It's been 10 weeks since my final shift as a Police Doctor.
I was taking a break from some computer work and as the evening brightened I decided to walk the 10 minutes to the nearby fair.
It was 6pm on an increasingly warm Friday evening. The Hoppings is advertised as the largest in Europe and in writing this down I had to remind myself of how it got its unusual name.
There are a number of hypotheses. Perhaps it was that the travellers wore old sack-like tops and pants, or it was a dance of merry old England, or clothing infested with fleas that make people hop about itching from the bites.
I walked around for half an hour. But with nobody between my legs on the log flume, and nobody pinned to the wall with me on the Rotor, or rolling their eyes with me at the possibility of an unlikely win in the amusement arcade, or joining me in rueing the absence of the horseracing machine, I soon made my way back.
I crossed a well trodden dog-ear diagonal back across the moor.
But I was complacent.
I was thinking of other stuff.
I barely noticed someone in an old sack-like top and pants jumping and hopping in my peripheral vision, like a dance from Merrie Olde England. By the time I had lifted my head, my attention was drawn to someone in dirty sweats who was perhaps was going to ask me the way to the fair or the hour of day or something. If I realised there was a fair amount of gurgle at the bottom of this chest, then perhaps I briefly wondered how I might help. But this was all time wasted. The spit rose in his chest and delivered itself with laser accuracy to my left eye, with plenty left over for my cheek and chin. It was an admirable level of precision for someone struggling to walk in a straight line. A tall boy-man of 17, both aggressive and aggressively ginger had decided to reward my casual stroll with what is traditionally known as a large gob.
He then invited me for a fight in the traditional way by drawing his arms behind his shoulders, as though pushing his tits out.
Goading. Inviting. Requesting.
But his physique rather looked like that of wiry boxer stroke fighting machine.
I weighed up his chances as I stood my ground.
There were two of them (did I mention that?). I more than had then covered in terms of 'years on the planet' but I decided that wasn't a great parameter to inform my decision.
His friend goaded me repeatedly and called me a 'little shit'. Which was as odd as it was mildly amusing because I was a foot taller than him, and I wasn't wearing my heels. It was clearly a phrase with which he was decidedly familiar. And not least.... I am actually not a little shit. Many things I am, but a little shit is very much not one of them. And you can quote me on that.
So his observation was, let's say, disappointing...but which I mean not one I could take to the bank. Not a blog cue, let's leave it at that.
I considered a free punch. It's not often you get one, is it? But I realised that the only moves I really knew were from The Karate Kid. I'd already used 'Wax Off' to get the spit off my face and I felt uncertain whether 'The Crane' would really deliver when I needed it to.
I stood my ground for a while, but I quickly bored of their act.
A little push on my left shoulder tried vainly to draw me into a duel.
Not that he retreated and not that he tired or retired. Far from it. He was getting closer. But curiously I felt 'inner ginger' didn't seem to really "want" to start a fight. He wanted me to start it. You'd never guess it but I just felt his heart wasn't in it.
Normally I'd happily oblige but, if he wasn't truly up for it, why should I make the effort to meet him halfway?
When I do fight, it would be for a purpose.
I couldn't think of one.
Put it down to a failure of imagination.
I decided to walk away, although a Kenny Rogers song, or two, gnawed at my soul.
And neither was 'Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town'.
He careered from side to side as he made his way towards the fair.
Should I report him? Should I go home? If I complain, isn't that just causing everybody an awful lot of work for very little purpose?
What exactly are you supposed to do? Just wash and go?
While I thought about it for a couple of minutes, I talked to 2 girls who'd seen the whole thing.
I even asked to borrow their mobile phone as I thought of reporting to the police. But they didn't seem to notice that I'd asked.
They did point out that the pair, clearly drunk and likely intoxicated on legal highs, started approaching a couple of children. I looked up and saw him fist pump a small child in front of his parents/guardians who might well have thought of him as an amiable drunk.
And if the parents felt differently, they wouldn't have given Kenny Rogers a second thought.
But they were not amiable drunks.
I decided to go home. Take it on the chin. Walk away.
I got 4 yards.
Maybe 5 in the direction of home.
Each step felt a little muddier, a little slower, a little deeper, a little worse. More wrong.
I turned.
I decided to finish him.
Two minutes buys you a lot of strategy.
The next 5 yards were easier. I was getting greener.
The task in play was to follow him and get him arrested.
I walked past the girls I'd just left and told them of my new plan.
'Good luck', they wished.
OK ...where, I thought, are Dick, Ann, George and Timmy the dog? No matter.
I followed, keeping a safe-ish distance. I was pretty confident I could do that. I never missed an episode of The Equalizer.
As they waited to cross the main road, I ducked behind a tree. I was pretty confident I could do that too. I never missed an episode of Secret Squirrel....or Inch High Private Eye.
