Have you ever...

Discussion in 'Off-Topic Chat' started by Big Twigge, Nov 10, 2005.

  1. Big Twigge

    Big Twigge Active Member

    attempted to/started to write a book?

    I have on many occassions, the plan being to write a few words down, people to buy it, Warner Bros to buy the film rights and then I become a multimillionaire - easy money making scheme!

    I've come up with plots for children's picture books, adult books and just plan words! However once I got as far as writing a whole page about " exciting joining bits in life!" ( I was just looking for my personal statement and found it on the computer!)
    Obvioulsy I was work avoiding seriously one day(about 2 yrs ago) and decided to make it into a book! I know it's weird and rubbish and I can't believe I was that bored to write it once, but it did make me chuckle so thought I'd share it!

    Mundane routine, horrifying change and joining exciting bits.

    The average day, in my opinion, is summed up by this conversation, with a friend on messenger.

    Person A says:
    …..variety is the spice of life
    Person B says:
    well it's as I always say
    Person B says:
    life is split up into two main parts...
    Person B says:
    mundane routine, and horrifying change..
    Person A says:
    and then joining exciting bits

    But what makes a joining exciting bit? Can a joining exciting bit be something that is planned, or is it the randomness of an event that makes it so exciting. I believe that both planned and unplanned events can be exciting and are vital to life being something to smile about.

    The conversation continued…
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    ah well.. I knew something was missing..
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]make sure today that you have at least one exciting joining bit[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    such as? I'm at work!
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]When you finish work, walk in a very busy place, singing as you go and dance a little too. Don’t worry about what people think and then get home and smile[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    isn’t that normal?
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]i don't know but its the smiley part at the end that’s important...it'll make you feel good[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    fair enough!
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]do it[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]but you have to sing loud enough for people to hear you that’s important too[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    I think I do all this normally!
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    (I am a weird chap)
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]no I do it too[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]in that case, let me think of some exciting joining part[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]ring someone up who you haven’t spoken to in about 8 yrs[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]it'll be fun[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    hmm.. could do that..
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]do it do it do it[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    or send email anyway, due to general lack of phone numbers
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]I’ll let you send e-mails if you give them your phone number and say that you should all meet up soon and then it'll be exciting joining part[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    leading to horrifying change
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]and horrifying change is good for the heart[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]my exciting joining part will be... (am going to think of something) although these exciting parts are often randomly lead and not planned[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    not mine!
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]well just be more adventurous[/font]
    [font=&quot]Person B says:[/font]
    and less boring
    [font=&quot]Person A says:[/font]
    [font=&quot]no not necessarily less boring, just more joining bits![/font]

    A planned exciting bit is easy to implement and can be as simple as making that call. The results of a planned exciting bit are more likely to lead to a “horrifying change” as it is something that has occurred as a result of searching for change, this is all good.

    [font=&quot]But what do I know about anything. The answer honestly is not a lot.

    Anybody else feel like sharing some literary genius?!
  2. HBB

    HBB Active Member

    Me and my ex wrote a story about a granny who was a monster called "Beastilina"!!
  3. Big Twigge

    Big Twigge Active Member

    Did it get pubished?!
  4. imthemaddude

    imthemaddude Active Member

    Ive thought about it so many times
  5. HBB

    HBB Active Member

    Nope.. but when we tried to print it the computer crashed.. and it was lost for ever! :(

    Beastilina and her day at the Funfair... WOW!
  6. Lisa

    Lisa Member

    When I was very little I wanted to be a book writer so I wrote a story about aliens...I can't remember the story but I know my book had lots of pictures and a front and back cover and everything! :p I eagerly sent it off to the publishers, full of hopes of becoming famous, and then a few weeks later it was returned in the post (because it was an old address of a publishing place that no longer existed.) I remember feeling very upset as I thought the reason it had come back was because they didn't like my book! :(:(:(
  7. Will the Sec

    Will the Sec Active Member

    I've written a complete Quantum Leap novel.

    It was submitted as the book series was drawing to a close, and although it was well received, was not used as Carol Davies' "Mirrors Edge" had already been used to "tie up" the loose ends.

