refused to iron it . . . flat. His excuse was that he didn’t get paid to iron his uniform, though he did get a tax allowance for cleaning it.
Another officer, jockey-hating Patrick from the south of Ireland, was usually an absolute gentleman in every way. He was only about five foot four yet had nerves of steel. He didn’t panic or back away from danger at all. One day, a massive Swedish bodybuilder threw a steroid strop in the airport over some minor inconvenience and physically lifted his whole baggage trolley – complete with suitcases – up over his head and threatened to drop it on Patrick. It would have tonked little Pat into the ground like a tent peg. But, before we could get around the benches and rugby tackle the big Swede, Patrick had gone into his sweetly smiling routine.
‘Now stop it, yer big focker. If you pulled out your ole fella and it was bigger than mine then I may get a bit worried.
OK
?’
The Swede stopped, cracked up laughing and slowly lowered the trolley down. (We later heard that he went on to become a top contender in the World’s Strongest Man. The Swede, that is, not Patrick. Patrick just went on to
eat
a swede . . . in the canteen.)
During his allocated annual break, Patrick decided to take his wife to Rhodes on a surprise holiday. It was a surprise to us as well as we didn’t even realize that he was married. So we decided to pull a prank on his return. Two weeks later, his flight touched down back in England – and at our airport. Bit of a mistake. Pat had forgotten our golden rule – never fly into the airport at which you also work.
Three of us uniformed officers identified Patrick’s large suitcase behind the scenes of the baggage belt. I picked the lock and the other two emptied all of Pat and his wife’s clothes into a large bag. The clothes were then replaced with a large concrete paving slab, so big that it took all three of us, grunting, to heave the bag back on to the baggage carousel. Then we rushed round and stood at the end of the channels. We could see Patrick and his wife, and he gave us a courteous nod as we attempted to do the professional thing and ignore him. Pat then started doing the Baggage Carousel Unlucky Fucker Look – that is, like everyone else, standing there like a lemon, peering at the belt, wondering why on earth your bag always comes out bloody last. But, when the bags started to appear, it was only then that we noticed there was a problem – another bag,
identical
to Patrick’s, was also on the belt. A senior officer, in on the whole thing, sidled up to me and the eight other uniformed officers who were lined up for the floor show and, without taking his eyes off the belt, he whispered, ‘
Please
tell me that you got the right bag . . .’
Luckily, we had identified it not just by how it looked but also by the name and baggage tag number. Pat looked at the tag of the first one and let it pass; it disappeared around the belt and he waited for the one that he now knew was his to reach him. But, as he started to move to grab it, he was suddenly brushed aside by a very annoyed old lady.
‘Excuse
me,
young man, that’s
mine
!’ She had obviously missed the appearance of the first suitcase and was convinced that this one was hers – and, with the determination and sharp elbows of a jumble-sale veteran (and former rugby player, from the looks of things), she made a grab for it with one hand while fending off Pat with the other. Her vice-like grip on the handle was impressive but the staying power of an eighty-pound slab of concrete meant it was not for moving. So, in quick succession: the lady pulled – the bag stood still – the lady heaved – the bag stood still – the belt moved around – the lady clung on, fell over, gave a little yelp and then got dragged along the shiny floor on her backside, knocking over passengers like bowling pins as she held on tightly for dear life. Pat slowly turned to look at us, eyes wide, smiling, with
Another officer, jockey-hating Patrick from the south of Ireland, was usually an absolute gentleman in every way. He was only about five foot four yet had nerves of steel. He didn’t panic or back away from danger at all. One day, a massive Swedish bodybuilder threw a steroid strop in the airport over some minor inconvenience and physically lifted his whole baggage trolley – complete with suitcases – up over his head and threatened to drop it on Patrick. It would have tonked little Pat into the ground like a tent peg. But, before we could get around the benches and rugby tackle the big Swede, Patrick had gone into his sweetly smiling routine.
‘Now stop it, yer big focker. If you pulled out your ole fella and it was bigger than mine then I may get a bit worried.
OK
?’
The Swede stopped, cracked up laughing and slowly lowered the trolley down. (We later heard that he went on to become a top contender in the World’s Strongest Man. The Swede, that is, not Patrick. Patrick just went on to
eat
a swede . . . in the canteen.)
During his allocated annual break, Patrick decided to take his wife to Rhodes on a surprise holiday. It was a surprise to us as well as we didn’t even realize that he was married. So we decided to pull a prank on his return. Two weeks later, his flight touched down back in England – and at our airport. Bit of a mistake. Pat had forgotten our golden rule – never fly into the airport at which you also work.
Three of us uniformed officers identified Patrick’s large suitcase behind the scenes of the baggage belt. I picked the lock and the other two emptied all of Pat and his wife’s clothes into a large bag. The clothes were then replaced with a large concrete paving slab, so big that it took all three of us, grunting, to heave the bag back on to the baggage carousel. Then we rushed round and stood at the end of the channels. We could see Patrick and his wife, and he gave us a courteous nod as we attempted to do the professional thing and ignore him. Pat then started doing the Baggage Carousel Unlucky Fucker Look – that is, like everyone else, standing there like a lemon, peering at the belt, wondering why on earth your bag always comes out bloody last. But, when the bags started to appear, it was only then that we noticed there was a problem – another bag,
identical
to Patrick’s, was also on the belt. A senior officer, in on the whole thing, sidled up to me and the eight other uniformed officers who were lined up for the floor show and, without taking his eyes off the belt, he whispered, ‘
Please
tell me that you got the right bag . . .’
Luckily, we had identified it not just by how it looked but also by the name and baggage tag number. Pat looked at the tag of the first one and let it pass; it disappeared around the belt and he waited for the one that he now knew was his to reach him. But, as he started to move to grab it, he was suddenly brushed aside by a very annoyed old lady.
‘Excuse
me,
young man, that’s
mine
!’ She had obviously missed the appearance of the first suitcase and was convinced that this one was hers – and, with the determination and sharp elbows of a jumble-sale veteran (and former rugby player, from the looks of things), she made a grab for it with one hand while fending off Pat with the other. Her vice-like grip on the handle was impressive but the staying power of an eighty-pound slab of concrete meant it was not for moving. So, in quick succession: the lady pulled – the bag stood still – the lady heaved – the bag stood still – the belt moved around – the lady clung on, fell over, gave a little yelp and then got dragged along the shiny floor on her backside, knocking over passengers like bowling pins as she held on tightly for dear life. Pat slowly turned to look at us, eyes wide, smiling, with
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