The Laughing Policeman: My Brilliant Career in the New Zealand Police Read online

  First published in 2003

  Copyright © Gonzoid Limited 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover Design & Photography: Jimi Hunt

  To my long suffering wife Eula and the cadets of the 24th General Poananga cadet wing.

  In memory of Sergeant Rodney ‘Jacko’ Edwards.

  Biology & Boogers

  I always wanted to be a Marine Biologist. I don’t know why: I hate fish, science bores me stupid and I turn to jelly at the thought of diving.

  As it turned out the marine biology fraternity was quite safe. My dreams of zipping around the seven seas in a rubber sea craft were crushed the day my School Certificate results were released. I got 32 for Biology. I was still 20-odd marks shy of even being allowed to drive the boat.

  Time for a re-think.

  On checking my marks I found I could rule out any profession that required mathematical aptitude or scientific flair. My spelling was dodgy, my geography left a lot to be desired and most of my reports featured the phrase ‘Could try harder’. It was true: I could, but I didn’t. The only subject I excelled at was history, but I was struggling to find a career where Garibaldi’s liberation of Italy was relevant.

  Nope, the only things I had in my favour were big feet, an honest nature and an overriding passion for the colour blue. It was going to be a toss-up between painting swimming pools and joining the police force.

  The constabulary won, which was lucky because my painting skills left a lot to be desired. I told Mum and Dad the good news. At first they were crushed: they had their hearts set on my becoming a marine biologist. Dad was particularly distraught because it meant he no longer had any excuse to keep his ten foot dingy. Fortunately they soon came around to the idea.

  While Mum was a bit perplexed at my decision to join the boys in blue, Dad was not in the least surprised; he claimed to have seen it coming for years. I had, he said in wistful tones, an over-developed sense of honesty and fair play.

  Dad worked on the wharf and used to bring home ‘gifts’ from the various ships he’d been working on. I’d suspected for some time that these presents weren’t entirely due to the generosity of the shipowners and I refused to have anything to do with his ill-gotten gains.

  My taking the moral high ground annoyed the hell out of Dad. Thinking back, perhaps I did overreact. It wasn’t as if he arrived home with a ship’s boiler in his duffle-bag, just the odd Taiwanese pocket-knife and Korean home hair-cutting set. Not exactly premium items, though Dad’s liquor cabinet was always extremely impressive and often contained brands of alcohol that weren’t readily available in New Zealand.

  The booze was the most useful of Dad’s acquisitions. I have painful memories of some of the other items, particularly the home hair-cutting set. Dad was especially pleased with it. He claimed we’d never have to spend another cent at the hairdressers and was mad keen to try it out. I was 10 years old at the time and my hair was quite long. My father saw this as a great opportunity to try out the kit. I was placed on a stool as Dad got out towels and a broom to give our living room an authentic barber-shop feel. I protested wildly but to no avail: My father had made up his mind.

  The implements in the kit looked like something out of a torturer’s briefcase. He removed a pair of scissors similar in appearance to pinking shears and began lopping off my hair. Then out came a nasty, buzzing, pair of clippers to do the ‘styling’.

  After a few minutes of abject fear I calmed down as, astoundingly, he seemed to be doing quite a good job. He was just finishing the hair cut when my grandfather came in and inquired about the technical specifications of the kit. Dad became effusive with his explanations and began waving his arms around in an animated fashion, completely forgetting that he and the clippers were still attached to the back of my head. The result was a large patch of hair was sheared out of my scalp.

  ‘Ooops,’ said Dad.

  I couldn’t see the damage for myself but I knew by the way my grandfather was laughing that it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  Oh yes, everyone who still had hair was finding it hugely amusing.

  My father got a mirror and showed me the carnage. It looked as if a large beast had come along and taken a bite out of my hair. I was devastated and protested to Mum (who was at least making an effort to be sympathetic) that I wouldn’t be able to leave the house until it grew back.

  ‘Rubbish,’ muttered Dad. ‘I’ll fix it so no-one will notice.’

  Dad’s ‘fixing’ involved him getting a tin of black boot polish and rubbing the sticky, foul smelling paste over the newly whitened piece of my scalp.

  ‘There,’ he said, surveying his handiwork. ‘Good as new.’

  I looked in the mirror. The boot polish didn’t look anything like hair. It looked like boot polish. But no matter how much I protested I was told it looked fine, and my head was given a good shine before I was sent off to school the following day.

  Of course, this is the sort of occurrence that 10-year-old school boys live for and I was teased unmercifully until my hair grew back.

  Much to his disappointment, I never let my father cut my hair again, although he did have the nerve to suggest he get the kit out of storage and give me a quick trim before I became a policeman.

  When they came around to the idea of having a member of the constabulary in the family, my parents supported my decision 100 percent.

  So now it was down to me: all I had to do was join up. This didn’t turn out to be as easy as I’d expected. I don’t know why, but I thought I could simply phone the local cop shop and they’d say, ‘Ahh Mr Wood, we’ve been waiting for your call. Pop in and we’ll fit you up with a uniform.’

  Not the case.