    The challenge is to come up with a brand new idea, sustainable over at least 8 novels.
  8. Steve

    Steve Active Member

    You could mget at least 8 novels from a pontins weekend (and ever serialise it, releasing one a year!!!).

    i wrote a book of poems, wise words and whatever the term is for those short texts that are designed to uplift and motivate people about two years ago.

    I then burnt it which is all part of a very long story but apparently it was pretty good (according to an english teacher freind) so maybe one day I will re-write it.
  9. Rapier

    Rapier Supporting Member

    I'm writing my Memoirs, but very slowly and have only managed One chapter. Here it is so far.

    I checked that the magazine on my MP5 was firmly in place and that the torch mounted in the foregrip was working. I looked at the team of men around me. We were in a railway arch lock-up, waiting for the go. The team looked a bit tense, waiting in the dark, dressed in dark coveralls, body armour and wearing the elite Blue Beret of the Metropolitan Police Firearms Unit.

    I looked at the man in charge and got the nod. I patted the guy in front of me on the shoulder and he swung the ram at the flimsy door that blocked the alley. The lock splintered and the door burst open. The beams from our torches lanced the blackness and we hurried to the next door, there was a door facing us and I covered it with my MP5 while one of the team pulled it open, using the torch beam I swept the small room and said, ”Clear”. The door to our right was padlocked, as we knew it would be, so the bolt cutters were used to cut the lock off and I could see a corridor going straight on with a small room, half way along it on the left. Another corridor ran at right angles immediately inside the door we had just opened, also on the left. As one man moved in to cover that danger area, I moved past and down the corridor, clearing the room on the left as I passed. Having checked round the corner at the end of the short corridor I turned and went back, passing the guy with the video camera, “It’s clear, move on”, I called and followed the team down the uncleared corridor. Some of the team peeled off to check a couple of small rooms on the right as we moved swiftly into the last room.

    There she was. Hooded and chained, kneeling on the floor, still wearing the ball-gown she had been abducted in. Clearing the room and finding no danger, I shouted, “Bring the cutters and Medics!” The chains were cut and the hood removed. The medics helped the woman to the bench against the back wall, as she sat there, looking pale and distraught, I recognised her as the actress Susannah Harker. “Cut!” shouted the director, “I’m happy with that, that’s a wrap!” We filed out of the dark and dismal railway arches, as I passed Owen, an ex Flying Squad officer who was the Technical Advisor, he said, ”I bet you enjoyed that, must have been just like old times”.

    He was right, I did and it was.

    Of the ‘Firearms Team’ present that night, I was the only one to have served in the Met Police Firearms Unit. The rest were just film extras, as now indeed was I. This was my first time ‘on set’. I had been given the name of an agency that specialised in providing ‘police officers’ for film and TV, by an ex student of mine, who was also retired from the force. Following a phone call to the agency, I had been offered a part as a member of a Firearms Team for an episode of the TV series ‘Waking the Dead’, which was filming the next week. So there I was, in Hammersmith, dressed to kill and once more sporting my Blue Beret. This would have amused the ex Chief Instructor at Lippitts Hill, for at least twice a day he would open his office window to scream at the top of his voice, “Hampshire, put your effing Beret on!” So, as the obedient officer that I was, twice a day, I would put it on. Then as his window closed I’d take it off again. Of all the SO19 Instructors, only about two looked any good in a beret, the rest of us looked like prats!

    Oh, and by the way Dwight, if you read this, you weren’t one of the two either!

    Whilst sitting around waiting for our time to go before the cameras, I was chatting to some of the other extras about my Police service and one of them suggested that I write a book, as some of my ex colleagues had done. Well four books (that I know of) have been written by ex SO19 girls and boys, but only one of them was any good! The author knows which one, as we have spoken about it.

    1972 was a momentous year for the Metropolitan Police. In April it got the best Commissioner it had ever had and in September, it got me. Well, one out of two’s not bad! I must have been better value for money though, as Sir Robert Mark couldn’t stand the pace and bailed out after 5 years, leaving in March 1977 and I stayed until 1999, when, against my wishes, my OCU Commander, having decided that my recovery from M.E. was taking too long, called me into his office at 5 Buckingham Gate and told me that I was to be retired on ill health grounds! To say it was a bolt from the blue would have not expressed my shock at the news. The ‘Job’, which I had served to the best of my ability and loved deeply, was casting me aside as though my efforts, whether operational or as a trainer, to make London a safer place meant nothing. Am I bitter? You bet! Still, the fact that the crime rate has climbed non-stop since I retired does seem to prove that I am being missed. Well it could be just a coincidence, I suppose, but the facts do seem to speak for themselves.

