When the cops come a calling...

Incident! Last night my friend Jade sat down to a cuppa and one hour’s viewing of the very good and tantalising three part series on the ABC, The Line of Beauty. Being a fan of the book, I enjoyed Alan Hollinghurst’s take on the life of English toffs during the time of Thatcher. The story also centres around a gay chap by the name of Nick Guest. The book was especially explicit in its gay sex scenes, The TV series no different.

Clad in her Peter Alexander pyjamas, Jade was enjoying the movie over a cuppa of chilli hot chocolate (from Byron Bay).

A knock on the door interrupted her telly viewing.

It was the Marrickville cops.

A woman had her handbag snatched outside her block of units and they wanted to know if she heard anything.

Just as Jade was about to answer, the grunts of men could be heard from her telly. As she fumbled for words the grunts continued. The cops remained poker faced as she told them she had not heard anything. Finally the sounds of deep male sigh silenced the grunts.

There is a saying that a girl should always wear nice undies in case she is ever run over by a bus.

Well in our crime ridden suburb, there is always the opportunity for the cops to come a calling. Just make sure you have your Peter Alexanders (I actually have a nice pair of Leona Edmiston) on and the TV sound hushed.

Who would have thought that Macca’s served Halal?

From the Sydney Morning Herald this week…..

Former Guantanamo Bay detainee Mamdouh Habib has been charged with offensive behaviour over an incident in a Sydney fast-food outlet.

The 50-year-old was issued with a court attendance notice at a McDonald's restaurant in Bankstown in Sydney's south-west last Friday.

Police say officers were conducting patrols inside the restaurant when the incident happened.

No other details were given.

Hair Cuts

Do you reckon this bloke was picked on by the cops because he had a leb hair cut?

Bulldogs star player Hazem El Masri claims he was harrassed by the police last week at a café outside Regents Park. When he refused to produce ID to the police, he was surrounded by nine officers from five patrol cars. He has now lodged an official complaint.

Maybe it was just his hair cut?

(Please see earlier story, Cops are tops for further explanation)

Cops are Tops

My mate Sam and I met some lovely chaps at the Swank Hotel on Friday night.

They were cops.

Clearly I need another cop in my life like I need a hole in the head.

Still fresh from the way my former Copper Dog (“Dickhead Rod”) dumped me, I wasn’t exactly ready to meet more members of the NSW Police Force. But you can never plan these things. They just happen.

Sam and I were in celebratory spirits. She had scored a major win against her grossly incompetent Strata Manager and I needed to move on.

What better way to do this then with drinks at The Swank. The first bloke who ‘picked us up’ was El Salvador George - a chef (clearly from El Salvardor.) who works at the GPO on Martin Place.

“You come to my home and I cook you beautiful foood,” he told us.

His quest for a conquest was soon cut short. The poor bastard had to go home because his “cousin was locked out.”

Anyway Sam and I got talking to nice looking chap about…..football. He then introduced us to his other buddies. They were all detectives. And they drank cocktails.


What lovely chaps they were. We really didn’t dwell too much on crime. They did confirm that the term “Leb Hair Cuts’ is used by cops however it was “strictly for inhouse talk.”

Another term used by the cops is “The Housie”. “What’s a Housie” you ask.

“A person who lives in a Housing Commission estate who has either a mullet or a sharpie with a rat’s tail hair cut.”

All three confirmed that Shappelle Corby is guilty.

“If she wasn’t some white chick nobody would give a shit.”

They also hate the Bra Boys. And so did we.

We all agreed that New York was the best city in the world and that Peter Debnam and his budgy smugglers were a joke.

I really had a lovely night. It was just so nice to chat to a bunch of blokes about sport, superannuation and travelling. I could have stayed all night except when I got a text from Sam.

Sitting just opposite me she wrote

“Mate I am going to vomit soon. Must go home. No offence”.

It was fortunate we did leave at that time. We exchanged numbers and we made it home safely.

