I have an evil Romanian twin!
I was sitting on the beach the other morning when a policeman comes up to me.

"Hello" he says.

"Er, hello" I reply.

"Oh, you're British then" (he looks a bit disappointed)

"Yes, yes I am..."

"Only we're looking for someone, and you're the spit of the description we've got, but she's Romanian" he tells me.

"Sorry, I'm definitely British" I confirm.

"Never mind then, have a nice day!"
(anomalous anonymous, Sun 8 May 2011, 19:10, Reply)

I once posted a video on youtube saying I was going to hijack and disrupt the royal wedding.
The facist police came round and arrested me the day before the wedding, and I went on about how it was a political arrest and went on TV and everything.

Ha! Take that facist police state.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Sun 8 May 2011, 18:44, 1 reply)

More Airport police
At the Airport there was a set down area in front set aside solely for buses and taxis. Public prevented from driving down there also and any that managed and parked there got clamped straight.

Well, one day an ambulance comes screaming in for a lady in cardiac arrest. They sprinted in and minutes later came out to find, yes, the ambulance clamped...
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Sun 8 May 2011, 15:57, 4 replies)

Police vs Two wheeled fun
Lets face it, as a rebel biker I am supposed to really dislike the Police. In truth, have you seen those guys ride their bikes? Just awesome. Stopped for a chat with a local Bike Copper just after passing my tests and got some good bike advice for free.

Then last month I was cruising down the motorway on my SV Streetfighter when I happen to notice a white BMW estate car baring down on me. Check Speeod and I am "making progress Officer"! Oops.

Pull over and lovely Policeman gives me a look that says disappointed but not angry. I gave them my most sincere Aunty Jayne smile and amazingly I just got a wagged finger and a don't do it again!
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Sun 8 May 2011, 14:24, 4 replies)

Mr Quar used to be a bit of a police-hater, having been arrested a time or two as a youth.
He grudgingly changed his mind a little though a few years ago when we were at an event and came back to the car to find a tyre slashed.

As we stood around scratching our heads and cursing, a patrol car rolled up and several bobbies jumped out. It seemed that a dozen or more cars had been 'done' so they took our details and promised to look for the perps.

Mr Quar was just about to start his usual 'Lazy bastards, where were they when the tyres were getting stabbed? Out persecuting innocent speeding motorists, THAT's WHERE!' tirade, when two of the officers produced a jack and a tyre iron, shoved us aside and cheerfully whipped the wheel off, while two others manhandled the spare out.

We stammered our astounded thanks and were on our way in no time, waved on by Cheshire's finest. For once, Mr Quar was speechless. Great work there!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Sun 8 May 2011, 13:57, Reply)

Sensible policing
A magistrate who drinks in my pub has some wonderful stories of old school policing, whereby instead of fines and arrests, public humiliation was the name of the game.
My favorite has to be the lorry driver caught slightly over the speed limit in a thunderstorm.
The policeman pull this man over and saunters over, covered head to toe in his wet weather gear he looked quite imposing as he knocked on the drivers door and asks him to step out of the vehicle.
"You've got something hanging down from the bottom of your vehicle. I suggest you check it"
"Yes officer" so the man walks round his truck, looking for the offending object, but he can't find anything
"It was nearer the front and nearer the middle," says the officer, indicating under the cab.
The driver leans under the cab but still can't see a thing.
"You might need to get down on your hands and knees to see it, we could see it from behind you"
So, down on his hands and knees the man crawls. The rain pissing down on him from above as the puddles soak there way in from below.
Still he can't find a thing.
The policeman shouts to his colleague, "What was it you saw Dave?"
"Looked like a foot, attached to the accelerator peddle"
"There you go then, sir. Lets hope we don't see that again"
Policeman walks off, dry as a bone in his wet weather gear, leaving the lorry driver soaked to the skin and, no doubt cursing the coppers but secretly grateful not to have any points put on his license.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Sun 8 May 2011, 12:21, 1 reply)

Officer takes the piss
The police have taken to checking licensed premises in my area, which basically means coming in, asking a few questions and making sure no one's too drunk.

The other month two officers came in, one an old hand and the other a new, wet behind the ears type. Officer Wet gets out his check list of questions and proceeds to go through them:

"Any problems tonight?"
"No officer"
"When are you open until?"
"Midnight"
"What's your capacity?"
"170"
"How many fire exits do you have"
"2"
"Where are they?"

