Issue: 27 November 2004	PAGE 2 of 3 next >>

Upon arrival at Charing Cross, I was subjected to the as-seen-on-TV rigmarole of being booked in by the desk sergeant. Most of the questions focused on my racial origin and HIV status. They asked if I had a craving for non-prescription drugs, and if I required any religious paraphernalia. My belt and personal effects were removed, and after a statutory telephone call to my lawyer I was ‘banged up’.

By this time it was about 12.20 and I spent the next three hours dozing on a wooden bench. At about 4.30 p.m., my solicitor had arrived and it was time for an ‘interview under caution’. First, I had to be fingerprinted. The police constable who had originally flagged me down reappeared, and began the arduous business of ‘processing’ me. The man’s lack of competence was comical. He had problems applying my fingers to what appeared to be a sophisticated and expensive fingerprint-scanning machine, and with each failed attempt he became angrier and angrier. Tired and fed up, I gave in to the temptation to needle him. ‘Having problems with your new toy?’ I asked. He replied, ‘Shut the fuck up, you arsehole.’

He was no better at operating the tape recorder used for my interview. Much fumbling of cassettes was followed by screeching noises from the equipment. During the interview itself, I found him inarticulate, incompetent and only tenuously in control of his temper.

After the interview, I was re-introduced to my cell. I understood from my solicitor that the same police constable would speak to the Crown Prosecution Service, and a decision would be made about whether to charge me formally. I was also told that if the policeman had wanted to, he could have let me off with a caution after my car had been searched and the penknife and baton discovered.

Sitting in my cell, I thought a bit about the way I had been treated. For the police to be behaving like this at a time when we are all concerned about terrorism and street crime, and when resources are stretched and manpower is limited, seemed extraordinary. It was also, I decided, in direct contrast to the qualities of professionalism, endurance and discipline that are the hallmark of Britain’s armed forces. I have (now long outdated) personal experience of two training establishments, the old Guards’ Depot at Pirbright and the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, both of which are successful in creating tough but professional men who are in control of their actions and able to make sensible decisions under pressure. Whether on the streets of Belfast, in the mountains of Bosnia or in the deserts of Iraq, lieutenants and second lieutenants as young as 19 and 20 provide the linchpin between senior officers and rank-and-file men on the ground.

And this, I suspect, is the problem with the police — they have no proper training and no officer corps. The old adage goes ‘there is no such thing as bad soldiers, only bad officers’. The scruffy, overweight, badly turned-out, ill-mannered policemen I encountered at Charing Cross police station were desperately in need of decent leadership.

So I was not surprised when I was brought back before the desk sergeant and told that the CPS had made the decision to go ahead and charge me with possessing an offensive weapon and carrying a bladed instrument in public. I was bailed to appear at Bow Street magistrates’ court and informed that I was free to leave.

As I was about to pass through the door to freedom, I am ashamed to say that I snapped. The knowledge that we could, so easily, have avoided the whole drawn-out, expensive and upsetting procedure was too much for me. I turned to the police constable and said, ‘You really are a prize wanker.’ At this point, and in full view of my solicitor, he lost it. He grabbed my lapels, and pushed me up against the wall. My solicitor yelled, ‘You have just assaulted my client!’

Four other police officers rushed into the corridor, accompanied by the desk sergeant. ‘Right, rearrest him: public order, breach of the peace,’ shouted the sergeant at me. ‘You’ll be spending the night here.’ My solicitor said that she wanted the assault entered in the daybook, and that we would be bringing an action. So they let me go.