DUCK THA POLICE

Recently my beast of a car has undergone several traumatic incidents. Some cunt smashed my wing mirror off - I'm happy to report it has been repaired with duck tape - and that came after I accidentally drove into the back of another car while attempting the most ridiculous parallel park YOU WILL EVER SEE. Except you won't see it, because I wasn't recording it. And after all that, and as if that wasn't enough for a vehicle with the delicate sensibilities of my Corsa, one of brake lights died while I was at work.

Of course, I didn't realise this.

But I would.

Oh, I would.


So I'm driving down Wonford Hill, doing my standard thing (speeding) when I spot a police car in my rear view. It's slowly catching me up, so I ease off the gas and touch the brake a little. I always think it's hilarious how the police get to drive as fast as they like, even when the sirens aren't going and they're just on their way to the pie shop. As an aside, Marten's Pie Shop on Pinhoe Street is well decent and you should go there right the fuck now.

Anyway, I'm doing about 15 over and the law is still going faster than me, so I decide to reduce their speed before they catch me up in case they're feeling particularly vindictive that day. Normally they don't seem to give a shit how fast you're going as long as you aren't doing double the posted limit, but better safe than sorry, right? Also because I am an undeniably law-abiding citizen, as you all know from the numerous awards I have received for my community service (ignore the fact that the community service was court-mandated, and I stand by my original statement that I had never seen that orangutan in my life).

The police Focus hasn't got particularly close when it's lights start flashing. Oh no! I think. There must be a robbery in progress somewhere! I had better do my civic duty and pull over to the side of the road to let them past.

I do so, but am slightly confused when the police car doesn't whip past me but instead reduces its speed as it approaches. What is going on now? I think. This must be a particularly leisurely robbery if they are content to drive behind me all the way to their destination (I presumed their destination was a bank because bank robberies are pretty cool when you see them in the movies).

Right then. I had better start driving again. And this time I will go a little over the limit, not so much as to cause them to abandon their race to the bank but fast enough as to give them a little more time to apprehend the villains when they arrive.

Little did I realise, my friends, that the villain WAS ME.

I start driving again and manage to get up to about thirty before the siren gets turned on. It was just lights before; I figured that that meant it wasn't a MAJOR robbery. Maybe the robbers had decided to stick up a building society instead of a bank; it seems logical to presume that building society robberies would be taken less seriously than bank robberies because banks have that awesome glass between you and the cashier while building societies just have a shitty counter with a fake wood veneer on top (honestly people is there anything that screams WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR CUSTOM like a fake wood veneer).

So when the light goes on, that's when I know it's got serious. Maybe one of the building society staff had been shot! I don't know why that needed an exclamation mark, it makes it seem like I'm excited by the prospect of young Debbie, the Trainee Account Manager, being murdered in the course of a robbery. I am not. That is awful. Why would you think that about me.

Seeing that the police are now more urgent than ever I rationalise that I should pull over once again. I mean, before they seemed pretty chill but now they're getting noisy, and if there's one thing my mother taught me it's stay out of the way of a noisy policeman. Up until them I had always figured it was just another of her crude euphemisms about how penises are the Devil's handiwork, but apparently not. There was something lurking underneath all those gin and tonics after all. Thanks, Mum!

I get out of the way of the noisy policemen, once again pulling over to the side of the road. They're closing on me pretty fast, though, so I decide to use my initiative and I turn left down one of the side streets that pepper Wonford Hill. Wonford Hill is a pretty narrow road, and I'm not overly enthused by the prospect of having the expert repair work on my wing mirror (did you know duck tape costs 3 pounds a roll? what a rip) undone by the fuzz.

In my rear view I watch the cops zip past, continuing their journey down Wonford Hill towards the building society and the horrific crime scene that doubtless awaits them. Satisfied that my civic duty has been done for the day, I decide to carry on down the side street. It comes out somewhere pretty near the house I'm dropping at, and while it's more of a long cut than a short cut it's just really hard to get my car into reverse gear. Why go backwards when you can go forwards, I always say.

Not that I have a choice.

I make it about a mile down the road before I see something you don't see every day. I realise that's quite a vague description, so I shall be a little more specific.

I see a cop car parked across the road.

How rude, I think. I mean, it's not like I've got a FUCKING PIZZA TO DELIVER HERE.

But whatever. They are the police, after all, and that technically gives them the right to do whatever the hell they want. And if they want to barricade off a road for larks, well, that is their God-given right as members of Her Majesty's Coppers.

It's about at this point that the passenger door opens and a cop steps out, one hand up in that universal gesture which can either mean stop or I am doing a crude impression of a Native American and I am about to start doing a "rain dance" and going "pow-wow-wow-wow".

I assume it's the former, but you know what they say: when you assume, you nearly get arrested for evading the police.

In my defence, I have never been stopped by the police before. I have never even seen anyone in the process of being stopped by the police. I have seen cars at the roadside and have laughed as I drove past, watching the stricken looks on the faces of the people being bollocked by The Law, and on one occasion I witnessed about ten seconds of a high-speed chase up the M5 (that was hilarious by the way, the dude cut off up one of the exits and both of the cop cars just zoomed straight on past before stopping and REVERSING BACK UP THE MOTORWAY - collateral damage, anyone) but I honestly had no idea what the process was for police pulling people over. Why the hell don't they just get a loudspeaker and go "PULL OVER YOU MORON OR WE WILL DO VERY BAD THING TO YOU"?

Why do they just activate their flashing lights without the siren? Impressionable delivery drivers the world over are being fooled into think building society staff have been brutally executed EVERY DAY because of this shoddy police work.

All I can think as the officer approaches me is "holy fuck that guy looks like Stephen Merchant". And when he opens his mouth to speak all I can think is "holy fuck that guy sounds like Stephen Merchant". I do not inform the gentleman of this fact.

"Please get out of the car."

"Sure."

"You know why we've stopped you here?"

"No."

Stephen Merchant appears flummoxed by this response.

"You don't?"

"Nope. Did I do something wrong?"

"Uh... yes. You just pretended to pull over twice while my colleague was in the process of trying to stop you, before turning down this street and losing him entirely. Does that ring a bell?"

"...Sort of? I mean, I didn't realise he was trying to stop me."

"The flashing lights? Driving right behind you? Not bringing back any memories?"

"I..." I stop myself before I say I thought a building society was being robbed. I don't really know how that would have affected the outcome of the situation, but I would put money on not for the better if I was a gambling man (which I am, although I make a general habit of not betting on the police).

I try again. "I'm... sorry?"

Stephen Merchant sighs. I can see he is mentally noting this exchange down to work it into his next stand up routine. "Is this your car?"

"Yup."

"Only it's registered in a woman's name."

It is, you know. My mum's. A little bit of insurance dodging, if you will, although if you're aware of the cost of car insurance for young male drivers in the UK I hope you will applaud me for my efforts. Without my mother's name the first year would have cost me about a grand. A grand. My fucking car cost me £900 and you expect me to pay MORE THAN THAT to insure it? Eat a fucking dick, Direct Line.

Anyway, this is where the story sort of peters out because Stephen Merchant is actually very understanding about the whole thing - I guess being a comedian-come-copper you see a lot of crazy shit and it starts to get blase after a while - and once I've proved my identity he gives me a ticking off about the faulty brake light and tells me to get it fixed before my shift at work.

Jokes on him, I haven't fixed it AT ALL!





Cops aren't allowed to read the internet, right?



Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.