This is where I'm caught in two minds. He's just walked in through one door and there's another right in front of him, and I'm weighing up if I can make a joke about how blind he is without getting in some kind of trouble. Luckily his colleague pipes up:

"Jesus Darren! And you want to be a detective?. "

Officer Wet stumbles through the last couple of questions going slightly red as Officer Old Hand and a handful of locals who have over heard the conversation stifle giggles.

Haven't seen the young copper since.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Sun 8 May 2011, 11:57, Reply)

Reading these stories
the one thing that strikes me is that most UK cops are pretty decent folk. Some of the things that earned you crims a ticking off would have got you locked up or shot in the USA. It's no wonder that 1% of the American population is in jail. US police could learn a lot from their British counterparts.
(ianisme, Sun 8 May 2011, 11:44, 14 replies)

a ruined day out
I was going to a daytime outdoor festival within London with big name DJs headlining it. My girlfriend (now wife) and her friend had spare tickets as they'd won some competition for VIP or something. My girlfriends friend was being a royal pain in the arse, accusing me of being slow and late when she was the one who made them an hour late.

One of their friends who had met up before hand, not planning on going in decided to buy all 3 of their spare tickets. Because of this 'friend' annoying everyone I decided to placate her and say that I'll go with their friend to the cash machine for the cash for the tickets and we'll meet them inside the festival. As we left them I turned to this friend of a friend I didn't know to confirm the price and suddenly a police van stopped across the road and this burly sergeant ran over barking questions at us about what I was selling, blah blah blah.
I told the honest truth that my girlfriend and friend had gone in and I was going with their friend to sell their tickets. The police sergeant was more intent on telling me what he thought had happened than listening to me and refused to call up my girlfriend to corroborate my story.

I then was told I was being arrested for ticket touting and taken off to their van and within a few minutes the friend of a friend was arrested for possession, which apparently automatically meant that I was a suspect for that as well. However at no point was I handcuffed or read my rights.

An hour later and we were at the police control point for the event, they searched me and found nowt, confiscated the 3 spare tickets and my own and sent me home.

On getting home I found out that it was in no way illegal to ticket tout at a music event to top the bad treatment and bullheadedness of the police sergeant. I put in a call to the police complaints commision, met the Superintendent for police control at the event the following monday, where I presented him a letter complaining about my treatment and that I was unlawfully detained and treated like a common criminal when I'd done nothing illegal at all.

9 months later the police sergeant got a talking to (and from what was read to him it wasn't harsh enough) and I got a compensation cheque which covered the tickets price and a bit more, which was nice..............
(The Director of Directing, Sun 8 May 2011, 11:34, 2 replies)

Mr Smirnoff
Dad was telling me about an east European guy he knew back in the 1960s.

This guy got thoroughly trashed on vodka then went to drive home. He didn't get far and managed to miss the road and send his car into a ditch. Having that much sense left, he left the scene hoofed it home.

The next morning the coppers turned up, investigating the car they'd found in the ditch. They wanted to know who the reckless driver was and if he knew where his car was. Figuring out what they wanted he explained,

"Ah! Driver! Yes! Mr Smirnoff! Mr Smirnoff is driver."
(xixax, Sun 8 May 2011, 9:35, Reply)

I used to be a police officer, and this one time, I rescued a whole load of people and my wife from some bad guys, I even lost my shoes during the operation, it was christmas too, I've never had to work so hard
( vladimir, Sun 8 May 2011, 9:00, 7 replies)

Busted
I had been out midweek celebrating my 18th with my friends Darren, Stuart and Kenneth in our local, a place we had been frequenting since we were 15 (my aunt owned it, happily). After numerous jars of Tennants, badly played games of pool, pisstaking, showy attempts at musical coolness at the jukebox, references to the sexual desirability of each other's mothers and furtive glances at the ladies present (we might even have exchange a few words with one or two of them), at closing time we staggered out, slurring and stumbling merrily.

Having a small amount of resin, tobacco and skins in my pocket, there was no reason to be going home yet. Instead we noisily ambled throught the dark smalltown streets. At one point I tried to climb up a lamppost, then bethought myself and tried to roll a joint on the kerb. My friends kindly pointed out the stupidity of this, and at Kenneth's suggestion we made our way to the nearby golfcourse clubhouse, behind which we could sit in seclusion overlooking the peaceful green. I rolled a MASSIVE DRUGS joint and we enjoyed the warm fuzzy smoke and the warm fuzzy brain. Damn, we were smooth.