  Apparently if I wanted to join the police force there was a fitness test to pass, plus a written examination and an interview. I was also informed that I would not be applying to join the police force but would instead be attempting to become a member of The New Zealand Police. The word ‘force’ had recently been dropped as it had been deemed inappropriate for the good citizens of New Zealand to believe that our hardened criminals were being detained by anything other than gentle persuasion. Put straight on that fact, I sent in my application and was began filling out a seemingly unending series of forms.

  I soon discovered I was not the only pupil at New Plymouth Boys’ High School who wanted to join up. The other (extremely surprising) applicant was a classmate whose nickname was ‘Goose’. The reason I found Goose an unlikely candidate was because of his strong Rastafarian leanings. He had embraced the culture with both hands, which was quite unusual for a white, middle-class kid, with straight fair hair. But he played the music, spouted the dogma, wore the T-shirt and actively supported the legalisation of cannabis. Not, one would have thought, a natural choice for the police. However, he was bright, funny, honest and very fit, so, as long as he didn’t walk into the interview smoking a joint, I thought he stood a good chance of getting in.

  I, on the other hand was struggling. I wasn’t worried about the written exam or the interview but I was concerned about my fitness. I wasn’t unfit, I was damaged. I’d spent most of my teenage years carrying some injury or other. I was accident prone (and still am) - or at least that’s my excuse.

  Dad had another theory: he said I was just big and dumb. Reluctantly, I have to admit he had a poin
t. I did charge into things without a great deal of thought and had trouble grasping the fact that, if something doesn’t fit where you want it to go, then bashing it till it breaks is probably not going to improve its chances.

  My propensity for breaking things also earned me a nickname. I was called Gonzo after the blue fluffy Muppet with the large beak that is always blowing things up. A series of unfortunate incidents at school and the fact that I have a healthy-sized nose ensured the nickname stuck.

  So far that year my ‘rip, shit or bust’ approach to life had resulted in several sprained ankles, a torn calf muscle, cracked ribs, a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder. And it was only March.

  Obviously this made taking the police physical exam something of a challenge and after my second postponement my parents began to worry. Sport was put on hold and Mum started keeping close tabs on my activities, the last thing any self-respecting 17-year-old wants.

  I had the situation under control until two weeks before my third attempt at the fitness assessment. I was fit, uninjured and confident I could do the required number of push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups in the stipulated time. And then a friend asked if I wanted to go trail bike riding. Of course I did and I quickly brushed aside everyone’s concerns. I knew best and would continue to do so despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

  So off we went, me on my trusty Kawasaki 100 trail-bike (okay, if you want to get technical, it was Dad’s) and my friend on his ‘specially designed for the professional circuit’ super-bike. I puddled happily around on the Kawi for a while, falling over in the mud a few times but doing no serious damage. Then came the fateful words. ‘Do you want a go on my bike?’ my mate enquired, overflowing with the generosity of spirit that occurs when you know you have a vastly superior toy.

  There was no question of me refusing. This would have been the equivalent of turning up at school wearing women’s clothing.

  I hopped on, supremely confident that if my friend could handle the bike then it would pose no problems for me. I’d have been alright too if it hadn’t been for the power band - a cunning little device that gives you a burst of extra speed when you least expect it. Needless to say the Kawasaki didn’t have a power band; the closest it got was a following wind on a steep hill.

  The super bike however had an excellent one and it kicked in just as I was attempting a jump I’d eyed up earlier, but had been afraid to tackle on the Kawi. Half way through the jump the bike suddenly took off, shooting from underneath me and leaving me with no option but to fall down.

  The ‘plummeting through the air’ bit wasn’t so bad; nor was the ‘rolling down the hill and hitting the fence’ bit. No, the really painful part occurred when the bike landed on top of me, burning me with its exhaust pipe. Fortunately my friend was quickly on hand to make sure his bike was okay. Once he’d established that my burnt flesh hadn’t done too much damage to its paintwork, he picked me up and told me he thought I’d be better off sticking to the Kawasaki. I thought I’d be better off being rushed to Accident and Emergency, but in the end settled for a quiet sit-down with my leg in a nearby stream.

  The burn was only superficial but there was some tissue damage and it was bloody sore. I could have postponed the fitness test again but that would have meant missing the next year’s intake of police cadets and, much worse, another year at school. Oh, the humanity.

  There was nothing for it, Mum bandaged my leg and I sat the fitness test two weeks later. I had no trouble with the push ups, pull ups or sit ups but the run was another story. Completing 2.5 kilometres in14 minutes was hard enough for me fully fit but near impossible with an injured leg.

  I can’t remember much of the run but I do recall vomiting as I crossed the finish line, which impressed the fitness instructor so much that he overlooked the few seconds I was shy of the time.

  I’d already passed the written exam so now I faced the last hurdle, an interview with the district commander.

  Goose was in a similar situation, having flown through his fitness exam, but he was extremely nervous about his upcoming interview. I think it was worse for him because of the sacrifice he’d recently made for his chosen career. He had given up the one aspect of his Rastafarian lifestyle that the law took a dim view of. Instead of lighting up, he was relying on a constant diet of Bob Marley music to see him through. It seemed to work but it nearly drove the rest of us insane. Even now I can’t hear ‘No woman, no cry’ without wanting to throttle someone.

