COPS AND THEIR BATONS

Though only spoken about in hushed tones, many Hornswood parents partake in the odd marijuana puff. It’s a boredom-avoiding necessity, because Upper and Lower North Shore pubs and restaurants are too quiet and close early.

About twenty years ago an old Uni mate of mine, was sitting at the end of a deserted Hornswood station. It was 11:00 pm and he was pretty pissed. He pulled one of those boredom-avoiding numbers out of his pocket and lit it.

He then heard the cop laughing behind him ask “are you serious boy?”

Within half an hour my extremely anxious mate is locked in the holding cell in Hornswood police station and a grumpy Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly is sitting at the desk, on the other side of the bars filling out the paperwork.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “Weight?”

My mate – “108 kg.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly (with a chuckle) – “I’ll just tick the box that says fat f#ck! Height?”

My mate (being as respectful as possible) – “Am I entitled to a phone call?”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “This isn’t Las Vegas son. Height?”

My mate – “190 cm.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly (rocking back in his chair) – “What are you a f#cking comedian? BULLSHIT.”

My mate (unsure what he’d done to cause offence) – “Sorry?”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “NO F#CKING WAY YOU’RE 190. I’M 190, YOU’RE NOWHERE NEAR.”

My mate knows his height. Just the previous weekend at a family BBQ him and all his brothers had measured up.

My mate – “No, I’m definitely 190.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “PISS OFF. I’M NOT WRITING THAT SHIT DOWN.”

The other copper (speaking gently to my mate through the bars) – “Look here bud, the last thing you want is to get angry-Sarge here, pissed off. You sure you’re 190?”

My mate nodded.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “AH F#CK THIS.”

He snatched his baton off the table and rushed up to the cell. My mate nearly crapped himself.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly (yelling to the other copper) – “OPEN THE DOOR UP JOHNNY. THIS DOPE-SMOKING MOTHER F#CKER NEEDS SOME SORTING OUT… DISRESPECTING ME!”

Other copper – “SARGE!! Settle down. Put the baton back on the table.”

Keep in mind readers, this is all true. Things were different back then.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “OPEN THE DOOR JOHNNY. I’M NOT LETTING THIS PRICK TREAT ME LIKE AN IDIOT.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly slammed his baton against the bars. My mate leapt in the air.

Other copper – “SARGE! It’s not worth it. Remember last year!”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “That was self-defence Johnny.”

Other copper – “Hey, I’m not your union rep. Calm down. Let’s give him another chance.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly was red-faced and seething. His knuckles were turning white on the baton in his hand.

Other copper – “Is there any way you could be mistaken?”

My mate – “I’m 190.” He’d thought of changing his height, but then he would be lying to the coppers.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly belted his metal baton against the cell door again. The noise struck into my mate’s very soul.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “OPEN THE DOOR JOHNNY. Now.” He pointed at the other copper with the no-doubt-often-wielded, baton. The door was opened.

My mate was about to piss.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “TURN AROUND AND FACE THE BACK WALL MISTER-SMART-AS-F#CK-190.”

My mate spun around.

He heard some shuffling sounds. Facing the wall, shaking like a dog shitting, he felt something warm push up against the whole length his body. It was like he was being standing-up spooned. This certainly did nothing for his nerves. He felt like Ned Beatty without a canoe.

Then he realised what was happening.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly had removed his boots and was standing back-to-back with him, comparing heights. My mate already had his shoes off, because upon entrance they confiscated his shoe laces and his belt, so they kept falling off. The other copper carefully placed the baton on the top of both their heads to test their relative heights.

Other copper – “Oh jeez Sarge (he squinted as he analysed the flatness of the baton), it’s pretty close. I think he actually could be 190…ish.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “PIG’S ARSE HE IS. CHECK HIS HEELS! ARE THEY ON THE GROUND PROPERLY?”

The other copper gave a defeated nod of confirmation.

My mate could feel the tension in Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly’s buttocks as, like a six-year-old getting his height marked on the growth chart in his kitchen, he stretched his spine as long as it could go.

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly – “PUSH HIS GODDAMN HAIR DOWN.”

About three hours later my mate was released. He was shuffling out of the cell area when he heard them talking.

Other copper – “Hey Sarge… you wrote his height as 188.”

Senior-Sergeant O’Reilly (yelling back) – “HE WAS LIFTING HIS HEELS!”

My mate walked down the street. A broken man. His shoes nearly falling off, jeans hanging low, laces and belt in his hand.

He rang his wife and explained the entire situation to her.

My mate’s lovely wife – “No honey, remember it’s your brother who’s 190. You are 188.”

My mate – “Oh… shit.”

 

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter? https://twitter.com/writehandman99

Cheers.

PING-PONG BALLS AND POKER

Back in the day, if the wife of one of our poker crew was generous enough to allow a game to take place in their house, the lads were always very thankful and respectful. We realised what a disruption eight swearing, drinking, overweight, particularly unattractive, gambling blokes, can be to a mid-week family routine.

