The Special Constable's Blog

Mary Jane, Wacky Backy, Weed, Skunk...

As I talk to another unwitting motorist (it's not that I don't like them, there are just a lot of them), the wind blows a thick sweet smell up my nostrils. Like a blood hound I start focusing on the thick smell and try to gauge where it's coming from. As I walked away the motorist speeds off thinking it's their lucky day. A teenage lad with short spiky hair was leaning against the closed shutter of a shop. His eyes were sullen, heavy with chemicals and his right hand moved from his side up to his mouth. As I approached, the smell was intoxicating and yet slightly perfumed. With about a meter to go his chin raised and he looked at me. There was no emotion in his eyes. I didn't exist in his world and nor did the presence of a police officer in full uniform. He again lifted the spliff to take another long drag. Perhaps this was his final last gasp before reality set in. My hand met his half way and took the burning Rizla rolled tobacco mix away and stubbed out the burning embers. He said nothing. My words of warning were bouncing off his forehead. He wasn't listening. I asked him if he had any more on him and he denied it. Section 23 of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 gave me a power to search him for drugs based on reasonable grounds to suspect that he had some on him. My suspicions were well founded. From his pocket I produced a small cling-film wrapped bundle of herbal cannabis. Having been lied to in an attempt to throw me off the scent I could have been aggressive but this was not an approach that was necessary for this troubled teenager. A few radio checks later confirms he is who he says he is. He has a small blip in his past for drink driving but no cannabis history. A formal warning was issued, cannabis confiscated and the threat of calling his parents made...

One of my friends used to smoke vast quantities of high powered cannabis. He became very introverted, paranoid and occasionally hallucinated. The dependency on the drug was evident when he couldn't get out of bed in the morning without a spliff. From cigarettes to alcohol to weed to cocaine to ecstasy. He is still out there, earning a large city bonus and occasionally sucking it up is nose. I think he has calmed down now ever since it seemed to take over his life. I hope he leaves his dependency, his need for experimentation, for a quick high and easy social situations behind. It has been so long since I have seen him without drugs I wonder what he would be like.

The world is turning into one big chemically enhanced haze, from sports and social situations to drug barons and the political elite. Welcome to the purple haze.

My nickname around the office (during my day job) is now 'Sarg'. A loving nickname perhaps or a dark reminder of my out of hours role. I don't mind being called it, however it can get embarrassing when introduced to someone. I have been announced as "this is....Sarg" because they don't say my name enough to remember it. The puzzled look on the persons face is amusing as you can see them trying to unravel the mistake.
 
Anyway I wasn't intending to talk about that. What I was going to say was about idle conversations in the office about my policing. The stories are wide and varied. Some humorous, some exciting but many non-descript. It has become a sort of ritual to come in Monday morning and get asked "How was your weekend? Anything happen on the beat?". I used to answer these questions with interest but these days can't be bothered to go into the details. The story ends up as :
 
Went to a pub fight.
Man hit in face. Another man nicked.
4 Hours of paperwork
Bed
 
Occasionally you get a slightly more interesting variation such as a woman was arrested (for assaulting a man) or the paperwork only took 2 hours.. People like a good story so anything with violence, sex or drugs goes down a storm. I'm a walking tabloid....help

I have just finished a superb biography of Private Johnson Beharry who served a tour in Iraq whilst in the British army during 2004. He has a hard life growing in up Grenada with very little in the way of material pleasures. His family is somewhat broken with a drunk and abusive father made worse by poverty. Luckily he has a loving extended family to pull him through. One of the memorable stories from the book is where he is forced to live with his extended family and made to work to earn his keep. His doesn't have enough money to afford flip-flops and hence goes barefoot. The long walks and manual labour take his toll and he bunks school to get a job. He doesn't ask for money in return for his work, just a pair of flip-flops so he can walk his daily journey quicker, brushes the leaves without having to pick thorns out of his feet. He sets his mind to what he enjoys "making things" and becomes a mechanic\painter and decorator. As he starts making something of himself, others he grew up with on the island become jealous of his wealth that he works hard for. After he is confronted by an old acquaintance with a knife he successfully defends himself but it ultimately pushes him away from the island to find his own path in life. He ends up staying with his auntie Irene near Heathrow, England where he surcomes to the taste of Rum. As he feels his life slipping away he makes a snap decision and walks into an army recruiting office. Johnson Beharry then becomes a driver of a Warrior armoured fighting vehicle which carries Infantry dismounts. It was always his dream to be a driver and he finally gets his wish. "Lucky Beharry" he certainly was. After a few tours he ends up in Iraq in 2004 where his tales of heroism begin. I will leave those for you to read. They certainly show that he displays courage above and beyond the call of duty, valour under fire and a remarkable sense of brotherhood. His final mission in Iraq brings him home severely wounded. As he recovers he finds out that the Victoria Cross (V.C.) has been awarded to him. The V.C. is the highest medal of honour in the British Army. A true tale of one mans search for a meaningful life. One that he conquers with the highest honour.

A true hero.