Happy Christmas

Well, this may be more of a moan than a proper post. But hey, it's my blog - and you can't say I didn't warn you.
It's also link heavy. Tough.


So Merry Christmas. Here's to another Christmas working, the ninth year in a row that I won't be seeing my family, drinking and catching up with my siblings, laughing with loved ones or opening presents on the day I'm supposed to.

Here's to another 'festive' day of gang fights and alcohol fuelled violence.

Here's to another day of trying to keep chipper whilst waiting to start a ten hour night duty, another day of trying to remain sober and interested with the foreboding presence of the upcoming night shift looming large in my mind.

Here's to yet another day of taking a moment to stand watching the street, desolate apart from happy families going on Christmas walks and couples in love enjoying the cold before heading in to warm up. And another feeling of embarrassment as I smile towards them to show I'm part of their day; before the rush of heat in the head as I realise I'm not part of their day at all, they don't know me, and won't be seeing me unless their Christmas goes badly wrong.

Here's to another day of trying to comfort distraught weeping Burglary victims, and being unable to answer the question "but what about the kid's presents?"

Here's to praying not to have to deal with another RTA that leaves blood on my uniform and a destroyed, bereft family. Here's to the prayer being answered, and not having to knock on an unsuspecting family's door with a heavy thud and a heavier heart.

Here's to another Christmas Eve night by myself with nothing but a bottle with a percentage mark on it for company. Here's to answering cheery phone calls from friends and family and trying to keep the blackness out for the length of the phone call for their benefit.

Here's to another long shift, after a day trying not to think of the coming descent into an uncaring night, with no one but the LAS to wave to. Here's to another end of a Christmas shift, coming home to an empty lonely home and a cold unfriendly bed.

This year I will be thinking again of the men and women that will never have to share another Christmas like this again.
I'll also be thinking of the boys and girls that can't be home for Christmas at all, and the ones that will never be coming home for Christmas.

Merry Christmas readers.

Feeder

Over the past few days I've not been sleeping, and trying to work out why. As an actual, real life diagnosed insomniac with the meds to prove it, this isn't in itself unusual. It's something that happens regularly. However I've found that trying to work out what might be bothering me or keeping me awake can help.

Like exploring a cavity in a painful tooth, this isn't always pleasant and can throw up surprises you didn't want and weren't expecting.

One of the things I ended up thinking about was a call I took a few years ago.
It had been a long summer and even fans of the heat like me were looking forward to shorter days, cooler temperatures, and longer tempers. At forty minutes to going home time, a call came out for a child being assaulted by their parent.

This by itself is not an unusual call - most of them turn out to be not an assault at all, but in fact a parent (rightfully) chastising a misbehaving child.

Not this one though.
As we made our way towards the call, sighing inwardly at how we thought it would turn out, the control room called up with more info. A second call had come in from a member of public that the child was bleeding and being thrown about. Our controller paused, then said "Area, this looks like a bad one."

A detailed description of the adult was given, and sure enough as we TOA'd (Time Of Arrival) at the scene, a male grabbed a young toddler some distance away and started waddling away. Me and my partner, Dan, stepped out and broke out into a jog to catch up. As we did, the male started running - with a two year old in his hands, he wasn't going anywhere.

Other units were already running at this point, but I called up and updated on the male making off. As we ran across the car park, sweating already in the humid heat, two more marked Police vehicles arrived on blues and stopped, doors slamming as the officers moved to head off the male.
All this whilst being watched with blank expressions by groups of people - at least, the ones that weren't out and out eye fucking us.

The male ran into a block of flats, one of many on our sink estates with no security or key fob to get into the communal areas. As he ran in, he dumped the toddler on the ground - why not, he was only being slowed down carrying the child.

We didn't see this, not until we ran into the building. We were still some distance off, but not far enough to not notice the reaction of the local residents.
Seeing us running, and seeing now where we were going, groups of our local gang members and druggies were drifting into the building and melting away at speed.

As me and Dan hit the door and went into the building, we were in time to see the last four or five melt away into the shadows of the stairwell. I'd estimate perhaps twenty five people had headed away from us. They'd seen the Old Bill were here, and decided that perhaps their outstanding warrants/pocket full of drugs/illegal weapons/house full of counterfeit goods should remain theirs for the day and so had made their exit sharpish.

Every one of them, without hesitation - and every one of them passing the crumpled form of a beaten, bleeding, bloodied body of a two year old boy dumped unceremoniously on the stained concrete floor. Lit by the yellowed but still working strip lights, it was impossible to miss the child lying there. Left in the middle of the corridor, the residents had obviously stepped over him in their rush to keep their gear secure.

I knelt by the child, and sent Dan forwards: "Go. Go, get the fucker!" As more coppers filtered past, I checked for signs of life. Breathing, movement, and open eyes filled with tears and terror. And blood everywhere.