Then suddenly a policevan appeared out of nowhere, bright lights shocking us. There was no chance of scarpering; they had their quarry clear in their sights.

"Evening gents," says Mr Very Tall and Strong Looking Policeman.

"Um... hello."

"What you guys doing?"

"Mmm... we'd been in the pub and were just sitting here talking."

"We had a report of some guys here - there's been attempted break-ins here previously." Already Mr Policeman has sussed us for the wallies we are and noted no damage or break in attempts. "I'll have to ask you to come to the police station with me for a search."

OH. FUCK. I am the one with the drugs. I have about 3 spliffs worth of resin in my packet of Golden Virginia! Now I'll never get in the Foreign Office! OH WOE!

Back at the station, they line us up in a room. I'm last.

"What do you do, boys?"

"Student."

"Student."

"Student."

"Student."

"Oh right, what do you study?"

"English." Me.

"Chemistry." Stuart

"Computing." Kenneth.

Utterly deadpan, in a monotone to put Jack Dee to shame, Darren says, "Librarianship." The police crack up laughing. I still don't know if Darren was trying to be funny or just embarassed at his choice of subject, but that was comedy gold.

They frisk everyone's pockets, then come to me. I'm shitting myself. Heart palpatating, sphincter spasming, mind going "NO NO NO NO NO NO". They find my baccy. They open it up. They see the resin. They ignore it and give it back to me. And then we're free to go.
(McChinaman banned, Sun 8 May 2011, 2:02, 2 replies)

It's a strange paradox
that you more urgently you want someone to dress in a police outfit, the less you want the actual police to arrive.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 8 May 2011, 1:13, 1 reply)

Lust at first sight
Back in the 80s, I was a motorbike courier in that London. One day, the bike shed its chain in a busy street in Soho. While trying to get it back on, a female sergeant turned up and ordered me to get it on the pavement and stop obstructing the traffic. I tried lifting it, but I was a weedy Scars then and the kerb was high. She picked it up, all 140 kilos of it, and I was instantly smitten.

"Damn, that's amazing. Are you doing anything tonight?"

"Yup. I'm either washing my hair, or beating you senseless in the cells at West End Central."

She must have taken pity on my sad little face, because she stroked my cheek and said "put on 30 pounds, six inches and ask me again with a double scotch in each hand."

Length? nearly all the way to Charing Cross Road.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Sun 8 May 2011, 0:09, 1 reply)

"The police are sometimes better than the criminals"
It could be worse. According to my flatmate, the title of this post is a well-known quote in his home country of Lithuania.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 7 May 2011, 22:18, Reply)

Not really fit but definitely a cnut.
Off on the long-awaited first fishing trip of the year just last weekend, my mate and I were on a brief forray into town to get a has bottle for the caravan. It being a warm day, we indulged in a bit of talent spotting.

I stopped to turn right into a sideroad and my mate commented that he'd be willing to "hang oot the back of her driving the BMW." I never noticed myself as i'm a decent driver and only noticed the new white 3 series among the other oncoming traffic. We stopped just a hundred yards or so up the sideroad seeing that the builders yard we were heading for was closed. I made to pull away when who should pull in front but the same tart in the beemer. Surprised, I said "you might get your chance!" before we noticed that she had a bloke in the passenger seat and they were both wearing arrogance suits.
I'm getting tired of writing on my phone so in short, she did me for no seatbelt though I was wearing it (i honestly can't remember whether I put it on when we'd pulled up outside the yard) Because my mate had been supping Stella and the floor was littered with empties, I got breathalysed too though she couldn't work the machine and accused me of not blowing / sucking etc and was starting to get shirty when her co-pig showed her that the little tube goes the other way round. I asked whether she had evidence of my offence, expecting to be told their car had a camera but was told that I co entitled to contest the penalty though she and her colleague would testify that I wasn't wearing the seatbelt so I'd just add court costs to my fine.

The best part was when my pal advised them that their rather smart car actually had a broken coil spring and hence was sitting extremely low on one corner. "Oh you think so?"
"I know so. I'm a vehicle inspector for VOSA. Here's my ID. Are you aware that your car is not only unroadworthy, it's in a dangerous condition and you're committing a criminal offence by driving it? Should we wait here with you to see that it's properly recovered or shall we just go our separate ways?"
"Mind you buckle up guys."
"Don't go anywhere until the recovery truck comes officer."

