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Thursday, September 29, 2005

 

Another arrogant bastard

I’ve saved this particular piece because this incident went on report because it was a statistical ‘Threat’. Not that I felt much anxiety over it, just that I want to make sure it has been confused in the memory of the powers that be with so many other, similar incidents.
The driver in question was of a BMW, make and model not important, just let me say it wasn’t a new one eh? Do we detect mockery Bill? You betcha. I caught said leading light of the local tennis set loading cases of Pimms, ice and Lemonade into his jalopy on a taxi rank. True to my nature I began taking his vehicles details down preparatory to booking the car for being parked in a taxi rank. He deliberately ignores me like I am not worthy of his attention, so he’s obviously not going to move on then.

Fair do’s thinks I. Said item of muddle classes is in clear contravention of the parking regulations, so I filled in the last couple of necessary entries and hit ‘print’. Parking on a Taxi rank is one of those offences which does not need any observation time which makes the whole process a lot easier. You see – you book. Simple as that. So far so good. I’d just slapped the ticket on his windscreen and ‘happy snapped’ it in situ when chummy gets all humpty.

“What have you done that for?” Demands Mr Tennis coach.
“You’re parked on a Taxi rank, sir.” Say I, turning to find other nadirs to frequent. “You shouldn’t have stopped here at all.”
Mr Tennis coach then grabs at my shoulder (Bad move) “Take it off!” He demands.
“No, sir. I cannot do that.” Here we go, my right hand drifts down to my radio panic button. I’m standing perfectly still.
“Take it off!” Who does this dickhead think he is? He’s hanging onto my right epaulette. I dearly want to judo punch his silly lights out, but push down the old instinctive fight or flight reaction and hit the panic button instead. Epaulette is under strain; I can feel the stitching start to give. “Let go, sir.” This time there is a very distinct pause between ‘go’ and ‘’sir’. Can’t dipstick see he is really pushing his luck?
“Don’t you use that tone to me – I’m reporting you to your superiors! I’ve got your number!” Almost literally, I think. He lets go of my epaulette and roughly tries (With the emphasis on ‘tries’) to make me fall over by letting go suddenly. Much to his chagrin this doesn’t work. I’ve got my right foot back to counterbalance any attempt at a shove so I stay upright.
“You do that, sir.” Can’t he see that I’m not impressed? “I’m officer 515.”
“What’s your name!” Now it’s the wagging finger. Where’s the CCTV response? Come on guys, I need you now or I’ll have to look after myself.
At this point CCTV chime in loud and clear over the radio. “Have you visual 515, assistance on its way.”
“You all right 515?” Kerry, my line Manager, bless her, follows on loud and clear.
Tennis coach suddenly realises how far in the doodoo he is, making round to the drivers side door, waves threatening finger at me. Yeah, like I’m scared of you. “I’m reporting you!”
“Officer 515 sir, don’t forget.” I call after him as he slams the door and revs his engine at me. Git. I’ve put myself directly in front of a concrete bollard at the end of the rank and there is no way he can run me down if I side step behind it. The only thing that will take a hit is his insurance no claims, if he has one. I do not intend to be a new hood ornament on his pose-mobile. My parents did not raise any stupid children. (Poorly advised, often unlucky, but not stupid.)

Tennis coach drives off with much angry gesticulating and I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Taxi driver has witnessed the whole thing. “You all right?”
“I’ll survive.” Better be gracious about it. “But thanks for asking.”
“Bloody hell. I couldn’t do your job.”
“I have trouble sometimes.” I’m not so bothered about being grabbed at and pushed, I’m bothered that chummy will only get a sharp letter from my employers, if that. Sometimes it amazes me at how supportive they are.

PCSO patrol catch up with me ten minutes later, I know both of them well. “Hello Bill, you all right then?”
“I’m in agony - Writers cramp mate.” I indicate note book in which I am trying to accurately recount the incident. They laugh. I’m okay, they’ve got more pressing things to do, their own radio’s are calling.

Two hours later, forms filled in and filed, I’m back on beat.
Incidentally, the ticket stuck, but as far as I know, tennis coach never got so much as a caution. Maybe he won’t park where he shouldn’t again. One can only hope.

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Exasperated expatriate expostulations all the way from British Columbia, Canada. As if anyone really cared. Oh, I also watch Icelandic Volcanoes and seismic activity. Don't ask me why.

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