Yes, we caught the suspect. He tried to hide and on being approached by Police Officers used street furniture as missiles before being very definitely arrested.
I wasn't involved in any of that; instead I had abandoned any pretence of professionalism or duty and had insisted on riding in the ambulance, had insisted on cradling the child all the way there and holding on until the nurses at the A&E managed to convince me to let go.

The only thing that really stayed with me from this call was the response of the people on the estate. Not one of them stopped to check the child, and instead chose to cut and run. After suffering an assault from his stepfather, the child had had to endure a lesson in London Estate politics, and lay broken and bloodied on the floor, watching as adult after adult abandoned him and left him to his private pain.

I only post this now, as two of the other officers involved have left the job for good, and the other main participant doesn't even own an internets, let alone use one.

Incidentally, I worked out what was keeping me awake. I reckon it could well have been the beer I'd been drinking during the day after all...

Criminal Protection Service

I am so angry that I am struggling to write clearly. I recently received a result from the court, for a case that we were waiting to give evidence in at Crown Court.

The case was one where there had been a large scale public order in the High Street. Three people had been abused, then the same three (entirely innocent) people assaulted, by one very horrible person.
Police had arrived and quickly arrested the person, who had whilst waiting for the Police to arrive called as many mates as possible.

CCTV control room had been watching, and luckily called urgent assistance on behalf of the officers who were struggling to control their detainee whilst keep an eye on the growing crowd.

As always, everyone was miles away, but by luck I was one of the first units to arrive. By that point about two hundred people were gathered, and suffice to say they were not making it easy for us. I attempted to help contain the original prisoner whilst other officers tried to control the crowd - whilst doing so, I was assualted seriously and methodically by the detainee and other people as were two other officers. I can't tell you the exact details, but we were assaulted in a series of interesting and unusual ways, resulting in bruising AND bleeding.

I also got a mouth and face full of saliva for my troubles.

Straight to hospital for me at the time, and the other officers.
Life-long physical scars for me on my chest and arms.

Detainee charged with Assault Occasioning Actual Bodily Harm x3, common assault x2, Section 4 public order act and affray.

I was actually looking forward to court, I wanted the jurors to hear my long and very detailed statement, and the other officer's evidence, and see the CCTV of both the incident and the later goings on in custody.

Instead, I got an email "You are de-warned for court, the suspect has plead guilty."
Shame, but a good result.

But no... I did some digging recently. The CPS, ever mindful of their figures and desperate to avoid a costly trial (which always has a chance of failing) instead plea-bargained the suspect to take a guilty plea for common assault and public order.
No prison sentence, and a fine of less than £500.

I know I've felt let down before with court cases, and frustrated by the CPS. But this is a new low for me. With eight Police officer witnesses, three independant witnesses, clear and accurate CCTV evidence of the whole incident from two cameras, CCTV in custody of continued fighting, and medical statements of our injuries plus photos taken and exhibited of the injuries, one would think that it was enough for a trial.

I WANTED my day in court.
Instead I sit here looking at my scars and bubbling over in anger, and frustration. This post is meant as nothing more than a cathartic release for me, and I know I can't acheive anything by it. But really, what is the point? After getting blood and saliva in my eyes and mouth, and physically scarred, seeing my mates getting a kicking and being caused open, bleeding wounds - I have to wonder why on earth we all still go in to work?

I don't even know where to start with this, but if a private prosecution is possible I will be spending my own money to do it, on principle.

It's just beyond depressing that I have to resort to that.

Babycakes

True Story: I helped deliver a baby once.
Well, kind of.

I was on patrol with an older and much wiser colleague, John, and we were well into the night duty. It was the time of night when the pubs and clubs had shut, and on the roads were mainly night duty workers and naughty people.

Sensible people sleep at that time of night.

We were travelling along a dual carriageway on the edge of our district, when a car went past us travelling at speed. We did a quick turn at a gap in the central reservation and went after it, but it had long gone and after we'd passed a junction we knew we weren't going to find it, so my colleague killed the blue lights and settled down to a steady fifty miles per hour.

As we were wondering along listening to the radio chatter and talking shop gossip, we noticed a car parked on the side of the road with it's hazards going. John slowed the car down and we noticed the interior light was on, and two people in the back seat.

Spotting the chance to shout at a couple who had obviously let their romantic intentions overcome them, we parked in front of the car and walked back to it, giggling like schoolboys.

We have an area used for "dogging" in our division, and I've stumbled upon sex in strange places before, but I'd never seen it at the side of a dual carriageway.

As we arrived at the car we realised that all was not as it had seemed. The noises we had heard coming from the car were not in fact cries of passion, but the shouts of a woman in labour.

