THE DAY I MET REALITY

THE DAY I MET REALITY

At five o'clock on the afternoon of Friday 10^th July 1964, the police training staff at No. 1 District Police Training Centre, Bruche near Warrington gave a huge sigh of relief as the Passing-Out Parade for Course No. 332 drew to a close; they hurried into the officers' mess and proceeded to get thoroughly pissed. How they had richly deserved it.

Class of 1964 (br-l) Graham Lee (br-r) Roger Harrop
 (mr r-l) Roy Aldington, Robert Stokoe, David Wardle 

Passing out parade

For twelve long weeks they had driven, bullied and cajoled 105 students, 81 men and 24 women, in a concerted effort to craft them into an literate, fearless and well disciplined asset for their respective police force; drawn from Cumberland, Westmorland, Lancashire and Cheshire. The Inspection and Parade, in the presence and in honour of The Right Hon. Henry Brooke, M.P. Secretary of State for the Home Department, had concluded without incident, save for a couple of toppled helmets and the odd fainting episode, somewhere in the rear ranks.

Right Ho. Henry Brooke reaching for another sausage roll

According to my Mother, who had relished the thought of her youngest son attaining such high office, and at such a tender age too, the day was “magical”. For months afterwards she regaled anyone who registered their slightest interest and was prepared to lend an ear. The demonstration of foot drill was wonderfully “mesmerizing” and the synchronized traffic control sequence, simply “sublime”; the officers' white gloves fluttering in the

Proud Mum

 air, mirroring the “murmur of white doves”.

I really do think that she imagined that I had personally choreographed the entire show especially for her as guest of honour. Embarrassingly, she had even tried to present me to Henry Brooke, just as he had stuffed a second sausage roll into his mouth. I dread to think what she had told Florrie Smith and the rest the neighbours afterwards.

Class 'L' instructor, Inspector Physick of Liverpool City was equally ecstatic, even though he had bet (and lost) two-shillings that at least one of the 'wooden-tops' would lead off with left foot and left arm, throwing everyone behind out of kilter. As for now the Manchester City Police Band played Colonel Bogey 'pianissimo' closeted in the background; whilst everyone tucked-in to a splendid buffet of mini-sausage rolls, egg and cress sandwiches (sans crusts and cut into neat diamond shapes); and tea.

It's Over
Stuttard, Plumb,Harrop & Me

It had been a gruelling time for everyone concerned with a roller-coaster of highs and lows, laughter and tears, friendships and accommodation block fights in abundance. Over time and often under duress, all of us had changed, matured and developed; some noticeably more than others. But we were all now considered fit for purpose and ready to face reality.

How prophetic, then, on this day Roy Orbison was Top of the Pops with his rendition, “It's over”. And so it was.

Well not quite, the immediate reality was that we all were subject to a five and a half day week and there was to be no 'bonking off' early. We were kept incarcerated until Saturday lunchtime before being let loose, with strict instructions to report directly and immediately to one's allotted divisional posting.

I chose instead to call in at home in Heald Green for a spot of lunch and leisurely family chat before making my unhurried way to Crewe to report my presence. Bad move. On my arrival I was ushered into the Sergeants' office where Sergeant George Green (Alan Green's father) had been awaiting my appearance; for at least the last three hours by now.

With no plausible excuses uttered from my side, Mr Green, as he was absolutely entitled, launched into the cruellest bollocking possible, without actually inflicting physical harm, that is, and I emerged out of his office reeling in self-pity. I did, however, make mental note to brain, ' Don't try that on again'.

On my return to Crewe I moved in to new digs at 22 Yew Tree Road, Wistaston, a very agreeable mid-wars semi owned by a well-to-do middle aged lady, Mildred Horton. She had married her husband Robert late in life, so had no children, and he had expired unexpectedly not many years later. She consoled herself with her two 'babies', a pair of mangy old Pekingese dogs, both suffering with chronic alopecia.

22 Yew Tree Road Wistaston

I copped for the tiny box bedroom, but as 'lodger' it suited me well. The large main bedroom at the front had been prepared especially for a new 'special paying guest', (note the difference) a Swiss lad whose father's company produced fine silk for the linings of 'Chester Barrie' bespoke gentlemen's suits, manufactured in their factory on Weston Road, Crewe. Raphael was a nice enough young bloke, handsome, well spoken, suave... and filthy rich. He soon became the boyfriend of an attractive blonde girl, the daughter of John Bee, the local estate agent.

