were written in the 8th Century BC.

 If anyone wants to cancel me for using language that may be offensive to the ears of the new puritans, you must understand that I am merely giving a historical account. 

And if you don’t believe me, I’m prepared to take a lie-detector test.