Lounge Room Arrest

I nearly got arrested in my lounge room the other night. Yep that’s right. The potential arrest happened over dinner with the copper dog and my sister, Evie and her husband, John.

My relatives were rather forthright in sharing my ‘crime stories’ with the copper dog – some of which feature in this blog.

Good naturedly he dismissed them all until the ‘chilli in the mailbox’ incident came up.

The ‘chilli in the mailbox’ incident you ask? Well let me provide you with some background information.

I was having a lot of trouble with my upstairs neighbours. They were noisy 24/7. This ‘noise’ included bong drums, screaming and of course that heavy bass sounding doof doof doof which would infiltrate every empty cell of quietness in my home.

It wasn’t particularly pleasant on a Saturday morning, nor throughout Sunday or any day of the week. My neighbour Branko, who came from Croatia was happy to suffer in silence. He reckoned that this noise was better than a plane dropping bombs on his head. Something he was used to back home.

My incompetent strata manager was completely useless and there is only so many times that a girl can call the police. After all they had other crimes to fight.

In the wee hours of a Saturday morning. I had enough. I took out a bottle of chilli sauce and proceeded to spill it all over the mailbox.

When this story was told to the copper dog he was mortified.

“That’s really bad Christine. You know you can be charged for vicious damage (chilli sauce?) and get a criminal record. I won’t worry……...for now anyway”.

I think John put it into perspective.

“I’m trying to make the link between noise and chilli sauce. I mean imagine when the neighbours find chilli sauce in the mailbox. Are they expected to automatically think, Oh we made a lot of noise last night?”

Anyway the evening ended on a high, with more amusing stories told by the copper dog including searching an ex crim’s bag only to find it packed with shit, saving a life when all his partner did was stand next to him and shout “OMG” and how dumb the majority of cops are.

The end.

Postscript. Unfortunately readers you will no longer get insights into the NSW Police force. The copper dog since dumped me via text. Interesting huh? I mean the man can beat up junkies, make arrests and tell big blokes “What the fuck are you looking at” Yet he can’t even tell a girl over the phone he can no longer see her. He’s no longer my copper dog. Instead he’s just “Dickhead Rod”. Oh and he used to work at Glebe Police Station.

My life of crime

I have been in front of a magistrate and done a runner on a taxi driver. Fortunately I do not have a criminal record. Instead I have stories to tell.

The runner on a taxi driver was quite an experience. I had just moved to Marrickville and so was not too familiar with street directions, especially at 4:00am in the morning after a party in Paddington. Of course I was not drunk.

I had hailed my cabbie from Oxford St and directed him to Livingston Rd, Marrickville. After a while the suburb looked vaguely familiar but unfortunately I could not exactly navigate him to the street where I lived.

He could not read a road map.

It was 4:30am and he was prepared to leave me in the middle of nowhere. Remembering the landmark decision, Donohue versus Stevenson’s Snail in the Bottle case I thought, this bloke has a duty of care to take me home. And yet he didn’t care.

I got out of the car and ran.

His limited English stretched out to include, Fucking Bitch and Fucking Slut in his vocabulary. Fortunately I was able to escape by running the other way. I managed to get into another taxi and the driver knew exactly where my street was.

I was so traumatised that the next day I suffered a bout of diarrhoea which, indeed was uncomfortable as it lasted the whole week. And that week was Melbourne Cup week.

My day in court

The previous year I was charged for drinking on the train. I would have paid the fine except it was $400 and with constant train delays I was sick and tired of funding Bob Carr’s chronically bad infrastructure system.

So I decided to have my day in court. Going to court is like going into a public hospital system. Every freak known to mankind is present and most of them badly dressed.

If I was a magistrate, dress standards would apply in my courtroom.

I would ban white pants, midriff tops, three quarter jeans, jeans full stop!

Facing the magistrate was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I was even given the opportunity to cross examine the ticket inspector who charged me while he sat in the witness stand in his little Railcorp uniform.