His first demand of Mrs Horton was to remove the new luxurious Persian carpet she had recently installed at great cost in the master bedroom, as it was the source of fluff damaging his extensive wardrobe of fine suits. His second was for her to produce a hard boiled egg for consumption after every meal, apparently an old Swiss custom.

I didn't think he would last long there and I was right, after a few weeks he left, without even saying 'au revoir', as it happened. He was later replaced by Ronnie Evans, a Welsh boy working for The Ministry of Fisheries and Food who had offices down the road. We got on well.

Austin 'Nash' Metropolitan

As soon as I had settled-in I began to explore the place and in the detached garage I found every girl's dream. A dust and guano covered 1961 Austin 'Nash' Metropolitan convertible in vibrant turquoise and white. Wiping away the dirt from the door window I could see that the upholstery cream leatherette and in mint condition. What an absolute beauty.

Mrs Horton kindly allowed me to remove it from the garage (if I got the lawnmower out and saw to the lawns) and I convinced her that she should allow me to restore this rare specimen to its former glory. She hadn't driven the car herself for several years as her eyesight was fast failing, which probably accounted for the fact that she was never without her glasses, fitted with lenses the size and thickness of jam-jar bottoms.

Mildred's failing sight explained a lot of other things too, like why dog hairs were to be found everywhere, in every nook and cranny, surface and it even turned-up in the lodgers' food. She 'specialized' in  producing brawn, by the way, a sort gelated compression of plucked pigs head. Hygiene wasn't a particularly important issue for her as once, when her dear Robert was alive, she had employed a char-woman to take care of that sort of thing. Raphael hadn't been at all impressed with the state of the place, the food on offer or the gleaming Metroplitan for that matter. Why should he with his swanky BMW sports car parked in the driveway?

Although I always crept in when I arrived home after working nights Mrs Horton would always awake and call down for a cup of tea. I made two cups and took them to her room. She would cordially invited me in to her bedroom to sit on the bed and discuss what I had been up to during the night. Was this the start of a pattern developing here, what with the saga of Annie Dytor's bed?. As Mildred sipped her tea she elicited all the gory details of the night's proceedings and was an avid, enthusiastic listener.

Brady and Hindley

When the Moors Murderers, Brady and Hindley were arrested she was always thirsty for 'insider' information and when eventually their trial took place at Chester Assizes, Mrs H travelled to the city  each and every day without fail to witness the spectacle, armed with her flask of tea, sandwiches and knitting.I think she went by train not tumbril though.

Although I had passed my motor cycle drivers' test as soon as I was sixteen and, despite working in a garage, I had not yet got a full diver's licence for cars. In view of the eye-catching little number lying idle in the garage outside, I decided get on with it, soonest. I booked six, cheap, lessons with a bloke from Herdman Street, near the Sexual Diseases Clinic, who owned a dual control Ford Anglia and after just two outings, I confidently put in for my test. 

My car test date soon came through and before I knew it the day had arrived. The test appointment was scheduled for nine in the morning, so I was first on. I was on nights but after an hour's sleep in the chair I was up and at it, with a jacket covering my uniform underneath. Happily, I passed first time and I have no reason whatever to believe that my under-attire influenced the outcome in the slightest! No, really!.

I was full of enthusiasm now, Mrs Horton occasionally loaned me her car in exchange for running her about, doing bits of maintenance around the house and bringing the garden up to scratch. Soon I had abandoned going home on rest days to Heald Green on the train and favoured borrowing the 'Met'. One week I'd give Woman Constable Geraldine 'Gerry' Porcher a lift and the next I'd travel in her own Ford Popular.

The 'Met' (would that be 'Metro-sexual', nowadays?) was a real poser's machine, with a 1500cc engine, steering column gear shift (three forward, one reverse), two-colour body scheme, gleaming chromium, radio and a retractable hood, which came in very useful for posing on the odd day when it didn't rain. It did, however, have its vices. The suspension was so soft it performed like a coracle bobbing-about on the North Sea; as I found out one day navigating at speed the sharp left bend just before Jodrell Bank telescope. And, another thing, just try changing a wheel, without the jack turning it almost onto its side! All in all, life was good and I did consider myself a lucky boy.