    It all started at 3pm (so my Mother says, I can’t remember) on Monday the 14th of May 1951. The upstairs front bedroom of 59 Samuel Road, Portsmouth was the place chosen for me to enter the world. An old terraced house, with an outside toilet and no bathroom, that was to be my home until moving to London in 1972. If you wanted hot water you put on the kettle. Heating was only in the living and dining rooms, and provided by electric fires, although in the early years I remember a coal fire heating the living room. The house is still there, although modernised by now, I hope. If you visit it you can see the spot on the wall where the Blue Plaque saying ‘David Alan Hampshire was born here’, will go when the council realise they have forgotten to put it up.

    I was the only son of Albert Charles and Rosina Florence Hampshire. They also had two daughters, Patricia and Joan. Pat was 12 years older than me and Joan 6 years. Dad had been the eldest of about 12 kids in Chatham, Kent and as soon as he was 14 he was marched down to the Royal Marines recruiting office by his father. He was just the age to join as a boy Bugler, but had to sit an entry test. Not actually wanting to join the Marines did not seem to matter in the least, so his only hope was to fail the written test. However his cunning plan was thwarted by the even more cunning plan of the recruiting officer. When Dad gave his paper to be marked the recruiting officer went through it with his own pencil and changed the answers to the correct ones. And so Albert Charles Hampshire became a Royal Marine. My Father never forgave his dad for this act. Having said that I think he enjoyed the next 25 years spent in the Corps as he kept signing back on. He left as a Colour Sergeant. His best friend was the Bugle Major and was planning to sign on again, which blocked his promotion and so Dad ceased to be a ‘Bootneck’ and joined the Admiralty Constabulary. A job he stayed in for 26 years, until retirement. Mum worked at various jobs throughout her working life, always trying to provide everything that her spoiled little brat of a son demanded. Thanks Mum. Living not too far from the sea made for a good childhood being able to cycle to the beach before school, back to the beach for the lunch break and then back again after school. I went through the education system without achieving anything much. I failed my eleven plus and so was split from most of my mates who passed it and went to the Grammar School. This was a bit of a surprise to me as I thought I had done ok and was as clever as they were. I ended up at Kingston Secondary School for Boys. This was such a good school that just after I left they knocked it down and built houses. I was always in the A stream but that wasn’t saying much.

    These were the good old days when you were caned if you spoke in class. My personal record of six cuts of the cane was in a Craft Lesson. We were given a lump of clay and told to model it into something. I made a passable Dolphin from mine and my mate Rob, sitting next to me, whispered that fact to me. I whispered my thanks at the wrong moment. Mr Bagley had heard our hushed tones and was looking for the culprit. He found me. “Hampshire, out the front”! He yelled. I meekly wandered out, and stood in front of him. He selected a suitable bamboo cane from his armoury, gave it a couple of practice slashes and seemingly satisfied with it’s performance waited for me to hold out my hand. As you need your right hand for writing you always offered the left for punishment. The pain caused by a bamboo cane being whacked across your outstretched fingers is quite impressive and can only be worsened if the aim is off and the thumb is hit as well! On this occasion my luck was in, as was the eye of Mr. Bagley. My luck did not last. Returning to my seat and not thinking kind thoughts, I gratefully stuck my fingers into the cold clay. Rob again whispered to me, this time about Mr. Bagley’s lack of a father. I made the mistake of looking at Rob to reply just as the fatherless one located the sound and found me again. “You, boy, out the front!” Not wanting another whack across the left hand, this time I stood with my right arm out with the palm up. His aim was not as good, the cane flashed down and caught me across the fingers and the joint of my thumb. That really hurt. Still I had learned my lesson. I would not talk to Rob when I sat back down. I didn’t need to. I sat down, again stuffing my throbbing hand into the cold clay to ease the pain. Rob had had enough of this. He rolled a lump of clay into a ball and as the teacher stood with his back to us writing on the board, Rob hurled the lump of clay at his head. It was a very good shot and smacked into the back of his head with a satisfying splat. He spun round looking for revenge and found the whole class staring down, engrossed in their work. Now you’d think that a teacher would get a thrill having inspired 30 young men to work hard trying to turn a lump of clay into a work of art. But no. Something seemed to have upset him. “Hampshire, get out here now!” He screamed. Well it wasn’t me, so I could get some sense of victory over him blaming an innocent man. This fact did not help much when he decided that the punishment should be 4 cuts. I hand fingers like bananas for a couple of days and did not want to play in goal down the ‘rec’ in the evenings for at least a week.

