Stalked by the fuzz

I've always done my utmost to be a good boy. I never egged old ladies in the street, never stole sweeties from the corner shop, and was certainly never caught under-age drinking on Terminal Four Hill.

That said, an incident this week served to remind me how those entrusted with serving and protecting us can be freakin' weirdos.

Let's back up a bit, shall we?

Back in 2001, soon after I'd bought my first Mini Cooper, Sparky Pa turned to me one day and said "Son, you're a young lad in a fast car - don't be surprised if the Police haul you over on suspicion of nicking it." So I made sure I was always carrying the correct documentation and a cheeky smile.

Several years later, when I'd upgraded to my Mini Cooper S, I finally had that run in with the Police. It was around Christmas time, and Mr Chunt and I had arranged to meet up for a pre-Christmas drink. So I drove over to pick Chunty up, parked up alongside his house, and turned the engine off in anticipation of going and banging on his front door. As I turned the headlights off though, a Police van (not a car, a VAN) drove across the top of the road. I thought nothing of it.

Seconds later said Police van is parked at an angle across the front of my car, and the eight uniformed occupants are all staring at me. The driver wound down his window, instructed me to do likewise, and asked me why I'd turned my headlamps off. Because, of course, we all know that's incredibly suspicious behaviour when a car parks at the side of the road.

Numerous amusing responses pounded through my brain at warp speed, ranging from "you'll never catch me, fnar, fnar!" to an Ali G style "is it because I is black?" But the thought of spending the night in the cells meant that I told the truth.

"I'm waiting for my mate," I said, pointing. Handily, Mr Chunt had heard my car pull up and had come outside at that exact moment. He looked a tad startled by the fact that a massive Police van was looming over my little Mini, and when the collective group of officers turned to face him he smiled and waved.

Slightly pissed that he wasn't going to be able to arrest me and charge me with turning off my headlamps, the Police driver "harumphed" and drove off. Of course, Chunty lived in a dead end at that time, and I was quite amused to see the massive van having to do a three-point turn. It was like that bit in Austin Powers where he has to turn that little golf cart thingy around.

Anyway, off I drove, laughing like a maniacal supervillain. And by 'laughing like a maniacal supervillain' I actually mean 'grumbling about Police harrassment and wanting my Mummy.'

Fast forward to this week!

I leave work at around 16:30 - I think it was Thursday - and I'm walking round to the company who graciously allow me to park my car outside their office for the miniscule sum of £10 per week. So there I am, trudging along, bag slung over my shoulder, listening to my iPod, hands in pockets, a regular everyday hunk. Then in front of me I notice three of those community Police officers - y'know, the ones that aren't actually real Police; it's more of a hobby that lets you dress up as a Police officer - kind of like when I dress up as Batman and try to rid the streets of crime. Bless them, they looked like three middle-aged mums who'd been inspired by watching too many repeats of Cagney and Lacey and decided they wanted a bit of the action. And by action, I mean standing around looking at a phone box with a smashed window. I could tell their motherly instincts were kicking in, and they just wanted to sweep up the broken glass and smack someone's botty.

So there I am walking toward them. Then one of them looks at me at the precise instant that I turn to walk into the trading estate where my car is parked. She clearly thought "a hot lead!" and the next thing I know I'm being tailed into the trading estate by three tubby mums playing dress-up in an unmarked R-reg Ford Fiesta.

You'd think that one of the first things they'd teach you at fake Police academy is that when tailing a sexy suspect you should follow from a distance, not drive along at four miles per hour about six metres behind said suspect. Maybe Cagney, Lacey, and Plus-one had a bake sale that day and missed class?

Anyway, they tail me down the driveway of the trading estate, into the estate itself, and when I get to my car and start putting stuff in the boot they drive by really slowly and give me the evil eye. I may have winked cheekily by way of response. Obviously wanting to maintain their low-profile, they drive to the end of the trading estate, park up, and get out their notebooks. To be honest, I don't think they were writing down my vital statistics; it's more likely they were planning their shopping lists.

As exciting as this all was, budding supervillains like myself can't hang around all day seducing fake Police officers with our sexy good looks and cunning plots. So I hopped in my car and drove off. I think they might've intended to follow me, but Cagney clearly got a bit caught up in the moment, bunny-hopped the Fiesta forward, and stalled.

Shame. I was quite looking forward to a hard and fast pursuit through the back streets of Hammersmith at an average seven miles per hour.