Sweet Sixteen

Kings Hall

I had been 'seriously' courting a young red-head, Lorraine Lightfoot from Cheadle Hulme for about two years by now, having met her during my evening work at the King's Hall dance emporium and coffee bar, run by John Eaton and his wife. Lorraine had stunning, flaming, fire-red hair, always immaculately coiffured, something to do with working at the hairdressers over the garage in Gatley perhaps?

After Bruche I was teamed-up again with Ken Brown for three or four weeks and I was beginning to find my way around Crewe with ease, although I did find the town's people really strange. If you proffered, “Good Morning” to them they just looked at you daft and grimaced. Is he talkin' to me or what?  But Ken made everything look easy and nothing ever seemed complicated. And then I was let loose and met with the reality.

Often I was bored when I was off duty and found myself languishing in my box room, catching spiders from the ceiling and incarcerating them in a Swan Vesta match box, evidence of the unhygienic domestic conditions, should it ever be needed. So one evening I walked down to the Oddfellows Club at the corner of Nantwich Road and Edleston Road, above Charley Tilley's Hardware Shop, and applied to join. A game of snooker or two and the odd pint would surely relieve the chronic boredom?

How dare they?

I was handed an application form to fill in and assured that a 'seconder' to vouch my character would be found easily in a registered member. Wink, wink. I handed over my completed application, together with my two bob joining fee and the door man scrutinized it, front and back.

“Oh no son, I'm afraid it's just not possible” He said, “We don't admit policemen to be members. Oh, no. It just wouldn't do”.

And he tore my form in several bits. How bloody dare they?

Money was the main issue for everybody, or rather, the lack of it. I think that I am right in saying that my very first pay cheque was the princely sum of Forty-eight pounds, ten shillings and sixpence, nett, for a calendar month, some months having five weekends in them. (£48/10/6d or nowadays £48.54.) Within that amount was lodging allowance, boot allowance, lamp allowance, and later when I could afford to buy one, bicycle allowance.

Young Me

We were all in the same boat, all police officers were poorly paid and things wouldn't get much better financially until the findings of the Lord Edmund Davies Enquiry in 1978 started to take effect.

There had been a wholesale clear-out of police officers in Crewe Division during the first half of 1964 after an unfortunate incident involving several experienced constables and a wayward youth called Alan Hough; a tall, thin, belligerent individual who was always at the centre of weekend trouble in the town centre. By contrast, his mother was a lovely person, a school crossing warden in West Street and one delightful, happy and reasonable soul.

One weekend in January several policemen extracted Hough from the centre of a mini-riot in Market Street and took him for 'a ride in the countryside' to teach him a lesson. It appears they didn't treat him kindly and dumped him on the canal-side at Wheelock. He could have drowned and following a disciplinary enquiry the officers were found guilty of a number of offences. Five of them were sacked, leaving a large gap in the divisional ranks.

There was an influx of new blood to the division following the Hough debacle, so enter the magnificent four, plus me. As time went by these fresh recruits did very well for themselves. 

The late John Tecwyn Owen became Deputy Chief Constable of North Wales

Young John 'Tec' Owen

Police. The police authority chose him as chief constable in 1997 but he couldn't take up the post because of a Home Office rule, which has since been scrapped. It stated no one could progress to the top job having served as assistant and deputy chief constable in the same force. What madness, they lost the opportunity to employ exactly the right Welsh speaking bloke for the job. A giant character, he sadly died much too prematurely at the age of 62. One of his two sons, Simon Owen, is a well established police officer, blessed with 'Tec's' same charming characteristics and dry sense of humour. 

The last time I spoke with John was when I visited his headquarters in Colwyn Bay. I availed myself of the canteen at lunchtime and there he was sitting with the troops, chatting and listening to their concerns. Top man.

Still exuding youth -
 George Jones and me

Clive Atkinson (one of only two people I have known with a true 'photographic' memory) went to Greater Manchester and became Assistant Chief Constable. 

George Jones rose by outstanding merit to Detective Chief Superintendent, Head of CID in Cheshire; and the late Vic Williams, dear Vic, later commanded Crewe Division (until his unfortunate misunderstanding with a well known pub landlady). 
And there was me, too.

In those days, day to day administrative matters were run mostly by the senior constable, Harry Brett. It was he that dictated when you would take refreshments and it was he in charge of the duty rosta scales. His was a powerful position because in one bat of an eyelid he could change your comfortable ten to six day shift into a split-shift; ten until two and then back at six until ten. Ten pm until two am wasn't unheard of either. This then meant no refreshment break and a day totally wasted. It was done regularly to satisfy, “the exigencies of the service”, and it was a pain.