    There were two teachers that I was never caned by; and those two were the ones I feared the most. Mr Crane and Mr Kirkland the Headmaster. Mr Crane was the RI teacher and was about 6’ 8” or 9” tall and when he caned you it was from a very great height. There was another danger too. Mr. Crane would cane you in the space between his desk and the classroom door. He would take his arm up above his head and then flick his wrist up and back down as he whipped the cane down. He never missed your thumb, ever. And he never missed the strip light that hung from the ceiling on chains. He always broke the neon tubes and so not only were you caned, but hit on the head by falling glass. He also made you sweep up the glass. Mr Kirkland was the person you were sent to if the teacher thought you needed severe punishment. Smoking in the toilets or fighting in the playground warranted his attention.

    So did stealing. One of the fourth years, whose name I can’t remember, was caught stealing from the Staff room. The whole school was called to assembly and the miscreant called onto the stage. His crime was read out to everyone and he was given the choice. Have the police called or six cuts of the cane from the Headmaster. I would have picked the police. He chose the cane. You were only ever caned on the hands in my school and so we all had a good view.

    The Head took off his jacket and selected one of his sturdiest canes. He stood and gave us all a lecture about right and wrong. Then he stood in front of the boy, who was about 6’1” and taller than the Head by 2 or 3 inches. I will never forget the sound the cane made as it whipped through the air and connected with the outstretched fingers of the thief. Mr Kirkland could have caned for England. His skill, accuracy and power were awesome to behold. One stroke caused the boy, who was thickset as well as tall, fall onto his knees in agony. The Head waited for him to recover and hold out the other hand. By the fourth stroke the boy was in tears and begging for mercy, he fell to the floor and wouldn’t get up. Mr Kirkland struck the cane across the boy’s buttocks and ordered him to stand and take the punishment a thief deserved. He got to his feet and took the last two cuts.

    It may not have stopped that boy stealing in future, who knows? But it made me believe in right and wrong, and that wrong-doing should be punished. It is not the fault of society, a deprived childhood or any other excuse given by liberals. It is the free choice of the individual. The soft approach to criminals, of any age, is why violent crime is at the highest it has been in modern times. Prison should be to punish, not to rehabilitate.

    Sport was my main interest in school. I represented the school in, athletics, football, cricket, basketball, swimming, volleyball and tennis. These being the only sports my school competed in. I was a member of Portsmouth Athletic Club and more Basketball Clubs than I can recall. I did sprint training twice a week and raced on Saturdays. Played basketball every other spare night and football on Sunday mornings. Instead of going to metal work on a Wednesday afternoon, I would go with the PE teacher and help with the younger kids games afternoon, or go over the road to the girls’ school and play tennis. During the summer holidays we went on sailing and kayaking courses in Langstone harbour.

    We had a great bloke as our PE Teacher who had been a Professional Footballer. He favoured the gym shoe as his weapon of choice and one day he slippered a fourth year for vandalising some gym equipment. The wimp immediately ran home to get his dad. The dad arrived just as my class were queuing for our PE lesson. He was a foul- mouthed yob and advanced on the PE teacher, pushing him in the chest. He only did that once. The teacher punched the yob in the face with amazing speed and accuracy. The yob was knocked flat on his ****, blood pouring from an obviously broken nose. We looked at him with renewed respect from then on.

    I left school at sixteen with a couple of worthless CSE certificates in English and History. The only subjects I bothered to take. I will always feel sorry for Mr Cook who tried to teach me maths. He tried to explain things to me in every way possible but not in anyway I ever understood. He got quite upset one day ,whilst marking my homework, “wrong, wrong, wrong” he said going down the page. This was a bit of a shock to me. “It’s not my fault,” I told him. “Well whose fault is it then?” he shouted. “Terry’s, its his homework I copied.” Terry had always been top in maths, what a let down. Mr Cook caned like a girl!