If carlsberg did mates they wouldn't be a fucking patch on mine. Anyway, he says it's like piss water compared to his beloved Stella. I owe him several jars.

By the way cuntstubble, good job you didn't see the hefty bag of weed in my door pocket....
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Sat 7 May 2011, 21:31, 7 replies)

abuse of power
I'm not talking about taking drugs from evidence and selling them back to the dealers , i'm not talking about running police protection rackets oh no what i've just seen makes me angry to the depths of my bones... A policeman not only walked to the front of the bus queue but got a free ride as well reprobates the lot of em!
(shake'n'bake Tally Ho, Biatch!, Sat 7 May 2011, 17:57, Reply)

retired high ranking Police
I've had the misfortune to meet two of these jumped up Nazis.
Neither of them will fit into normal life due to their dictatorial ways.
The two I know show exactly the reason that the Police have lost so much respect from the general public over the last few years.
One is an arrogant cunt who thinks he can park where he likes, and tries it on when you tell him not to.
The other is even worse, who thinks he can impress his will on a group of people involved in a non-paid voluntary capacity.

Complete nutters both of them!
(Zuffle farts silently in lifts then leaves the warm aroma, Sat 7 May 2011, 17:20, Reply)

Yes...in Holland.
For having a bag of weed, if you can believe that! And it wasn't even mine!

However, I must elucidate 'pon the circumstances.

I, and my usual smoking-buddy/drinking partner/getaway driver, were on a 'Dutch Dash'. Organised by my company, I might add.

The ferry trip from Hell, sorry Hull, sorry, 'Ull, went as expected. Much merriment, and drinking, and dancing, and attempting to cop off with the fit girl from accounts ensued.
The next morning also went to plan. Kip on the bus from Rotterdam to Amsterdam, find a decent brekkie somewhere and then have a smoke. Pretty simple, yes?

It was.

Too simple, as it happens!

My erstwhile friend had decided (unbeknownst to me, of course) to bring back a biggish bag of the oh-so-goovy greenery. He smuggled it on board the ferry back (past all the dogs - for what it's worth, they are sniffing for explosives and not drugs).

Imagine my delight when we retire to our cabin for the return crossing, and he pulls out of his man-bag the aforementioned smoke (AK-47 from The Grey Area, much recommended). I was not so delighted when he started to roll up an admittedly impressive spliff in the cabin.

'For Christ's sake,' says I, 'at least smoke it on the top deck in the open. Like everyone else!'

'Nay,' sayeth he. 'It's fucking freezing.'

Seeing he has a point, but not wishing to be a part of what's coming next (remember the excursion is work organised!), I stumbled to the bar and proceeded to have a pint with my colleagues.

Until, that is, the large, hairy and frankfully scary security officer came and dragged me to my cabin.

'Sniff!' he bellows, unnecessarily, as the sweet smell has drifted outwards from our cabin, to a radius of possibly several yards.

Sensing the game was up, I did what every single person here would have done.

Squealed like a little girl. This did me no favours, as I'm sure you can imagine.

I was reunited with my mate in the main cabin of the ferry, right next to the walkway back to land. Looking down this tunnel I could see what looked like the entire Dutch Anti-Terrorism force storming up to the boat (OK, it was two gay dutch police, but I'm not about to ruin a frankly aweseome tale).

These police then arrested us and MARCHED US OFF THE FUCKING BOAT AND CHUCKED US INTO A JAIL CELL. IN THE PORT!

However, thinks I, it's not all bad, For starters, they didn't separate us, which has me thinking they know I haven't been involved in the incident on ship. For second, they haven't searched *my* bags, just those of my now battered companion.

Two hours later, after the two of us repeatedly thinking we can get out of this, followed by the thought we might not and voiding our bowels over the thought, the police come back.

My mate's bag of green was .03g under the limit for prosecution.

He got a hearty fine and a bollocking. My mate was a big type of chap, and the sight of a 6'2" rugby player getting a telling of from the campest policeman ever was a sight to behold.

After paying his fine, the security officer escorted us back onto the ship, where we received a hearty cheer, the offer of several beers and the fit girl from accounts was much more interested in me.

As for me?

I only got a tale to tell. And a release form from Dutch police for carrying half a gram of Blueberry.
(General Lee, Sat 7 May 2011, 16:13, 3 replies)

Top quality Scots coppers
Long-backstory-short, the year is 2008, the month is February, 12 English idiots have just achieved a near-death-hiking experience trying to get from Currour to Fort William in a day (you can just about do this in a day in early June starting at sunrise and finishing at sunset. Not so much when there are seven hours of daylight), whilst also confounded by (what the local mountain rescue boss described as) the worst snow in years.