We had a fine array of Sergeants, some of whom, for convenience, chose to defer to Harry's superior all embracing admin knowledge. 

Alistair Murthwaite was the epitome of the Sergeant Wilson character of Dads' Army fame. The dapper and debonair Geoff Herron, who wouldn't have looked out of place in a crimson velvet smoking jacket in a Noel Coward production, such elegant style that he trapped his cigarette between the third and pinky fingers, and waved it about in a casual theatrical manner.

Sergeant Allan Jackson was the smartest of the bunch, his uniform always pressed and boots shining immaculately. His constant clean-cut appearance taught us all a lesson in how to look the part. He could disperse a group of unruly yobs at thirty yards distance just by striding toward them military style, such was his businesslike, no-nonsense bearing. All of which is sadly lacking nowadays.

We rushed to his aid one evening in the tap-room bar at the Royal Hotel on Nantwich Road, where a drunken colossus  of a man had decided to take him apart. The pair were still grappling on the floor, covered in blood. Not a drop of it, I hasten to add, was Allan's.

At the other end of the scale was George Booth, affectionately dubbed, 'Fag-ash Lill'. George was a short, stocky man with barrel chest and never seen without the remains of a lit cigarette in drooping from the corner of his mouth. When he spoke the fag jerked about erratically and the grey ash flicked off, landing on the top of his tunic pockets. He occasionally brushed it off in a token gesture using both hands but for most part the tunic was his ashtray.

The Traffic Department, such as it was then, was supervised by 41 Sergeant 'Corp' Harper. A bulky, corpulent man of truly ginormous proportions, his nickname derived from his stature rather than his army rank. Standing together he would have made the wrestler Shirley Crabtree (Big Daddy) look like a veritable wimp.

The 'Corp' was so important that he had is own parking space in the small car park at the front entrance to the building off Nantwich Road, where he entered the double doors sideways each morning on his way to his private office, just around the corner.

He had bought a tidy sized plot of land in nearby Haslington and from that very office was able to 'project manage', on a daily basis, the construction of a bespoke, oversized bungalow for he and his wife, in retirement. On his desk stood a block of wood with a six-inch nail driven through on which he filed dozens of builder's merchants and contractors invoices and advice notes. He was a leg-end in his own time.

Hugh Kenworthy

The inscrutible George Eccleston (Peter Eccleston's Dad) was uniform Inspector; the formidable Hugh Kenworthy (Allan's Dad) Chief Inspector and Cliff Woodcock (later ACC) was sub-Divisional Superintendent.

For some reason that I've never been able to fathom, Woman Sergeant Matilda “Tilley” Allen, a diminutive lady and rare breed of woman, took a shine for me right from the start. She was a truly compassionate soul, especially toward male officers, but, allegedly, controlled her female charges with iron fist. It may have been my youthful looks but it was clear from the start that this spinster of 'a certain age', wanted to 'mother' me and keep me safe from harms way.

Soon after my arrival, one wet and windy afternoon, she 'chose' me to go and make enquiries at an end terrace house on Richard Moon Street. It had been reported that the occupier, a middle aged male, had not been seen for some time and the neighbours had become concerned because his mother had recently died.

I went to the house and found it locked and secure. Looking through the letter box I could see a gent's bike but nothing otherwise untoward. Around the back I saw that a bedroom window was open and I could access it from the roof of the kitchen lean-to.

I climbed onto a barrel and onto the wet, slippery, Welsh slate tiles, crawled up the roof and went head-first through the opening. I could immediately smell the distinctive stink of stale, lethal, town gas. I looked around, made my way onto the small landing and popped my head into the front bedroom. I moved quickly down the narrow stairs and the smell became unbearable. I ran gasping to the front door, opened it and stepped outside gulping the fresh air. The wind blew through the house and promptly slammed shut the door behind me.

Oh 'kinnell. There was nothing for it but to go round the back and retrace my steps, ignoring as best I could the prying eyes of neighbours behind grimy net curtains. Once again I descended the stairs, there was a fresher smell now that the place had been aired a bit. As I entered the kitchen I saw an overcoat concealing a hulk, the garment collar hooked over an old fashioned gas tap. As I lifted the coat away, there was the missing bloke, slumped on a chair, elbows on an enamel bowl. Dead. Mercifully rigor mortis had set in so there was no reason to contemplate resuscitation.