    My first job was working a printing press. An ancient Heidelberg Platen. I was shown how to keep the ink topped up and how to clean it. How to change the type. Then had to stand over the thing, while it printed leaflets and other such important documents. During the second week I was watching the Heidelberg clatter away printing a load of tickets which were to be individually numbered. The counter that did the numbering had a habit of sticking and had to be watched constantly. Well it was a hot day, the machine clunking away sent me into a trance, and I watched contentedly as the wretched thing printed about three hundred tickets with the same number. At the end of the week the owner said that he didn’t think my heart was in printing. He was very nice about sacking me and I must say it was with some relief that I left for the weekend without having to return on the Monday.

    It was about now that I became mobile for the first time. A friend of my sisters had moved into a pub and I was asked if I could go and help move some of the rubbish out of the storerooms. Underneath a pile of beer crates there was an old Lambretta LD150 scooter. I was given it as payment for my hard work. Now I had no licence, tax or insurance but that didn’t seen too important. So with a bit of a clean and a new spark plug, I taught myself how to ride it. I could now go to training and such without cycling or catching a bus. One evening, on my way back from athletics at Alexander Park, I was happily riding along Fratton Road when a car in front indicated his intention to turn right. Now I knew that the road he was approaching was a No Entry, so I assumed that he meant the next road along. He didn’t, but on seeing the sign he stopped dead. I, unfortunately didn’t. I smashed right into the back of his Morris Minor. I went over the handle bars, over his roof and forward rolled over the bonnet and landed on my feet! The momentum caused me to run to stay on my feet. As I realised that I still had no licence, insurance or road tax, I also realised that there was no way to trace the scooter to me. And as the momentum of the crash had caused me to run, it seemed a shame to waste it. So I kept with the running theme and ran off! Fortunately my sports kit was in a bag over my shoulder, so nothing of mine was left behind. When I arrived at my girlfriend Pauline’s house, she asked where my scooter was. I explained that I had never ‘owned’ a scooter, ever! I did buy a replacement scooter a month or so later. A nice Vespa SS 220cc Hurricane. And I got a licence and tax and insurance.

    I drifted from job to job working in various clothing shops and Naval Tailors of which Portsmouth had loads. Mike George was the best. He decided that he would pay for my driving lessons and add me to his travelling staff. Our job was to load a van with suitable clothing, drive into the surrounding Naval Bases, park by the ships, and sell the latest trendy gear to the Matelots. Being seventeen and with long hair and about 30 years younger than all of the Naval Tailors that plied for trade in the Dockyard, I was indeed trendy.

    I had had six driving lessons when my test date came through. I had not even been backwards so was not ready for it. Having learned in a Ford Anglia, imagine the shock, when on the morning of my test a Ford Cortina turned up, late! I just had time to drive it to the test centre. When the examiner took me to the car to start the test, I was horrified to see someone had parked right in front of the Cortina. We both sat there in silence for a while before I asked the examiner where reverse was. Having got going, I was doing alright until the dreaded ‘ reversing round a corner’ part of the test arrived. Something I had never attempted before. I put the car where I thought it should start and commenced to back round the corner. Calamity struck. I mounted the kerb with the back wheel. I stopped and tried again and still went up the kerb. On the third attempt I got round OK. When we got back to the test centre I was amazed to be told, “Congratulations, you’ve passed.” He gave me pass certificate, shook my hand and left. I then did what every new driver does. Got out and tore up my ‘L’ plates.

    The next step was to take the car to the Eastern Road, which was derestricted. In those days that meant no speed limit. That poor Cortina had probably never been at 100 miles per hour before, but it did that day. Wheels meant freedom and the use of a firms 13cwt Bedford van. My first car was an Austin Mini with a number plate I should have kept 180DOT.