They met up with 8 equally uncouth friends, at least one of whom had a tattoo so I knew I had the right people.
If I crossed the main road before them I could snitch to the cops whose location I'd previously clocked on leaving the fair and point out the 6 foot ginger streak. Then they could choose whether to break his face or politely request an interview.
Either was fine with me.
It worked pretty well. Only by the time I reached the police, they had him on the floor. His short friend was goading the boys in black and challenging them, so they poured his cider away. He was mouthing off so much he managed to get himself an unnecessary arrest for the ride.
I was ready with all the evidence required to send them to the Gulag. They'd be so sick of mining salt after this, I knew.
The ginger fella was on the floor getting cuffed (and stuffed). The police had their hand down his trousers recovering a thinly concealed bottle of cider, while he complained about them touching his bollocks, before falling asleep waiting for the paddy wagon.
I have got to be honest.
It was a trip down memory lane.
I left my address to give a statement and offered to go to court so that he could be sent away away for 30 or 40 years, I wasn't sure what was customary for these offences.
Apparently a counsellor will call me tomorrow, to see how distressed I am.
It's an initiative by Vera Baird the Police Commissioner who blocked the access of vulnerable people in custody to trained physicians and was recently accused of corruption for donating a large sum of money to a charity which she co-directs along with the Chief Constable who left the force this year following bullying allegations. These ladies are both completely innocent of course, I thought, as someone flung a hog bap over the lost child station.
The police as ever did a fantastic job. An officer came round to take a statement from me at home half an hour later. And my Crane material really landed.
The lesson of the day? I've become soft in my old age.
I realise that after years of seeing patients in cells, spitting, shitting, sniffing and tripping, I'd always been able to hide behind a uniform as I studiously avoided a twatting. The police have made me soft.
But in civvy street I was bumping into the same people, unprotected.
The visiting police officer asked me if I was going to be traumatised by the event.
The fact is I don't think I gained an extra point on my pulse during the whole thing. Perhaps I should have, but I don't control my autonomic nervous system. That's why it's autonomic. If the Pointer Sisters taught us nothing else, they taught us that.
It was just bewilderingly stupid.
Tomorrow, Victim Support will phone me
I'll try not to keep them too long.
Addendum: At the magistrates court on 2 Jul 2015, he pleaded guilty to threatening behaviour and assault by beating which earned him an Absolute Discharge. "This indicated that the court considered the most important issue was the appearance that the defendant at the court, the conviction and the formal recording that the defendant had committed a criminal offence"
I was taking a break from some computer work and as the evening brightened I decided to walk the 10 minutes to the nearby fair.
It was 6pm on an increasingly warm Friday evening. The Hoppings is advertised as the largest in Europe and in writing this down I had to remind myself of how it got its unusual name.
There are a number of hypotheses. Perhaps it was that the travellers wore old sack-like tops and pants, or it was a dance of merry old England, or clothing infested with fleas that make people hop about itching from the bites.
I walked around for half an hour. But with nobody between my legs on the log flume, and nobody pinned to the wall with me on the Rotor, or rolling their eyes with me at the possibility of an unlikely win in the amusement arcade, or joining me in rueing the absence of the horseracing machine, I soon made my way back.
I crossed a well trodden dog-ear diagonal back across the moor.
But I was complacent.
I was thinking of other stuff.
I barely noticed someone in an old sack-like top and pants jumping and hopping in my peripheral vision, like a dance from Merrie Olde England. By the time I had lifted my head, my attention was drawn to someone in dirty sweats who was perhaps was going to ask me the way to the fair or the hour of day or something. If I realised there was a fair amount of gurgle at the bottom of this chest, then perhaps I briefly wondered how I might help. But this was all time wasted. The spit rose in his chest and delivered itself with laser accuracy to my left eye, with plenty left over for my cheek and chin. It was an admirable level of precision for someone struggling to walk in a straight line. A tall boy-man of 17, both aggressive and aggressively ginger had decided to reward my casual stroll with what is traditionally known as a large gob.
He then invited me for a fight in the traditional way by drawing his arms behind his shoulders, as though pushing his tits out.
Goading. Inviting. Requesting.
But his physique rather looked like that of wiry boxer stroke fighting machine.
I weighed up his chances as I stood my ground.
There were two of them (did I mention that?). I more than had then covered in terms of 'years on the planet' but I decided that wasn't a great parameter to inform my decision.
His friend goaded me repeatedly and called me a 'little shit'. Which was as odd as it was mildly amusing because I was a foot taller than him, and I wasn't wearing my heels. It was clearly a phrase with which he was decidedly familiar. And not least.... I am actually not a little shit. Many things I am, but a little shit is very much not one of them. And you can quote me on that.
So his observation was, let's say, disappointing...but which I mean not one I could take to the bank. Not a blog cue, let's leave it at that.