After an unexpected night in a half-roofless bothy, much near-death-associated bonding, eventual amazing delight and relief on reaching Fort William only a day late, and radical drinking once we reach the hostel (which, pleasingly, has a bar with one of the largest Scotch collections I've ever seen), the weekend's nearly over. Some sensible people meander off to get daytime trains. But a sturdy hardcore of about seven of us take the Scotrail Sleeper back to London.

The Sleeper has some excellent features: most notably, a buffet car with proper lounge furniture and cafe-like tables (not bolted-to-floor train seats). This particular evening, the red-faced, slightly slurring steward was also handing out free whisky as compensation for the fact that his kitchen was broken and he couldn't serve any hot food - it's hard not to love Scotland. We didn't really need the free whisky, as we'd stocked up with two bottles of Scotch and two cases of beer, but the thought was appreciated.

The train meanders rather slowly from Fort William to Edinburgh, where it's joined up with other carriages from equally remote bits of Scotland and packed off to London as one big train. It leaves Fort Bill at about 6pm, and arrives in Edinburgh about midnight. By about 11.30, we had a problem: we'd drunk all the booze. So we bought some more miniatures from the steward. Problem solved.

However, on repeating this request at about 11.50, it was denied due to 'stocktaking', or possibly 'drunk English cnuts'. So we finished the assorted dregs, and retreated to our cabins.

Sleeper cabins have two bunk beds. I'm sharing with my friend James, who's a Respectable City Banker. Our unemployable posh alcoholic friend - think Withnail, but shorter - is in the next cabin. About 10 minutes later, Withnail knocks on the door. "We should get some more drinks." "Erm, we don't have any more drinks and the dude won't sell us any."

But I have a brilliant (read: moronic) idea at this point. The trains that join up at Edinburgh Waverley, where we've just stopped up, all have their own crews. So there'll be another dude with another trolley who doesn't know how much we've had and isn't going to be quite so reluctant to sell us booze. As the most desperate would-be consumer, Withnail is briefed on the plan and dispatched with 20 quid.

Five minutes later, Withnail returns. With four miniatures of Scotch, one miniature of Bacardi, and, erm, 20 quid. "Did you follow the plan?" "No - I found the drinks trolley and borrowed these. It's OK, the steward didn't see a thing. I'm going to lie low in my cabin for a bit but I'll be back in 10 minutes".

Brief reflection on possible reasons for 'lying low' leads us to suspect that "didn't see a thing" may be an exaggeration. This is confirmed by the frantic banging on our cabin door by the red-faced Scotsman, along the lines of "give them back, or I'll call the fucking polis", "sorry mate, what are you talking about, we've been here the whole time" (which was literally true). Eventually he appears to lose interest and goes away.

So Withnail returns with the miniatures. He's already cracked the Bacardi, so I finish it; we're about to start on the Scotches toasting the success of our nerve, when the light outside turns noticeably blue and flashing. Oh fuck, the steward *has* called the bloody rozzers (in 2008, the platforms at Waverley were driveable-onto by official vehicles). We despatch Withnail, on the grounds that "my cousin is a QC", "GETINTHEBACKOFTHEVAN!"; James and I resign ourselves to obsequious apologetics.

So two Edinburgh cops join the train - both late-30s early 40s, as experienced and cynical as anyone in a TV show or cheap novel.

They point out that they've every right and reason to investigate this case at the police station, that it's bailable rather than remand-able, but that they'll only bail us if we can find someone in Edinburgh to sign for us (I get on OK with my ex's parents, who live in Edinburgh, and have their number in my phone, so at least a night in the cells is off the cards - but that would definitely not be WINNING). We apologise repeatedly, offer to pay, obfuscate somewhat on the details (coppers MUST NOT TALK TO WITHNAIL), but make clear that we're very sorry and ashamed and it was a terrible misunderstanding.

The cops then disappear to talk to the steward. This goes on for about 20 minutes. They return to our cabin - "come outside, there's a conversation that needs had".

We follow the cops to the end of the carriage, where the angry-and-deflated looking steward is standing. "You boys have got something to give to him, haven't you?" - we hand over the Scotches. Steward adds "but there was a Bacardi as well!", "Yes, erm, sorry, we drank it". Cop to steward "Well, how much was it?". Steward: "erm, three pounds fifty". Cop: "Well, give the man his three pounds fifty, then!". Money is handed over.