    This little car was to carry me and my surfboards to West or East Wittering; whichever had the best Surf, most weekends. Together with schoolmates John, Mick and Merv, I spent the weekends in the water and in all weathers. One Boxing Day we all drove to Wittering to catch some waves. It was snowing and bitterly cold. The car park at East Wittering had a Toilet Block with an outside tap and we were so cold when we emerged from the sea that we took turns to lie under the cold tap to warm up! Happy days. I bimbled from job to job, mostly in shops just to earn petrol money to go surfing. Wales, Cornwall, North Devon were all subjected to my surfing attentions.

    During a period of un employment, which quite suited me, but not poor old Mum and Dad, who kept having to give me money for petrol, Dad said something that changed my life. No not “Get Out!” He suggested that I got a ‘proper’ job. I jokingly said, “What like you. Join the Marines or the Police?” And then he said it. The phrase that changed my life forever, “You’d never get in.” Well that was it. I never, ever thought about doing anything remotely responsible, but the gauntlet had been thrown down. And I just had to pick it up. Nice one Dad, I’m certain to this day that he knew what my reaction would be. And I only wish he was still alive so that I could thank him.

    So application forms were completed and sent off. One to the Royal Marines and one to the Admiralty Constabulary. I did consider the Portsmouth City Police, but they were becoming the Hampshire Constabulary at the time and I did not want to posted anywhere but Portsmouth. So the Dockyard Police, as the Admiralty Constabulary was known to all Pompey residents. Fortunately the Police interview came through before the Royal Marines letter did. This was just as well as I was too much of a softy to have passed the course.
    Last edited: Nov 14, 2005
  10. Rapier

    Rapier Supporting Member

    The rest of the chapter,

    The Admiralty Constabulary duly accepted me just as they changed into the Ministry of Defence Police. I was now PC 2282S (S for Southern Area) and after passing through training school was posted to Portsmouth Naval Base. In the days when we still had a Navy.

    Nothing much happened during my next 15 months, with the exception of having to be firearm trained. This consisted of going to a range for a day, being shown how to load and fire a Browning 9mm. SLP at the end of the day we had to hit a target a few times to be considered competent. This I achieved without much trouble and so was now authorised to carry a pistol on duty when required. Frightening really. This obviously planted a seed of interest in firearms which would later grow into my fulltime occupation.

    My days and nights (isn’t shift work great? Well, no it isn’t actually!) were spent standing on various of the Dockyard gates and checking the ID’s and passes of all entering. We also searched people and vehicles, especially when leaving to see what MOD property was trying to find a new home. Any real crimes we came across, had to be handled by the CID, who would take it over. Often it would be my old Dad who’d turn up as the duty Detective/ SOCO.

    One dark and stormy November night I was posted to stand on a jetty next to the Royal Yacht. It was HRH Princess Anne’s 21st birthday party, various members of Royalty and assorted entourage arrived by car and climbed the gangway onto the ship. I stood in the pouring rain, completely wet through and freezing. After some four hours, the duty sergeant deigned to visit me. I asked if I was going to get a break but it appeared that I had been forgotten. He sat in his nice warm van and decided that it would be OK for me to walk back to our canteen and have a thirty minute break. No one would replace me, so my job must have been really important! I had no sooner taken by raincoat off when the phone rang. I was to get back on post immediately, some press photographers had been caught by some Royal Marines, climbing onto my jetty from a rowing boat! Typical! The only exciting thing to happen and I had to miss it. I spent the rest of my eight hour shift back out in the rain. I was to meet up with HRH later in my career.

    Several reasonable arrests gave me a taste of what ‘proper’ policing was really about and so I decided to give it a try. As the Hampshire Constabulary was now in existence and I didn’t fancy being posted to some boring little place, I decided to go for the bright lights of London. I attended Paddington recruiting centre where I took the written tests and medical. What standing naked in front of three doctors and then being required to turn round and bend over, tells anyone about medical health is one of life’s unanswered mysteries. Perhaps they just make you do that for a joke? Anyway I passed both and was given a joining date of 18 September 1972. I duly resigned from the MOD Police and left in July. In between handing in one warrant card and getting a new one, I had an encounter with the Hampshire Constabulary that made me glad I hadn’t joined them.

    One of my duties in the MOD Police was to police at the Farnborough Air Show. There I chatted up one of the girls working on a display stand and started to see her most nights after work. When the show ended, I discovered that she lived in Horsham, which was about 60 miles from Portsmouth! Now I still had use of a car, which after much coercion I had persuaded Dad to buy off me. As I was off to London I decided a motorbike would be a better bet, so I talked Dad into buying me a bike and I would give him my car.

