a whole poem on the subject called ‘A Smuggler’s Song’: ‘Five and twenty ponies/Trotting through the dark –/Brandy for the Parson, ‘Baccy for the Clerk/Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie –/Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!’
Since then, it’s been the job of Customs officers to
not
watch the wall as the smugglers go by. And in one of those strange historical eccentricities of British law, ten-oared boats are still illegal in this country, believe it or not. It’s because Napoleon’s shipwrights invented smuggler cutter ships that could turn into the wind and use their ten oars to make their escape. And, at this time in history, Customs and Excise officers were heavily armed and also operated armed revenue cutters. In fact, it was the Excise men that ran the press gangs on behalf of the Navy.
Until recently, many of the prohibitions from these days still existed, such as bringing in foreign prison-made goods, badger-haired shaving brushes or Napoleonic coinage – not that there was really any need for them still to be banned; we weren’t exactly overrun with badger-haired shaving-brush smuggling operations. As far as concealments went, sailors used to weave tobacco into ships’ ropes and bottles of brandy would be hidden in barrels of the ship’s tar. And just to prove that some things never go out of fashion – in both crime and detection – almost 200 years later I would be finding 10 kg of cocaine within 200 yards of climbing rope, and packs of drugs hidden in barrels of bitumen. Funny how the modern smugglers think they are up to something new!
One strange Customs law that still exists is one that I came across on duty when I stopped and searched a perfectly respectable-looking gentleman for no reason other than I had a feeling and, as it happened, the feeling turned out to be right. Though I wasn’t at all expecting to find what I did: when I opened his suitcase I saw that it was completely full of human hair, long strands of it bundled together. Now he wasn’t some kind of strange hair fetishist that was sneaking up behind women and snipping off bits of their hair: he was actually a wig maker. His trade, he said, was with the Jewish community in north London. His problem, though, was that he had attempted to avoid paying tax on the stuff and had tried to make it through the ‘nothing-to-declare’ green channel. But we now had him by a different kind of hair – the short and curlies. The duty and tax on hair is higher than that on gold.
Between Stansted, Gatwick and Heathrow airports, I’d see a wide selection of passengers from all walks of life – and some of those walks were pretty funny (you try walking normally with half a kilo of drugs up your jacksy) – and I also worked with fellow Customs officers who were just as varied. Most of them were perfectly normal, ordinary fellas. But don’t panic, I’ll tell you about the other ones instead.
Terry was a strange one, and how he ever got into the uniform branch I shall never know. Because Terry’s particular affliction was that he couldn’t talk to strangers. Now that’s a little bit of a drawback when your job, essentially, is spending all day long stopping, searching and talking to strangers. I suppose if Terry could have just searched passengers that he
knew
then he would have been OK – but then he wouldn’t have had any friends left!
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to people: it was that he really couldn’t do it. So the ideal position was found for him as the keeper at the airport’s Queen’s Warehouse, which, contrary to popular opinion, was not a storage facility for Elton John’s wardrobe. He did the job very well because all he had to talk to all day was himself, the warehouse boxes and the officers he knew. I liked him for the fact that he made the senior officers see red as he always looked like a complete and utter bag of shit. His uniform was always clean but he flatly
Since then, it’s been the job of Customs officers to
not
watch the wall as the smugglers go by. And in one of those strange historical eccentricities of British law, ten-oared boats are still illegal in this country, believe it or not. It’s because Napoleon’s shipwrights invented smuggler cutter ships that could turn into the wind and use their ten oars to make their escape. And, at this time in history, Customs and Excise officers were heavily armed and also operated armed revenue cutters. In fact, it was the Excise men that ran the press gangs on behalf of the Navy.
Until recently, many of the prohibitions from these days still existed, such as bringing in foreign prison-made goods, badger-haired shaving brushes or Napoleonic coinage – not that there was really any need for them still to be banned; we weren’t exactly overrun with badger-haired shaving-brush smuggling operations. As far as concealments went, sailors used to weave tobacco into ships’ ropes and bottles of brandy would be hidden in barrels of the ship’s tar. And just to prove that some things never go out of fashion – in both crime and detection – almost 200 years later I would be finding 10 kg of cocaine within 200 yards of climbing rope, and packs of drugs hidden in barrels of bitumen. Funny how the modern smugglers think they are up to something new!
One strange Customs law that still exists is one that I came across on duty when I stopped and searched a perfectly respectable-looking gentleman for no reason other than I had a feeling and, as it happened, the feeling turned out to be right. Though I wasn’t at all expecting to find what I did: when I opened his suitcase I saw that it was completely full of human hair, long strands of it bundled together. Now he wasn’t some kind of strange hair fetishist that was sneaking up behind women and snipping off bits of their hair: he was actually a wig maker. His trade, he said, was with the Jewish community in north London. His problem, though, was that he had attempted to avoid paying tax on the stuff and had tried to make it through the ‘nothing-to-declare’ green channel. But we now had him by a different kind of hair – the short and curlies. The duty and tax on hair is higher than that on gold.
Between Stansted, Gatwick and Heathrow airports, I’d see a wide selection of passengers from all walks of life – and some of those walks were pretty funny (you try walking normally with half a kilo of drugs up your jacksy) – and I also worked with fellow Customs officers who were just as varied. Most of them were perfectly normal, ordinary fellas. But don’t panic, I’ll tell you about the other ones instead.
Terry was a strange one, and how he ever got into the uniform branch I shall never know. Because Terry’s particular affliction was that he couldn’t talk to strangers. Now that’s a little bit of a drawback when your job, essentially, is spending all day long stopping, searching and talking to strangers. I suppose if Terry could have just searched passengers that he
knew
then he would have been OK – but then he wouldn’t have had any friends left!
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to people: it was that he really couldn’t do it. So the ideal position was found for him as the keeper at the airport’s Queen’s Warehouse, which, contrary to popular opinion, was not a storage facility for Elton John’s wardrobe. He did the job very well because all he had to talk to all day was himself, the warehouse boxes and the officers he knew. I liked him for the fact that he made the senior officers see red as he always looked like a complete and utter bag of shit. His uniform was always clean but he flatly
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