When I eventually reported back to Sergeant Allen her first words to me were, “Did you try resuscitation”?

I had dealt with my first dead body, first suspicious death and I was routinely elevated to the important position of Coroner's Officer, for that's what we did in those days. It was usual that the reporting officer attend the post mortem, prepare the file for the Coroner and give evidence at the inquest. The verdict in this case was one of 'suicide whilst the balance of the mind was disturbed.'

There would be many such incidents in the years to come but this was a first for me. A short time later in a street nearby an elderly, grossly obese lady had died (of natural causes) on her downstairs bed. She had fallen from her resting place and her left arm elbow had entered a bright red plastic bucket placed at the side of the bed and jammed tight. Every effort was made by me and the undertakers to release the wedged bucket without success, so she was removed from the premises to the waiting hearse, bucket intact, covered with a bed sheet.

Not all such incidents of this nature ended well. Around this time I dealt with a young boy of about fourteen for theft of and from bicycles. There were thousands of cycles in Crewe and it was the chosen transport for many, especially those arriving and leaving work at unsocial times, such as railwaymen. You only had to stand outside the Rolls Royce or the Railway Works at clocking-off time to appreciate the scale and importance of bike usage.

The boy was one of several children of a West Indian immigrant family who were staunchly religious, God fearing and mostly well behaved; determined to make a better living for themselves. They lived in one of a terrace of houses in a street off Mill Street, the father had a job on the railway and the mother worked as a cleaner at several places. A good family of decent people.

I dealt with the juvenile in a perfectly normal manner, interviewed him at home, across the dining table beside the fireplace of the modest living room. Both his parents were present. He quickly admitted the offences. His parents were naturally concerned but the lad hadn't been in trouble before and nothing much was likely to come of this petty theft. I left the home on good terms.

A couple of days later I was informed that the mother had died in hospital following tragic circumstances at the home and that it appeared that she had taken her own life. Unbelievably, she had thrown herself on a raging open coal fire in the home and sustained such awful, severe burns to the upper body that she couldn't possibly survive. The dreadful manner in which she chose to purge her demons was truly, horribly, shocking.

The whole Jamaican family were completely devastated and I was totally inconsolable. I just couldn't understand how such a trivial matter alone could have had such a dire effect on the young mother and I was unable to function, eat, concentrate or bother about anything else, day or night. I seriously thought about quitting the police there and then. Perhaps it wasn't the job for me after all?

And I think that I would have if it were not for the 'father' of the block, 610 Constable Cyril Johnson. He saw what negative effect the incident had on me and how it was affecting my own well-being. He spent ages with me talking things through, what nowadays would be termed 'counselling', and gradually, I started to put things into perspective. But it was a horrible time, even though it was never suggested that my brief encounter with the family had anything to do with her dreadful demise.

Mr Brett may have been the senior of the senior constables but Cyril Johnson was definitely 'father' to the block. At breakfast times in the canteen the chef Ralph Smith, or more likely Elsie the cook, would serve up full English fry-ups to order and Cyril would sit in his usual corner on a long bench, picking at the last morsel of meat from his lamb cutlets, with his tortoiseshell pocket knife. His main, unofficial function though was to maintain the fine balance between right and wrong, practically, legally or morally; particularly with the younger lot.

It's significant that Brett and Johnson never once dined together.

Cyril Johnson educated me one day on earlys, just after I became married, by convincing me that the Missus would be delighted if I went home with a meat-safe for the kitchen; and he just happened to have one for sale. Meat safe!. We could hardly afford a decent cut of meat, although Bebington's butchers off Victoria Street would never allow a young Policeman's family go hungry. We hadn't got enough funds for a refrigerator so the suggestion of a meat safe seemed plausible.

“How much”, I said.

“Ten shillings”, he said, “But it'll do on pay day”.

I ended up balancing the thing on my cycle handlebars and trundling it three miles from his house to mine. It was an abomination. Every few hundred yards I considered dumping it with a note, 'Yours for free'.

 A large box construction on spindly legs, constructed mainly of tongue and groove boards, hand painted white, a bit like a rabbit hutch, with a square zinc mesh in the door to exclude flies. The wife thought differently and wouldn't have it in the house, so it ended up in the shed and soon starlings began nesting in it. It was quite an education in business dealings. Well, it certainly taught me an expensive lesson alright.