Final word from the cops: "How old are you?". I reply, "28"; James replies, "28". There's a pause. They look meaningfully at the steward. He replies "47". The slightly-more-veteran looking cop says "well, maybe in future you could all ACT YOUR AGE rather than wasting our time with this kind of stupid nonsense". The cops leave. The steward leaves, with a face like thunder. We slink back to our cabin then burst out in insane, inane laughter.

I almost felt sorry for the steward for that one. Right up until he served me breakfast the next morning with a hole punched in the milk packet that entirely covered my bed and clothes in milk. Still, that's probably a fair revenge.

Withnail was amused by the story the next morning, didn't apologise, and subsequently stole our money.
(stalinism, Sat 7 May 2011, 15:58, 1 reply)

First of many
stories I have relating to the Airport Police in the international airport I used to work in. The first is the tale of the toilet ticker.

My old job was one were I needed access to every single part of the airport so I was one of the few types of employees with an access all areas identity card. As such a lot of work was done "airside" were only ticket holders and passengers arriving to the airport could be.

Now Airport police are your typical plastic policeman. They're either failed Garda wannabes or retired Garda. On this faithful day I had went into the toilets on airside in the area were you collect your bag to relieve myself of my fry from early morning.

Sitting down in the cubicle I was somewhat perturbed by the ticking noise emanating from my delicate pink ring area. Jumping up I peered under the toilet and found a small cardboard cube held together with masking tape; it was fucking ticking. Sprinting from the jacks at near light speed despite still being in the process of zipping up I went to the security point.

Only to find to most grizzled, tiny, scruffiest old fart of an Airport Police sat in the booth. Hastily explaining the situation he sighed and heaved himself up and began to shuffle at an agonizing pace towards the toilet. When we got there what seemed to be a year later he asked me to pinpoint the offending item. I duly did from the other side of the toilet.

He bent down glaring at it and then fucking reached out and picked it up. Frozen in panic I watched as he shook the box and grunted a laugh. "Fuck me it is tickin an all; better bring it down da station and see what the lads think". And then off he went, shuffling off towards the exit as I struggled with the concept of trying to breath again.
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Sat 7 May 2011, 15:39, 2 replies)

Jungle police
In Bangladesh with my chum John I once visited a temple on top of a hill. The hike should have been a simple one: start at the bottom, yomp up the hill in a straight line, gaze for a while at the relics and then saunter back down again whistling a gay air. At the top, however, John and I took our fill of the temple and were left wanting more. So, consulting our map, we spotted a promising looking dotted line leading to a village; looking up, the dotted line corresponded to a path leading into the hills. We decided to follow that path and see what we could achieve there.

Now, I have alluded to the night spent in the jungle on b3ta before- www.b3ta.com/questions/animals/post149952 In summary, the path soon ran out and, getting lost, we spent a joyless night starving and being eaten alive by ticks. As the sun set, John and I pinpointed the source of our woe; namely that the map we were relying on for this cross country expedition was, on closer inspection, a bus map.

When the sun rose again we realised that we had already lost the path that we had been assuming was the dotted line on our map, so we decided to abandon the map and just hoof it in an easterly direction (by following the sun) until we found a river, then to follow abovementioned river until we found civilization. Surely enough following the river led us to a community of farmers who were kind enough to share with us their bread and salt. They were a tremendously sporting bunch, and even offered us a chaperone back to the nearest village.

Eventually, after another couple of hours of hiking, we reached the market and our chaperone hooked us up with his buyers. One chap in the village spoke English, and offered us a ride to town. When we finally arrived after a bumpy hour long motorbike ride we met a welcoming committee consisting of a bunch of khaki clad coppers pointing ugly looking rifles at us.

So to recap, the previous day we had gone on a hike; got lost; spent the night in the jungle; woke up infested with ticks; waded along a river; now the fuzz were after us.

The captain was the only chappie in the copshop who spoke English, so we were kept in cell 1 until he returned from his tea. An hour of kicking our heels later a dapper gentleman with a pencil moustache (think of a Bengali David Niven and you wouldn't be far off) proceeded to interrogate us. He spoke in that glorious Indian English, you know the one, peppered with words like "rannygazoo" and "rigmarole". On hearing our story he asked for our passports; and we being the chumps we were had of course left them in our hotel in the other side of the country (don't give me that look, neither of us knew we'd end up in this situation). We phoned the hotel to find some way of notarizing our passports and faxing them over to the police station; while they set about doing that, the Captain, John and I were at a bit of an impasse.

