fallen was the Sergeant, flailing like a uniformed tortoise in the broken glass as he tried to arise from the chaos.
Realising that to knock on the window would be counterproductive and embarrassing for both of us I returned to the front door, where after a few minutes he appeared, straightened his hat, bade me good evening and got into the waiting car. The matter remained a secret for several minutes – such a sight was too unusual to keep quiet about to the rest of the block – but the Sergeant was much-liked and I don’t think he ever learned what his open curtains had revealed to the shift.
Newport also had a small collection of tramps, most of whom kept a low profile, apart from one who would buttonhole you at inconvenient moments and talk loudly about very little,perhaps thinking that by befriending you he would be less liable to arrest next time he was badly drunk. He once gave me a lecture on the evils of drink (a bit rich coming from him) but he explained that I would do well to avoid whisky and rum as they were ‘dark drink’, and it was ‘the dark stuff that does the damage.’
That, he explained, was why he drank ‘clear’ alcohol, as it wouldn’t hurt you at all.
‘Look, this is the best stuff of all, no harm to me from this,’ he enthused, and to my amazement he pulled a bottle of surgical spirit from inside his coat, took a hefty swig from it and staggered on his way.
I stuck with beer, and then only in moderation.
Part of my University degree had involved the study of dialectology, and the block at Newport was a wonderful mixture in this respect. We had people from all over the United Kingdom, which was to cause bewilderment to a member of the public one day when he asked a foot patrol at the far end of the town for directions to the Police Station. The Officer replied in a strong Glaswegian accent, pointing him in the right direction. Becoming disorientated a few minutes later he approached a second foot patrol who replied to him in a rich Lancashire voice. On arrival at the Police Station he received a cheery ‘Wotcha Guv’nor’ from Paul Lenehan, our resident cockney. The gent felt he had done the length of the country rather than just the town.
Paul was a very lively, outgoing ex-army man, and was often given the job of front desk cover. He would deal politely andtolerantly with the numerous people who came in each day. The enquiries would cover the usual wide range from reporting property lost or found, to giving advice on domestic disputes, crime prevention and routine document productions. It was difficult to fall out with Paul, the only problem being that he was naturally prone to talking quite fast, and when he got excited he spoke so quickly that with his strong ‘sarf east’ accent he became almost impossible to understand.
He very rarely lost his temper with anyone, but a busy day at the front desk could try anyone’s patience, and Paul reached breaking point with a youth who marched in one day and demanded to visit his brother in the cells. Paul had several other people in the queue to deal with so politely directed the lad to take a seat and wait his turn. This advice needed to be repeated progressively more firmly as the youth continued to demand to be dealt with, and eventually became quite threatening, which is really not a sensible thing to do in a Police station. As Paul finished dealing with one member of the public, the lad shoved his face in front of Paul’s and shouted, ‘Am I going to see my brother now or what?!’
Paul reached out and grabbed the youth by his clothing, and face to face replied to him,‘Yeah – right now!’ before hoisting him clean over the counter to deposit him in a heap on his own side. He handcuffed the now ranting, swearing youth as he properly cautioned him and told him he was under arrest for disorderly conduct in a Police station. He dragged his new prisoner down to the cell passage, and returned a couple of minutes later,
Realising that to knock on the window would be counterproductive and embarrassing for both of us I returned to the front door, where after a few minutes he appeared, straightened his hat, bade me good evening and got into the waiting car. The matter remained a secret for several minutes – such a sight was too unusual to keep quiet about to the rest of the block – but the Sergeant was much-liked and I don’t think he ever learned what his open curtains had revealed to the shift.
Newport also had a small collection of tramps, most of whom kept a low profile, apart from one who would buttonhole you at inconvenient moments and talk loudly about very little,perhaps thinking that by befriending you he would be less liable to arrest next time he was badly drunk. He once gave me a lecture on the evils of drink (a bit rich coming from him) but he explained that I would do well to avoid whisky and rum as they were ‘dark drink’, and it was ‘the dark stuff that does the damage.’
That, he explained, was why he drank ‘clear’ alcohol, as it wouldn’t hurt you at all.
‘Look, this is the best stuff of all, no harm to me from this,’ he enthused, and to my amazement he pulled a bottle of surgical spirit from inside his coat, took a hefty swig from it and staggered on his way.
I stuck with beer, and then only in moderation.
Part of my University degree had involved the study of dialectology, and the block at Newport was a wonderful mixture in this respect. We had people from all over the United Kingdom, which was to cause bewilderment to a member of the public one day when he asked a foot patrol at the far end of the town for directions to the Police Station. The Officer replied in a strong Glaswegian accent, pointing him in the right direction. Becoming disorientated a few minutes later he approached a second foot patrol who replied to him in a rich Lancashire voice. On arrival at the Police Station he received a cheery ‘Wotcha Guv’nor’ from Paul Lenehan, our resident cockney. The gent felt he had done the length of the country rather than just the town.
Paul was a very lively, outgoing ex-army man, and was often given the job of front desk cover. He would deal politely andtolerantly with the numerous people who came in each day. The enquiries would cover the usual wide range from reporting property lost or found, to giving advice on domestic disputes, crime prevention and routine document productions. It was difficult to fall out with Paul, the only problem being that he was naturally prone to talking quite fast, and when he got excited he spoke so quickly that with his strong ‘sarf east’ accent he became almost impossible to understand.
He very rarely lost his temper with anyone, but a busy day at the front desk could try anyone’s patience, and Paul reached breaking point with a youth who marched in one day and demanded to visit his brother in the cells. Paul had several other people in the queue to deal with so politely directed the lad to take a seat and wait his turn. This advice needed to be repeated progressively more firmly as the youth continued to demand to be dealt with, and eventually became quite threatening, which is really not a sensible thing to do in a Police station. As Paul finished dealing with one member of the public, the lad shoved his face in front of Paul’s and shouted, ‘Am I going to see my brother now or what?!’
Paul reached out and grabbed the youth by his clothing, and face to face replied to him,‘Yeah – right now!’ before hoisting him clean over the counter to deposit him in a heap on his own side. He handcuffed the now ranting, swearing youth as he properly cautioned him and told him he was under arrest for disorderly conduct in a Police station. He dragged his new prisoner down to the cell passage, and returned a couple of minutes later,
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