There have been several tragic incidents in which I have been closely involved in my role of police officer. A few have affected me adversely and in some ways, have radically changed my life. Some of those events, even now, I haven't fully discussed even with members of my own family, so upsetting were the circumstances. But they certainly changed me as a person, mostly for the better, I do hope. Perhaps one day I'll document them for posterity.

I was still only months into my service and the monotonous foot patrols in the town centre were relieved only by the odd shift riding 'shotgun' on traffic patrol with the likes of Graham Griffiths (who could stop a Rover 90 in its own length from 30 mph). I remember that Graham, exceptionally, was the proud owner of an immaculate Ford Consul Capri saloon car that he cherished and many others envied. A rare possession in those days.

It was he, in the early hours of 13^th November 1964, who had dropped me off in a country lane in Hankelow near Audlem to protect the scene of the murder of Walter Henry Broadhurst, a 38 years old labourer who had been found in a cess pit, known locally and rather colourfully as 'the blue lagoon', with his head smashed in. I was to stand there in the lane between two and four in the remote pitch blackness. 

In the distance I could hear Audlem Church clock striking what I thought was every hour. Time passed slowly, it never occurred that the chimes were quarterly and I miscalculated the passing time woefully. I smoked then and when I drew on my cigarette the red glow obliterated any semblance of 'night vision' I had developed for ages afterwards. I could hear the creeping sound of someone or something approaching across the field and was mightily relieved that it turned out to be nothing more than an inquisitive Friesian cow, with bad breath, as it happened.

Monday was cattle market day and often it would be me down at Gresty Road rubbing shoulders with the farming community, developing a close relationship and understanding that later paid dividends in the winter of 1967/68 when Foot and Mouth disease devastated the Cheshire dairy industry. Twelve hour shifts, day after day, were the norm, welly-booted and standing in the snow, comforted only by the warmth from a brazier provided by the heartbroken farmer. Terrible times for the farming industry.

Foot and Mouth Control but is that me?

I'd like to believe that this photograph, taken from the Force's 'Review of 25 years of Policing', published in 1977 to coincide with HM The Queen's Silver Jubilee; is me doing extra duty. It could could well have been but under scrutiny, I think it probably is someone else?.

Talking of Gresty Road, it was always a treat to police the home matches of Crewe Alexandra, especially if you were inside the ground. The football was never that great but that didn't stop the CID from scrounging free tickets.

Some years later I injured my right ankle while playing football and in desperation ended up at the Alex seeking the advice of professionals, Following the smell of wintergreen oil, I found Mick Gill, the club physiotherapist who greeted me and propped me on the couch in the treatment room. He delicately examined the damage.

“You need to get that treated son”, he said, “ If you don't you'll suffer arthritis with that in later life”.

“Can you do anything, Mick”?

“I can. But it'll bloody well hurt”.

And so he did. The pain was excruciating as he tried to shift the growth of calcification on the ankle bones with his massive hands. I passed out, apparently for some considerable time, whilst he administered the appropriate treatment. Several players winced and alternately covered their ears and held their crotches with both hands, from a safe distance. They had seen and heard it all before. But it did the job, and eventually I was cured.

I thanked him profusely for hurting me so cruelly, and limped away wondering if I'd made the right decision.

Foot patrols will always seek out comforts on long, cold, winter nights. Burtons, the men's outfitters was on the corner of Market Street and Victoria Street and had a little known side door that led down steep steps to the cellar under the shop premises. There stood an ancient cast iron coke burner that heated water to heat the shop radiators. It was the beat man's pleasure to spend half an hour or so in the soothing warmth and at weekends in the winter, dutifully oblige the shop staff by stoking the boiler and keeping things above freezing.

If you were on early's, one way of getting overtime, for 'time in the book' or occasionally welcome payment, was to volunteer for prison duties. Those miscreants convicted in the morning at the Magistrates Court, which was adjoined to the 19^th century convent, would be returned to the police cells, fed and watered, and taken off, usually

to Stafford or Liverpool Gaols or to one of several 'naughty boys' homes' in the region. Multiple prisoners would transported under escort in the divisional Trojan van, an early type of personnel carrier with a diesel engine that simply refused to start until it had been bribed and 'pumped-up' with Ki-gas.

Stafford Prison

On occasion there wouldn't be enough prisoners to justify starting up the Trojan. So when the odd town drunk had been sentenced to a few weeks 'respite care', for example. (You're going to love this).