Having learnt from past situations involving stressful medical situations, I got straight on the radio asking for an ambo to attend, leaving my oppo to "assess" the situation.
There was a young woman on the back seat, a panic striken husband, and lots of messyness. I grabbed the Police car keys from my colleagues belt and ran back to the car, activated the strobes and rear reds, and reversed back to behind the couple's car, parking in a fend off position.

As I ran less enthusiastically back to John, my eyes took in the scene with increasing horror. I have no children, but I was sure that this was not someone who had plenty of time. The baby was obviously coming soon, but I had no idea what to do. John was muttering calming words at the woman, and I remembered he had two children. This was encouraging. They obviously taught methods for assisting labour to Dads.

I leant in to gain from his expertise, and whispered under the woman's shouts: "What do you want me to do John? LAS is on the way."
John: "Christ knows, I've got no idea. I was in Northern Ireland when my first was born, and on duty when the second one was."
Me: "Oh dear. Is it supposed to look like that?"
John: "I told you. I. Don't. Know."
Me: "Jesus John, that's disgusting. That can't be natural."
John: "Shut UP, Area."

I retired with my pride intact, and asked a few questions of the Dad, how far along the mum was, expected date, any allergies or complications - anything that might assist the ambo crew when they turned up.

As I did, John called up again: "I think it's coming now!"
I looked for the ambulance and realised that he was probably not referring to that, and crouched next to him. The Dad had clambered into the front seat and was having his hand crushed by his wife, and John was doing his best to monitor the situation, but aside from the joking we were both savagely aware that our medical knowledge in this area was sorely lacking.

I was unbelievably relieved to see an ambulance turn up, and John and myself stepped back sharpish as the crew set up and started treating the mother. Lots of painkillers I hoped.

The baby was born some minutes later, at the side of the road, after the arrival of an LAS Fast responder unit as well, lit by the flicker of blue and red strobe lights and the occasional headlights of passing cars. The baby screamed immediately, and as the ambulance pulled away the fast response lass explained they were taking them back on blues more for the mother than the baby, as she had lost some blood.

We locked up the car, and cleared the scene. We were both laughing and joking, a good result and an example of feeling like a real Policemanofficer, although no detection was forthcoming for it.

If this was a film, we'd have been instrumental in helping the child grow up, had the baby named after us, and made friends with the couple.
In reality, we left the keys in hospital, were told the baby and mum were fine, and went to the next call. I never even found out the sex of the baby. The next night the car was gone from the road, and so was the evidence of the medical gear and mess that was made.

It did acheive one thing though - it completely put me off the idea of childbirth, and all that miracle of life rubbish. It was bloody horrible.

I was right when I was speaking to John at the side of the road.

It's just not natural.

Claret

I've got shaky hands again, and I don't know why. I'm safely at home, the heating is on, the door is locked (and double locked) and my uniform is sealed in a plastic bin sack by the front door.

My hands weren't shaking earlier when I was at work, thank God. Although they should have been.

I can still smell the metallic tangy smell, my hands are washed clean but still feel sticky, and I've been searching for nail clippers since I've got home to get someone else's DNA out from under my nails. My shirt I won't wear again, I'm desperately short of them now but even if I bleach it I think it's ready for the great launderette in the sky. My strides are black so should hide the stains well - and I only have two pairs, getting hold of another takes weeks if not months.

I'm thinking about anything at the periphary of the incident - anything except what I actually dealt with. The LAS fast responder who turned up. Six hours earlier in the shift we had been at another scene, talking about his son, his car, he smiled: "you lads need some gloves?" We don't even bother making up an excuse now, their gloves are better than ours, we both know it.

At the more recent scene he wasn't smiling. No jokes about his son's college, no banter about swapping gloves for an asp. Instead I watched as he pushed a copper in the chest who got in his way, trying to keep someone alive whilst chaos happened round him.

I was working with him - I like to try and help out medical staff, it's less glamorous than some of the tasks on offer but it's still the number one role of police officers (saving life and limb). I saw that his gloves were working well, but the blood was spattered over his elbows. I knew then that it wasn't sweat I was feeling on my arms, but didn't want to look. The Gucci gloves only go so far.

Seeing the mess afterwards, gloves, tape, wires, assorted debris from the kit bags that were scattered all over.

The flash of blue strobe, a copper climbing in the Ambo for continuity, as I walk away I realise someone has put up police tape and a cordon is in place - why is it the tape is always upside down?


My hands didn't shake then, nor when I washed my arms off, or when I wrote my notes.

But now I'm on the prowl for diversion in the middle of the night, in my home, and they won't stop shaking. And there's no bloody booze in the house. Whatever happened to the promise of 24 hour drinking?



PS - I'll re read this post tomorrow at some point... if it's as badly written as I suspect it may be, I'll get rid of it and substitute it with some funny pictures