I had entered a plea of ‘Not Guilty’ on the basis that the fine had incorrectly stated that I was charged at Wynyard Station at 9:30pm when in fact I was charged at Chatswood Station at 6.00pm in the evening.

In the end, it didn’t matter when and where the ‘offence’ happened, the fact was I was guilty because I was drinking on the train, according to the magistrate.

Fortunately I was only charged $65 in court costs and given a firm warning and dressing down from the magistrate.

Courts are very intimidating places. They’re not exactly warm and fuzzy places and with police – with a penchant for Robert Ludlum books - everywhere and robed barristers. It’s not an environment that one would experience in their everyday life.

From my experience, however, the magistrates were very sympathetic to us freaks who represented ourselves.

One magistrate was particularly tolerant of a young man with a strong resemblance to Eminem who simply told him to fuck off when he approached the bench uninvited.

Having represented myself, they were very patient, instead opting to give the arrogant barristers a run for their money.

I can’t imagine Alan Jones et al sharing my praise.

Copper dogs and Shit like that

Picture this! You are on your second date and you are eager to please the object of your affection. The first date went extremely well so you think to hell with it I’ll take him to my local. You’re enjoying your flirtatious banter over a schooner of New when he leans over and whispers in your ear “Careful the person behind you is a repeat offender.”

Saturday night and I am at Marrickville’s Royal Exchange Hotel sharing my romantic evening with a police identified repeat offender.

My date was of course a police officer. Apparently photographs of repeat offenders are plastered over the walls of inner west Police Stations.

This bloke, the repeat offender, had just come out of jail l a week ago for armed robbery. “He comes from a criminal family and his brother is still in jail”, he said.

Sneaking a look at my fellow dining companion behind me, all I saw was a seemingly gentle giant tucking into the specially priced T-bone steak with mash potato and a side of steamed vegetables.

Beats prison porridge I suppose.

Dating a police officer had its upside. Pillow talk gave me a unique insight into some of the machinations of the Force. Criminals affectionately call them ‘Copper Dogs’ and Police call them ‘shit’.

According to my copper dog, Marrickville is full of shit.

One night in my favourite noodle bar I asked my Copper Dog if he could spot any diners who were ‘shit’.

Gazing over the diners he replied, “That one over there used to be a shit, and that one over there will become a shit”.

Another day as we took a leisurely walk down Illawarra Rd, my Copper dog nominated which passer by he would stop to do a search.

The problem was, it was most passers by.

I’ve never had any problems in Marrickville – here’s hoping’. Once I was called a ‘curry cunt’ by an irate woman when I refused to give her any money. But that was in Burwood NOT Marrickville.

Have you been the victim of a crime?

Cops and Leb hair cuts

Recently my neighbour Lou ran into a spot of bother with some chaps up on Warren Rd.

The poor lady was walking home one night when “some young boys” walked past her and politely murmured “excuse me mam.” No sooner were they out of eye shot that she smelt something burning in her back pack.

The horrid buggers had dropped their cigarettes into her back pack setting the bag on smoke.

The ‘incident’ happened in the early evening on Warren Road just outside the rambling home of the woman with ‘droopy boobs. Fellow residents may remember her on their walk to Woolies on Illawarra Rd. She’s often on her porch drinking a VB.

Anyway – Lou asked if she could call the Police from her home. The droopy breasted woman refused saying “Why bother the cops. Stuff like this happens all the time.”

Enraged, Lou made the call in the privacy and comfort of her home. The police duly arrived and offered the description “Did they have Leb hair cuts?”

We suspect the constables were young.

The police thanked her and said many incident such as these happen and it’s important that citizens in Marrickville report such matters to the local police otherwise “we have no way of knowing what’s going on out there.”

So readers please keep our local cops informed of any incident that happens near your area.

Have you been the victim of petty crime? Has anyone ever seen a police officer with a Leb hair cut?