The lucky officer, on paid overtime, would don a civilian coat over his uniform, collect a rail warrant for two people (only one return of course) from senior Constable Harry Brett, handcuff his prisoner to his non-leading arm; and walk him along Nantwich Road to the Railway Station, to catch a down-line train to Stafford. To preserve the prisoner's dignity the unfortunates jacket would be draped over linked arms to conceal the manacles.

No joke, this was the Force's cost-effective way of transporting the odd prisoner or two; and yes, you've got it, no sooner had we reached the railway station that the wretched vagabond invariably wanted to use the lavatory, urgently, for number '2's', with the train about to leave the platform over the bridge.

Cheshire Constabulary struggled to take its proper place in the second half of the twentieth century but a communications breakthrough came when we 'trialled' a new personal radio, the 'Lancon'. The device was so called because it had been developed for Lancashire Constabulary at their workshops in Billinge, near Wigan.

We welcomed the device with enthusiasm although making contact was very unreliable, especially at critical moments, probably because of the lack of strategically placed transmitter base stations, rather than the under-developed analogue radio circuitry. They wouldn't work, for example, underground in Burton's cellar!.

It really was a monstrous looking thing compared with modern miniaturized

Lancon Radio
Copyright John Davies 2008

digital technology but it was a start and the alternative of hourly conference-points was becoming ridiculously outdated. Nevertheless, Harry Brett wasn't convinced about the rapid pace of this progress and suggested we used both radios and hourly points, just to make sure; you know, 'belt and braces'!

The well known anecdote about a certain Inspector Flynn taking control of the base station microphone and announcing on-air, “Those of you's who didn't take a radio out wid you's tonight, come back in now and collect one, it's fers you's own safety”, is perfectly true and accurate.

The beasts battery was almost the size and as heavy as that of a car's. There was a webbing harness system that held the contraption securely to the waist and two sturdy black wires with speakers/microphones attached, one used for reception the other for transmission, clipped to either side of the tunic lapels. It didn't take long for the local hoodlums to discover that the wires were a very efficient way of strangling 'the pigs' (our affectionate nickname) until they were blue in the face.

I could have done with such personal communications some months earlier, when one night in Queensway, I was set-upon by several members of the notorious Mellor family. Alone I was clearly in 'deep doo-doo' as Dixie might have coined-it and about to receive a hiding from this drunken lot. Enter, the most unlikely 'saviour', when big Tommy Palin suddenly appeared.

The Palin's and Mellor's were long established sworn enemies but it did still come as a welcome surprise that Tommy had taken my side in the skirmish and stood back to back, fending off the common 'enemy'. I was truly grateful for Mr Palin's timely intervention.

The next bit is like an examination question. A practical, pragmatic, prudent exam, that is. For during the very next week I am engaged on school crossing duty in West Street, exhibiting the 'number one' stop signal to allow children to safely cross, when a Ford Zephyr approached from the town direction, Tommy Palin at the wheel.

I directed the car into the side street on my left with a flourish of my signal arm. The car drove slowly away out of sight. Now then, here's the nub of the matter, Tommy Palin was a disqualified driver. Tick one of the following three multi-choice boxes to indicate your considered answer.

I seem to have spent a lot of my duty time on Five beat in the west-end of town, the 'deep' end if you like, mostly on my sturdy Raleigh heavy duty bike, cape folded neatly over the handlebars as a precaution against the changeable weather.

It was all freewheeling downhill from Nantwich Road but the way back to the nick was always a bit of a slog. I got knocked off the thing once when a good looking young woman rather carelessly drove her car from a side street on my left and into my path. I braked instantly but the minor collision was unavoidable and I ended up on my backside in the roadway.

The young lady was ever so apologetic and concerned by the sight my plight. I was in deep shock and significantly embarrassed by my predicament but happily, totally undamaged. As I sprung back to my feet, I quickly looked around to see in anyone else had enjoyed the comedy interlude.

She began to say sorry but I interrupted her and insisted, “No, no, honestly I'm perfectly fine. No problem, no damage, the pants needed cleaning anyway...on your way, thank you”.

Thank you, mind!  No, me neither...

So, off she went with a cheery smile and cursory wave. Thankfully, I never did see her again.

All this walking and cycling the beat was turning me into a fit, lean specimen and I was starting to bulk-up, relatively so, that is. But sometimes it was becoming far too routine and tedious and that made for long shifts. I distictly remember on freezing nights, padding up the back ginnels, snickets and jiggers (dependant where you hail from) on the way back to the nick to clock-off and hearing the grunts, amorous groans, snoring and farting coming from the back bedrooms of terraced houses and thinking; lucky sods.

