I say, have I ever told
you the story of my ignominious arrest?
It’s a terrific wheeze, do
let me tell.
I was quite the bold
fellow about town in my youth, I don’t mind telling you.
In the year of our Lord,
Two Thousand and Two, in London’s West End, I was arrested – for the second
time, mark you.
(You may already know the
story of the first time.)
Having attended a
demonstration in support of oppressed peoples, I repaired to a local hostelry
with friends and fellow protestors.
After consuming a few
pints of ale, with rumbling stomachs, we left in search of nourishment.
On passing one
particularly salubrious establishment, Edmund decided to enter, whereupon he
promptly rolled onto the floor and lay still, in a delicious physical satire of
the opulent surroundings.
“Cripes, I’m
famished. Where can one obtain a decent
standard of refreshment in this locality”, cried Edmund, revelling in his tipsy
state.
Hilarity ensued.
Having (eventually) been
ushered out of this establishment, we continued on in the hope of a more appropriately
modest hostelry for our victuals. On
seeing an abandoned shopping trolley in the street, Edmund cajoled me into
jumping on this wire-frame chariot for a ride, piloted by the inebriated fool
himself.
At a busy street corner, I
abandoned my urban wheelbarrow, for fear of being Barrymored by a lurking BMW;
thankfully my presence of mind was more present than Edmund’s fuzzy-brained
efforts, he having tipped me out of the trolley in a sudden jerking of the
handles.
At this juncture, two
officers of the crown appeared as if from nowhere, intent on creating havoc and
thwarting our youthful hi-jinks.
These antagonistic,
anti-social, and quite unnecessarily rude interlopers made themselves no
friends with their ugly attitude (“I say, what a pair of torn-faced cunts”,
quoth Edmund).
However, ever the
peacemaker, I endeavoured to return the trolley from whence it had been
purloined, as was the insistence of HM’s finest.
As I carried out this task
(much to the chagrin of my belligerent companions), one of the officers
accosted me.
“Do you want to get
arrested?” she barked, in a tone that could only be described as hostile. I politely enquired as to what might
necessitate my being remanded in custody, and although I cannot quite recall
the exact response, it contained the words “drunk” and “disorderly”.
I am not often lost for
words, Dear Reader, but surveying the scene, I could not bring myself to
dignify this aggressive and frankly ludicrous rhetorical question with a
riposte.
Me? Arrested?
Why I, in attempting to
placate these brutes, should suffer the indignity of being attacked in such a
manner was utterly perplexing.
Eventually, the shouting
subsided. Perhaps in recognition of our
superior numbers, and shamed by their quite shocking lack of manners, the
obtruders relented.
Pride had been maintained,
it seemed, as neither side had seen fit to back down.
In a jocular fashion, I
remarked to one of my associates, quite innocently quoting one of these young
“rappers”, who in those days frequented the town:
“We come in peace, fuck
the police.”
At this point the
hitherto-retreating officers took all leave of their remaining senses, and
charged at me, brandishing handcuffs.
The ruffians manhandled and hounded me until they had me subdued, up
against the window of a restaurant (Pizza Hut, if memory serves).
Not satisfied with this
vicious assault, the senior of the two braggards hurled insults, snarling some
errant nonsense about his not being my sibling.
In the ensuing melee,
Edmund threatened to have the officers flogged, and I am ashamed to say that
some of my cohorts did indeed stoop to the level of enjoining my assailants in
coarse, insulting language.
Realising that any attempt
to reason with the beasts was quite useless, I submitted, reluctantly, in as
dignified a manner as the quite horrid situation allowed.
At the police station, the
desk sergeant (an arrogant, superior sort to whom I took an instant dislike)
regarded me as one would a piece of chewing gum stuck to the sole of one’s
shoe. I am sorry to report that his
brusque tone and condescending attitude displayed the same distinct lack of
manners shown by his underlings.
If this is the state of HM
Finest, I thought, let us “police” ourselves and have nothing more to do with
these hooligans!
Having languished in
Charing Cross Police Station for several hours, I was ultimately released, and
witnessing the sight of my friends waiting to greet me caused my heart to swell
with pride and gratitude.
Edmund, however, showed
little remorse for his part in the whole ghastly episode, remarking:
“I say, old boy, did they
give you what for? Slippy fuckers,
those stairs!”
“You do these officers a
disservice, Sir”, I said loudly, bowing deeply toward the station door, “for
these gentlemen were most gracious hosts, offering refreshment in the form of
water from a polystyrene cup, as well as a bench on which to retire and a
bucket should I have needed to expel any fluids. I shall not stand idly by and hear you denigrate these fine
public servants, you devilish cad.”
For you see, Dear Reader,
the greatest victory is in maintaining one’s dignity in the face of scurrilous
malfeasance.
Also, my cousin, who’s a
QC, took them to fucking cleaners, and I got compensation.
Toodle Pip.
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