More to break the silence than anything, John asked for a drink. The captain summoned a boy to bring us a drink, giving him a few banknotes to buy a couple of bottles. When he returned with mineral water, the captain, bless him, gave the boy a clip round the ear and said "These gentlemen, our guests, are English! Don't bring water, bring them some coke. Make sure it's cold." John and I realised we were onto a good thing here, the circs. notwithstanding. When we asked for a bite to eat the copper plied the old child abuse routine once again and whisked us up some biscuits, served on a china plate of all things. When we asked for a wash he arranged for a bucket of hot water and a block each of wrapped Imperial Leather.

We then decided to push our luck as far as we dared, and pointed out that our clothes were soiled from the jungle, and was there anything we could do about it please? The captain chewed his pencil for a while, and said he couldn't send us clothes shopping because we were under his custody; but maybe Asif could help. Asif was a burly sergeant who weighed more than John and me combined. The captain briefed him and, well stone the crows, Asif took us shopping. He literally escorted us at gunpoint to a shopping centre and pointed us to the gentlemen's loungewear section. Stranger still, despite not speaking a word of English, he conveyed to John that the white trousers didn't suit him at all and that the beige were considerably better.

Upon returning to the police station the captain announced that he had received the faxes of our passports, and that we were free to go. He also took the opportunity of telling us that we were silly idiots, and that the reason the gun element was so stressed over the course of the afternoon was that the dotted line on our map was not in fact a path for jolly afternoon saunters but in fact the demarcation of a restricted border zone in which Burmese separatists had been conducting gun smuggling activities, and that when we were picked up sans passports we were in effect suspected terrorists. Boy, did we feel silly.
(I grew it myself, Sat 7 May 2011, 14:35, 4 replies)

I'M A BAD MOTHERFUCKER!
I was 14 years old and skipping happily across Kentish Town Road when a policelady grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and flung me up against a plate-glass chip shop window (much to the gaping chip-buying queue's delight). She proceeded to search me thoroughly plus my bag and phoned in a check on my name and address (while holding me firmly in place against the window with the other hand).
After (what seemed a looooooong) while she let me go. What had I done you may ask? Crossed the road when the little green man hadn't told me to yet. Up until then I'd wanted to be a policelady when I grew up but that kinda changed my mind.
(boduchess, Sat 7 May 2011, 14:08, 3 replies)

Stopped by the polis...
... while driving a very late model Citroën GSA. Not too many of them around, although they used to be quite common.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Citroen_gsa_special.png
Mine was bright blue. Both of them, in fact, were bright blue. So, I roll down the window and the two police get out their car and walk up to me.
"We've stopped you because we want to do a check - a couple of these have been stolen recently, you see" the younger one said.
"Oh right, whose?" I asked.
"What do you mean, whose?"
"Well, this one's mine, I've got another one in bits in my shed, a mate of mine owns one in Edinburgh and there's one other one over there, and there's one down in the borders somewhere, Kelso I think, and that accounts for all five of the GSAs in Scotland. So, whose got stolen?"
"Uhm, right, well, have you got any of the paperwork for this car?"
Unzipped my rucksack, pulled out the fat blue folder with all the receipts and invoices from the car, from the set of spark plugs I'd bought that day right back to the original dealer's receipt back in 1985.
"What would you like to see?"
"My dad had one of these", said the older policeman as his colleague gave the insurance and MOT a cursory glance, and went back to hide in the cop car, "I'd love to get one. Can I give you my phone number in case you decide to sell it?"
(gordonjcp, Sat 7 May 2011, 13:37, 1 reply)

I've been arrested a few times.
My best "non-arrest" was quite a few years ago. All day drinking led to me being far too pissed to ride my bike on the road, so I decided to wobble along, more or less walking pace, on the pavement. A copper jumped out from bloody nowhere in front of me, and I managed not to hit him. I got bollocked for riding on the pavement, then he asked if I'd been drinking. I said no, he laughed and said something like "it's a very strong aftershave you've got on then".
He then noticed a lit joint which I was attempting to hide in the palm of my hand, nodded towards it and said "I suppose that's a rollie too?" I told him yes, he laughed again, and suggested I push my bike home, as I looked in shit state. Top bloke, for a copper.