One night we were having our game in the rumpus room of Jacqui and “Apollo” (his self-ascribed poker call-sign), under their house.

One of the lads had just returned from two months working in Asia and was giving us the rundown on how a client had taken him to one of those unsavoury places where (there’s no delicate way of saying it)… Thai ladies shoot ping-pong balls into schooner glasses. Of course I had no idea any such places existed.

I know, I know. This is not a very pleasant, nor high-brow blog topic and it is even a pretty tacky conversation for poker boys.

Anyway, we always order pizza and bring our own beers, so there’s never any onus on the hostess to do any sort of hosting. In fact normally, the wives do like my wife and avoid the area like we are playing in a “Tuberculosis, Syphilis and Leprosy-Sufferers Tournament” (one which I’m assuming would find it somewhat difficult to maintain a suitable level of spectatorship).

But most unexpectedly that night Jacqui, being wonderful, walked in with chips, dips, cheeses and crackers. We all cheered loudly, however “Dodgy” (his ascribed poker call-sign), who had been at a harbour cruise all day and had turned up extremely drunk, yelled “GET OUT THE PING-PONG BALL AND SCHOONER GLASS”.

It was an indefensibly sexist and disgraceful comment, which was extremely out of character for the much-loved-by-wives, Dodgy. But because he and Jacqui had been close friends for years, she just said “you’re an idiot Dodgy” and left. We all then got up him for being a drunken swine, so much so that he went upstairs and apologised.

I won the poker, by quite a margin. Played like a man possessed. This has no relevance to the story.

So the next night, three of us lads from the poker and our wives had gone to an Italian restaurant. “Tiger” (his self-ascribed poker call-sign) and Suze, Jacqui and Apollo, my lovely wife Isabel and I, had just sat down.

Me – “Thanks heaps for having the lads around last night Jacqui.”

Jacqui (to the other two wives) – “IT WAS VERY UNCOMFORTABLE! I felt demeaned!” She started to cry.

Issy gave me a look of death, as she consoled Jacqui.

My wife – “What did my husband do?”

Sobbing a bit, she recounted the story of the highly inappropriate, Dodgy ping-pong ball comment.

Eventually Jacqui stopped crying and we had a great night. We told Dodgy the next day the repercussions of his drunken off-the-cuff line. He was mortified, went around there with flowers and ate humble pie. He ate so much pie he would have done Artie Beetson proud.

A month later, surprisingly, we were invited back to the Jacqui/Apollo abode (the site of my magnificent victory) for more poker. We knew we had to be on our best behavior.

Tiger and I were the first to arrive. Apollo had been held up at work. We hadn’t seen Jacqui since she had been upset at the restaurant, so Tiger and I were very much on tenterhooks.

Jacqui asked us, while we waited for the other blokes, if we could help her move a cupboard in their living room. Putting my glass down on the ground (I was responsibly hydrating before our night of beer and poker), I got on one side of the cupboard while Tiger and Jacqui got on one corner each at the other end.

We lifted.

Bing. Bing. Bing.

I kid you not. A PING PONG BALL, dropped out from behind the cupboard at Jacqui’s corner and bounced along the tiled floor.

It felt like one of those moments of impending disaster, where things happen in slow motion. Tiger and I froze, horrified, just staring at the bouncing demon. We knew if this was not managed with aplomb, it may have nightmarish ramifications. Jacqui felt demeaned the first time, a second time could be terrible.

Bing. Bing.

The ball hit my water-glass and nearly went in it.

Thoughts rushed through my mind.

Do we just ignore it? No, one of us surely had to say something sensitive to the situation (that generally would rule me out), yet diffusing.

Do I say – Wow. That’s a bit awkward.

Or – Were you looking for that? 

Or – How did that get stuck behind there?

Then I hit on it.

Me – “You missed.”

There was silence. Tiger strangled a smile. Jacqui burst out laughing. Phew.

 

Thanks for reading my blog, where I put my heart and soul down in words, for you!

What’s new? I love my Sea Eagles, but Manly make it EXTREMELY difficult to be loyal.

Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream to one day make a living as a writer/blogger, I’ve started writing emails for small businesses, to entertain and entice their customers.

Imagine “Hornswood Pool Shop”, who if they exist are probably spamming customers a few times a year. When it comes to catchy writing that people will actually read, Hornswood Pool Shop are good at… pools.

Perfect pH, but their communications though accurate and informative… are also boring and sadly perish, unloved and unopened.

But thanks to me, their campaigns can be worshiped by the people!

Opened. Read! Cherished!! Held aloft, like the Life of Brian shoe or that chubby little Lion King.

At the moment I’m… low-tariff, because I’m just starting (despite often nearly doubling industry open-rates). Know any businesses who could benefit from having wonder and awe sent out to their database? You’ll allow me to continue claiming at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact, a writer.

If you could Like or Share, to help me become famous, would be wonderful. Twitter? https://twitter.com/writehandman99

Cheers.