Matt Delito - Confessions of a Police Constable

You just have to deal with a lot of nutters .

I hear you thinking: ‘So, apart from clearly being “a bit nuts”, what was so special about this particular fellow who had been attacked by a ninja?’

Well, he was me , before I became a police officer.

Maybe I should go back to the beginning …

I was working for a large company at the time, and we were having our annual Christmas party. As usual, there was a theme, and this time – thanks to a large deal that had been secured about a month earlier – the theme was Asia. There was a fancy-dress element, but – as per usual – I hadn’t got around to doing anything for it.

The day before the party, a couple of my mates from the office discussed dressing up as kung-fu heroes. One of them had bought a bright yellow tracksuit and intended to go as Bruce Lee. In a moment of inspiration, I formed a plan: I would dust off my old martial arts gi, and go as a judoka.

It was immediately obvious to me that this was a plan so brilliant it outshone a thousand suns: it was tenaciously Asia-related, and carried the additional bonus of me not having to actually do or buy anything – I could simply throw the gi on, and then go to the party. Score.

I made a point of shaving my head that morning, just to look extra ’ard, and went to the office as usual. I had a couple of comments about looking like a skinhead, but I shrugged them off; I’d been called worse in the office. At the end of the day, I went to a quick dinner at the local sushi restaurant (we were committed to the theme) with a couple of colleagues, before changing into my judo gi in the loos and heading to the party.

I’ll spare you the details of the party itself. Suffice to say that there was an open bar, and my colleagues and I were damned if we were going to let a single drop of booze go to waste. I was 15 sheets to the wind by the time they started handing out awards. The first was for the best costume, which went to the PA to one of the executives; she was looking rather smouldering as a geisha, so no surprise there. I have an embarrassing recollection of proposing she and I have a quick wrestle, but unsurprisingly she turned me down. What was a surprise, however, was hearing my name over the PA system.

‘Huh?’ I asked the colleague who was standing closest to me, with all the eloquence I could muster given my blood alcohol level.

‘Dude!’ he said, swaying as if he were standing on the deck of an ocean liner in a storm. ‘You won closer of the year! Great stuff.’

Through my alcohol-fuelled haze, it came back to me: I had, in fact, done a couple of shit-hot deals that year, and it did stand to reason that I would be recognised for some of the money I had earned for the company. I stumbled my way to the stage, and gratefully received an Xbox 360 (they had only just been launched, if I recall correctly) for my efforts.

Ace. A load of free booze and an Xbox 360, too? Tonight was turning out to be a much better evening than expected.

A few hours later, my friends decided that I had consumed quite enough alcohol for the rest of the year, and shoved me out the front door in the general direction of a row of waiting taxis. I don’t recall putting up too much of a struggle, which probably was an indication that I had, indeed, had enough to drink for an evening.

I didn’t live far away from the venue, so I decided to walk home instead of taking the cab. With my coat under one arm and my brand-new Xbox 360 under the other, I took off into the freezing cold December night in my slightly red-wine-stained judo gi.

I nearly made it home.

Nearly.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a guy dressed like a ninja appeared. He was dressed all in black, with a raised hood. All I could see was his eyes as he squared up to me.

‘Oi. Are you some sort of karate champion, then?’ he said.

In retrospect, I should have seen that for what it was: a threat.

Instead, I started a profoundly incoherent tirade in which I intended to compare and contrast the differences between karate and judo. I believe I may have got as far as six syllables into my diatribe, when he took a step forward, and clocked me square in the face.

I woke up a couple of minutes later.

Blood was pouring from my nose, my Xbox 360 was gone, and I was resting against a brick wall, my coat over me for warmth.

‘An ambulance is on the way,’ a female voice said. I looked up at her.

She was cute.

I asked for her phone number, and she sighed, ignoring me. I told her to cancel the ambulance, but as I did so, I heard a siren coming closer. It was a police car.

‘What happened to you?’ the constable asked.

‘I was attacked by a ninja,’ I said, fully in earnest. The constable looked at me.

‘Riiiight. How about you come and tell us about it at the station tomorrow. You look like you could do with some sleep.’ The constable asked where I lived and I told him.

‘That’s only up the road,’ he said, pointing at my house.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I said, adding drily: ‘I live there.’

The next morning, I went to the police station to report being mugged for my games console …

The main reason I’m telling you this story is to illustrate the kind of things we sometimes have reported to us; people come in to the front office with all sorts of grievances, spanning from the most inane, inconsequential complaints to the most serious of crimes.

It’s extremely hard to keep a straight face sometimes, and I’ll admit that if someone had walked into my police station and told me that they had been attacked by a ninja, I would probably have sighed rather deeply myself. ‘Not another one …’

I’ll be honest. I’m not proud of this episode; I acted like a prat, drank far too much, and should have been more street-wise than walking home alone through a dodgy part of town with an expensive, shiny piece of kit under my arm.

The moral of the story is that not everybody who sounds like a complete nutjob is.

Only most of ’em.

‘Two-six receiving Mike Delta,’ my radio buzzed. I was slumped in the driver’s seat of my Astra, which I’d parked in an employees-only car park behind a local shopping centre. Kim was snoozing in the seat next to me.

We were coming to the end of a 12-hour shift and bloody knackered. It was one of the last shifts on an unusually difficult pattern. All the officers were running at about 60 per cent mental capacity, which makes policing particularly difficult, because in many of the situations we run into we’ve really got to have our wits about us.

‘Two-six. Two-six. Are you receiving, Mike Delta?’ the radio buzzed again.

‘Shit, that’s us,’ I realised, shaking my head. Had I been sleeping? I looked down at my hand; my coffee cup was precariously balanced on my lap, nearly – but not quite – tipping its scalding hot contents onto my leg. I straightened the cup carefully, and reached for the PTT lever on the dash.

‘Yeah, two-six receiving. I apologise for the delay,’ I added, ‘I was on a private call.’

I immediately regretted lying to the CAD operator. They, and anybody else who had overheard that conversation, would have known it was a lie – we never apologise for delays in getting back to the CAD operator; either you respond in good time, or you’re too busy to respond (for example, if you’re in the middle of an arrest) and you’ll call up as soon as you can.

‘Er, yeah. Right. We’ve had a call about a theft. Shoplifter. You guys free?’

‘At your service!’ I said as brightly as I could. Next to me, Kim stretched and yawned, before zipping up her Metvest and fastening her seatbelt.