Edit, customs and excise are total BASTARDS.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Sat 7 May 2011, 12:31, Reply)

I once had a clinic.
One of three or so that I worked from.
One day, with a busy day and clients waiting, I had finished treating one, picked up the next from the waiting room and walked them through into the "inner sanctum" nice quiet area next to my room.
I walked right into a film crew filming The Bill outside my room! Bastards. No warning, so with a business to run, I made them stop filming every time I had to bring a client in. They probably left the screams from my room in the shots to add realism.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Sat 7 May 2011, 12:24, 3 replies)

Interviewed in relation to a murder investigation
While I was at university in Bristol I heard from my parents in Walsall that one of my neighbours had been found stabbed in the neck with a barbeque skewer in cupboard under the stairs. Years pass and the police don't have a clue who it was, so they try to find fingerprint evidence and set about cutting people out of the list.

This results in me getting a visit from two lovely plods. We had a bit of banter, they questioned the traffic cones in my student flat but not the bag of weed, couldn't be better. When it came to taking fingerprints and DNA I was happy to help, after all this is was a friend's granddad. However I was offered the exciting opportunity to be part of the national DNA database.

Me: But what if I want to commit a serious crime in future?
Them: But you're a computer science student, there's no DNA evidence for computer crime.
Me: Still, it doesn't sound like I have any reason to agree to this.
Them: Okay, it will only be used for this investigation and destroyed afterwards.

You can see where this is going, can't you? A few years later I was curious so asked if it had been destroyed. Nope, there on the databases. It seems DNA evidence is only destroyed on the chief constable's orders in "exceptional circumstances". Not exactly the coolest way, but this amounts to being assaulted by the police. It took over six months of complaining and an internal investigation to get them to make good on their word.

The police really do seem to be doing their best to destroy public good-will.
( Ungersven would support SpankyHanky's patreon, Sat 7 May 2011, 12:17, 13 replies)

A couple of years ago...
my mate across the road tells me his family are coming down to see him. I pop over as requested as they're having a bbq and a few beers. Sitting in the garden my mate asks me how I got on with sorting out my car which got stolen and recovered the previous week and I casually state that,
"Apparently it was some little shit trying to get back to Liverpool, fucking scouse git."
The garden went a little quiet at this point and matey whispers in my ear that his family are all scousers and he doesn't have an accent as he married into it and is not from Liverpool. I apologise profusely and state that it wasn't meant as a general term just against the thief in question. Had I kept my mouth shut at this point it may have been ok but I follow it up with,
"Still, not sure who I hate most, the thief or the dopey coppers who couldn't be arsed to try to find the car on the day I reported it stolen. Probably too busy harassing black people for fun."

Then matey introduces me to his father-in-law. Paul. Paul lastname*. Detective Constable Paul Lastname*

I sighed, shook his hand and sloped off home to get pissed. Trust me, drinking in front of a policeman, even if off-duty, just doesn't feel right when you've insulted his colleagues.

* name changed to protect me, not him. once bitten, twice shy.
( NooShmoo It's a fantazmagorical pile of ultra bollocks, Sat 7 May 2011, 12:06, Reply)

Basques.
Every summer in the Basque regions of france and spain, every village and town has a fete. These are mad piss-ups, usually involving large amounts of sangria and bulls. Bulls chasing you through the streets mainly. The San Fermin at Pamplona is obviously the most famous, but all the towns have them and you could easily spend every weekend getting shitfaced all over the basque country in the summer.

So, that's pretty much what we did.

This was a few years ago, and the french police pretty much turned a blind eye to drink driving as long as you were wearing the traditional white and red that you wear to a festival, because, well, it's a festival.

So there's the backstory.

Me and my mate, both english, were crossing the border from Spain back into France after a five-day orgy of booze, singing, dancing and getting chased by bulls. Our traditional whites were a maroon colour, dyed from kalamotxo and sangria. We were stinking.

We got stopped by the police at the border.

Passports handed over. The police examine our car. We're fucked. 'Is this your car m'sieur?' It wasn't. It had Dutch number plates and belonged to a friend who we weren't entirely sure we'd asked if we could borrow it. 'Ah, non...' fuck.

The police continue to examine our car, walking slowly, checking underneath it. They slowly come back to us and hand our passports back.
'M'sieur, there is a problem with your car'.
Oh shit.
'You need a new one. This one is shit'.

And with a smirk, sends us on our way.
(inflateable, Sat 7 May 2011, 12:05, Reply)