I considered a free punch. It's not often you get one, is it? But I realised that the only moves I really knew were from The Karate Kid. I'd already used 'Wax Off' to get the spit off my face and I felt uncertain whether 'The Crane' would really deliver when I needed it to.
I stood my ground for a while, but I quickly bored of their act.
A little push on my left shoulder tried vainly to draw me into a duel.
Not that he retreated and not that he tired or retired. Far from it. He was getting closer. But curiously I felt 'inner ginger' didn't seem to really "want" to start a fight. He wanted me to start it. You'd never guess it but I just felt his heart wasn't in it.
Normally I'd happily oblige but, if he wasn't truly up for it, why should I make the effort to meet him halfway?
When I do fight, it would be for a purpose.
I couldn't think of one.
Put it down to a failure of imagination.
I decided to walk away, although a Kenny Rogers song, or two, gnawed at my soul.
And neither was 'Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town'.
He careered from side to side as he made his way towards the fair.
Should I report him? Should I go home? If I complain, isn't that just causing everybody an awful lot of work for very little purpose?
What exactly are you supposed to do? Just wash and go?
While I thought about it for a couple of minutes, I talked to 2 girls who'd seen the whole thing.
I even asked to borrow their mobile phone as I thought of reporting to the police. But they didn't seem to notice that I'd asked.
They did point out that the pair, clearly drunk and likely intoxicated on legal highs, started approaching a couple of children. I looked up and saw him fist pump a small child in front of his parents/guardians who might well have thought of him as an amiable drunk.
And if the parents felt differently, they wouldn't have given Kenny Rogers a second thought.
But they were not amiable drunks.
I decided to go home. Take it on the chin. Walk away.
I got 4 yards.
Maybe 5 in the direction of home.
Each step felt a little muddier, a little slower, a little deeper, a little worse. More wrong.
I turned.
I decided to finish him.
Two minutes buys you a lot of strategy.
The next 5 yards were easier. I was getting greener.
The task in play was to follow him and get him arrested.
I walked past the girls I'd just left and told them of my new plan.
'Good luck', they wished.
OK ...where, I thought, are Dick, Ann, George and Timmy the dog? No matter.
I followed, keeping a safe-ish distance. I was pretty confident I could do that. I never missed an episode of The Equalizer.
As they waited to cross the main road, I ducked behind a tree. I was pretty confident I could do that too. I never missed an episode of Secret Squirrel....or Inch High Private Eye.
They met up with 8 equally uncouth friends, at least one of whom had a tattoo so I knew I had the right people.
If I crossed the main road before them I could snitch to the cops whose location I'd previously clocked on leaving the fair and point out the 6 foot ginger streak. Then they could choose whether to break his face or politely request an interview.
Either was fine with me.
It worked pretty well. Only by the time I reached the police, they had him on the floor. His short friend was goading the boys in black and challenging them, so they poured his cider away. He was mouthing off so much he managed to get himself an unnecessary arrest for the ride.
I was ready with all the evidence required to send them to the Gulag. They'd be so sick of mining salt after this, I knew.
The ginger fella was on the floor getting cuffed (and stuffed). The police had their hand down his trousers recovering a thinly concealed bottle of cider, while he complained about them touching his bollocks, before falling asleep waiting for the paddy wagon.
I have got to be honest.
It was a trip down memory lane.
I left my address to give a statement and offered to go to court so that he could be sent away away for 30 or 40 years, I wasn't sure what was customary for these offences.
Apparently a counsellor will call me tomorrow, to see how distressed I am.
It's an initiative by Vera Baird the Police Commissioner who blocked the access of vulnerable people in custody to trained physicians and was recently accused of corruption for donating a large sum of money to a charity which she co-directs along with the Chief Constable who left the force this year following bullying allegations. These ladies are both completely innocent of course, I thought, as someone flung a hog bap over the lost child station.
The police as ever did a fantastic job. An officer came round to take a statement from me at home half an hour later. And my Crane material really landed.
The lesson of the day? I've become soft in my old age.
I realise that after years of seeing patients in cells, spitting, shitting, sniffing and tripping, I'd always been able to hide behind a uniform as I studiously avoided a twatting. The police have made me soft.
But in civvy street I was bumping into the same people, unprotected.
The visiting police officer asked me if I was going to be traumatised by the event.
The fact is I don't think I gained an extra point on my pulse during the whole thing. Perhaps I should have, but I don't control my autonomic nervous system. That's why it's autonomic. If the Pointer Sisters taught us nothing else, they taught us that.
It was just bewilderingly stupid.
Tomorrow, Victim Support will phone me
I'll try not to keep them too long.
Addendum: At the magistrates court on 2 Jul 2015, he pleaded guilty to threatening behaviour and assault by beating which earned him an Absolute Discharge. "This indicated that the court considered the most important issue was the appearance that the defendant at the court, the conviction and the formal recording that the defendant had committed a criminal offence"
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