    One cold September night I left Janice’s house in Horsham at about midnight for the drive back to Portsmouth. After driving for some time I noticed that I was struggling to stay awake. I turned the heater off, opened the windows and carried on. I was still struggling to stay awake so I pulled into a pub car park. I got into the back, wrapped myself up in my coat and went to sleep for an hour. When I awoke it was about 3 in the morning, so I set off again. After a few yards I remembered my seatbelt. All went well until I was travelling down the Eastern Road. This is a dual carriageway and I was the only car in sight. Disaster struck. I nodded off for a brief second. When I looked back up I was heading straight at a lamppost, at about 60mph. I tried to swerve but the front wheels had gone either side of the traffic island. The car hit the lamppost and a keep left sign and went over it. This caused the car to spin end over end. I just covered my head with my arms and closed my eyes. After three or four spins the car eventually came to rest on it’s roof in the middle of the road, blocking the two middle lanes. I was hanging upside down from my seatbelt. The roof had been crushed, forcing me sideways in the seat. I had some minor cuts and glass embedded in my hands but was otherwise unscathed.

    Now in those days I believed everything I saw on telly and new that within seconds the car would burst into flames. I now know that that rarely happens, but I was young. I needed to get out quick so just undid the seatbelt. Bearing in mind I was upside down and twisted sideways that was not the best move. I fell heavily onto my shoulder and dislocated it! Having crawled from the wreck I thought I should phone for help, but on seeing where the car had finished up, I decided I had better stay nearby and flag down any approaching traffic. So I sat on the kerb for 20 minutes or so until the rescue services turned up. The fire crews were amazed that I had walked from the wreck so unharmed. I was placed into the Ambulance and a Hampshire police officer got in too. He asked me the usual questions and I explained I was joining the Met Police in two weeks time. When he asked me what had caused the accident I said, “Well, I could tell you how I swerved to avoid a pedestrian who ran across the road, but in truth I just nodded off!” Mistake to think he would be understanding. No one was hurt, except me. No cars had been damaged, except mine and no property was damaged that wouldn’t be paid for by my insurance. But no. He was a git. “Oh! In that case I shall have to report you for careless driving” “You already know the caution.” He smiled! “You c***! “ I said. “I’d best put, ‘No Reply’ then.” He said. So much for helping your colleagues. Still, having a dislocated shoulder reset without anaesthetic soon took my mind off it!

    Last edited: Nov 14, 2005
  11. yonhee

    yonhee Active Member

    Yup I did two last year in english. One was like a monologue thingy and the other was the first chapter of a book. And I think someone died in both of them...
  12. HBB

    HBB Active Member

    For English GCSE I had to write a story about Metamorphosis.. I died too! lol
  13. impycornet

    impycornet Member

    :oops: :oops:
  14. rutty

    rutty Active Member

    I started a "novel" once in a Terry Pratchett stylee about some magician called Madge. It was hopelessly rubbish and I gave up.

    I also wrote a few stories in English about a Barbarian warrior called Pthagge who had a big axe. He was a bit emotionally unstable and looked very much like Arnie did in Conan the Barbarian.

    Original ideas are not really my thing, though I do enjoy writing things down. I do it in fits and starts but that's why I started blogging.
  15. Ruthless

    Ruthless Member

    I've considered writing a book about all the goings on in banding but I think those outside would think it far to far fetched ever to believe it!!!
  16. Big Twigge

    Big Twigge Active Member

    I didn't mean that kind of adult book!!
  17. Rapier

    Rapier Supporting Member

    No one bother to read my effort then? :(
  18. HBB

    HBB Active Member

    I read it Rapier (don't know your real name!!)... Very Informative!!

    We should have a new catagory for the 3 year awards! - Best Book! :D
  19. rutty

    rutty Active Member

    Too many words! Plus, your choice of font wasn't too easy to read. And I have a short attention span ;)
  20. yonhee

    yonhee Active Member

    I read it, it was very good I like the bit where he threw clay at the teacher Im finding out when we next do clay stuff in art :biggrin:

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