  My strategy for getting through the interview was a lot less complicated. The only sacrifice I was going to make was to wear a suit and tie. I would also rely on manufactured enthusiasm and keeping my mouth shut (hopefully to prevent career ending utterances from leaking out). The ability to say very little and talk in a stilted and barely comprehensible manner was surely a prerequisite for the police. I made this observation based on watching members of the constabulary interviewed on the news. Not one of them spoke like other members of the human race. It was as if they had become part of this big blue machine that would mutter only carefully guarded words in between awkward silences. I used to imagine the conversations policemen had with their wives.

  WIFE: ‘Hello dear, did you have a nice day?’

  POLICE HUSBAND: (long pause) ‘I’m not at liberty to answer that question.’

  I learnt later that this manner of speech is secretly implanted into the voice-boxes of all policemen and activated whenever a television camera or microphone comes close.

  I practiced the art of appearing enthusiastic while not saying much for several weeks before the interview and become quite good at it. Remaining virtually mute was easy; after all I was a teenager. Enthusiasm was a little harder to come by as I’d been working on being morose and disaffected for several years.

  The day of the interview finally arrived and, after Mum had spent several hours making sure I looked respectable, I set off for the station (the police station, that is, not the railway station, which with the benefit of hindsight, would have been a better option). I was wearing the only suit I owned, a black jacket and pants that had only ever been worn to funerals, but had splashed out on a brand new dark blue tie for the occasion.

  I arrived early and had to wait for about half an hour. The time went slowly and I remember waiting with a mixture of fear and excitement. As I sat in the station I realised I wanted to join the police more than anything else in the world. The selection process had whet my appetite for the job and I couldn’t wait to get started. Watching the day shift cops go about their business only heightened that desire. The station was not particularly busy although there was still plenty going on. Behind the front desk was an older cop and he was handing out advice and forms to an almost constant flow of people, all vying for his attention. He was polite and professional and handled the multitude of problems being placed before him with ease. He wasn’t doing anything exceptional but exuded the sort of relaxed confidence that made you feel he was completely in control of the situation. It was the sort of attitude I’d always associated with the police and, as I sat there nervous and excited, I felt in some small way part of it. But I wasn’t there yet and would never be if I didn’t impress the hell out of the district commander.

  Finally my name was called.

  I was given directions to the boss’s office and told he was ready to see me. I did a final hand pat check to make sure my tie was straight and my fly was done up then headed off. The walk there was almost incident free, except, just before his door, I was caught by the mother of all sneezes. It was one of those sneezes that come from nowhere and strikes with the ferocity of a tropical cyclone before you can get your hankie out. It was also a wet and phlegmy one and I needed to give my hands a good wipe on my handkerchief before meeting the district commander. It would have been poor form to shake hands with sticky digits. I considered stopping in the bathroom to wash my hands but didn’t want to keep the top man waiting, so in I went.

  The district commander was a nice, old-sc
hool cop, with a firm handshake and a relaxed manner. He put me at ease and before long we were chatting about my reasons for wanting to join the police. I’d expected this to come up and had my reply well prepared. My answer contained a healthy mixture of youthful enthusiasm and pro police idealism, with a dollop of community spiritedness thrown in for good measure. I was sure he was impressed but noticed his eyes wandering down to my chest then darting back up again. Aside from the askew glances, it seemed to be going well and we chatted for about an hour.

  Towards the end of the interview he touched on the subject of the police’s dress code and seemed to spend an unnecessarily long time emphasising how important it was. The DC said that uniforms gave the police respect in the eyes of the public. He reiterated the need for good personal hygiene and reminded me that police officers must keep their uniform in tip top condition at all times, especially the tie. I assured him of my unerring dedication to good grooming (a lie) and he seemed happy.

  As the interview ended I grasped his hand firmly and looked him straight in the eye. He returned my gaze and took the opportunity for one final sneaky peek at my chest before giving a little laugh and leading me out of his office. This unnerved me but overall I came away from the interview feeling it had gone well.

  Nature and nervous energy caught up with me and I sped to the bathroom to relieve myself. After washing my hands I checked my reflection in the mirror. What I saw stopped me in my tracks. Smack bang in the middle of my tie was the biggest, greenest, lump of phlegm I’d ever seen in my life. Obviously it had deflected off my cupped hands during my pre interview sneeze. I was mortified. I’d just spent an hour chatting to the man who held my career prospects in his hands with a huge, wobbly, mountain of gunk sticking out of my chest. It looked like a less savoury version of the thing that burst from John Hurt’s stomach in the movie “Alien”.

  Suddenly the district commander’s concerns about my personal hygiene made sense. I mean, how would it look to have constables out there pounding the beat covered in snot? I couldn’t believe it; a dollop of lung butter had blown my chance of selection. It was so unfair. I wanted to rip my tie off and run into the boss’s office pleading that it wasn’t my fault and that actually it was part of the tie’s design - the latest in wearable body fluid from Hugo Boss - but instead I cleaned my tie, shoved it in my pocket, and skulked home.