Sometimes I craved action in the quieter times. I was still getting the odd ride in a patrol car, especially at weekends, a trip or two to a domestic dispute in the divisional Morris Minor or weekend patrol of the town centre hot-spots in the Trojan van, mob-handed, so to speak. After the Hough affair it had been customary for patrols to work in pairs at weekends when there was always much merriment and drinking of alcoholic beverages, aimed at lessening the chances of officers being attacked and injured.

Just before I joined the job, for that's what it was for most of us recruits; a job, not a career or vocation, Lorraine and I decided to became engaged to be married. I was just nineteen and she a mere sixteen, going on seventeen. Most people thought we were crazy, reckless or both and were certain it wouldn't last. To be honest, it's been one hell of an uphill job proving them all wrong!

I had been told that a big reason for joining up was the job security a constabulary provided and that on marriage an officer could expect, as part of re-enumeration, an immediate allocation of a police house. Wrong. Once again I faced reality.

We married at St. Mary's Church, Cheadle, on 13^th March, 1965, borrowed my brother's A34 van and honeymooned, embedded, in The Bull and Stirrup pub in Northgate Street, Chester, (now part of Weatherspoon's). It was freezing and we spent most of the night feeding a gas meter with shilling coins to ward off the cold. We tried other methods of course. This was part of our meticulous laid out plans for our future together. Next day we returned to Crewe, collected my long awaited pay cheque, cashed it in and for some inexplicable reason, bought a square of Wilton carpet from Crewe Market. We still had nowhere to live.

Mrs Horton came to our rescue. In return for cleaning, cooking and general housework we could have the vacant front bedroom until the little matter of homelessness had been resolved. It didn't work out. In bed after coming off nights I could hear them downstairs rowing, mostly about the unsocial behaviour of our mongrel pup, 'Lucky', who, it has to be said, was the unluckiest dog alive.

By Saturday things had reached a head and it was clear this situation couldn't go on. I asked to speak with Chief Superintendent Woodcock urgently, and he agreed to see me that night when I reported for duty. I told him of the situation and made it clear that unless we could be housed soon, I would reluctantly have to resign from the force.

He assured me that he would help and to be fair he was as good as his word. On Monday morning I was awoken and told we had been allocated a police house at 23 Moreton Road, Wistaston, which would be vacated by the present occupier in two weeks time. 

The present occupier was Detective Sergeant (the late) John Desmond 'Des' Southwell, later Chief Superintendent, who would become a good boss, mentor and friend. Coincidentally, the house had once been the home of 1085 Constable Les Plumb, who until his untimely death in a road accident, was holder also of my collar number, 1085.

We moved into Moreton Road on 11^th May, 1965, and a new chapter in our lives opened.

Not for the first time had I been made to face reality.

Coming up next...

The end of my two year probationary period was in sight. It was a busy market day in Crewe and I was patrolling the area of foot when I was paid a visit in Earle Street by Chief Inspector Eccleston and, wait for it, Sergeant Harper. For once, the 'Corp' out of his office and on foot, a sight never before seen in living memory.

The three of us lined up at the kerb edge facing the traffic, so as not to block the pavement, Frank Harper in the centre. Women with bulging shopping bags surrounded us, squeezing past in the crush on the crowded footpath when, without warning, the 'Corp' leg go with the greatest confidence and gusto, the biggest, loudest, longest, wettest, rip-roaring flatulent fart imaginable; anywhere in the animal kingdom. The brazenness shook me rigid. I looked around and passers-by froze momentarily before masking their faces and risking passage.

“Huh, huh, huh” said the fat man loudly, and turned towards me with a wobbly, treble chinned grin.

“They all thought it were one of thine young man... just as if, just as bloody if.”

It must have been a lucky break of wind, well, they do say 'it's an ill wind that blows no good', because a couple of weeks later Traffic Sergeant Harper called me into his office and what he said made me a very happy chappy...

THE DAY I WAS AWARDED A "BARNEY'S BUGLE"

THE DAY I WAS AWARDED A “BARNEY'S BUGLE”

I got to thinking the other day that if, somewhere out there in the Cheshire Constabulary fraternity, another example of “Barney's Bugle” still exists. I have my own signed copy, neatly folded and

placed in the back pocket of my official leather notebook holder, which stored with the rest of my police 'souvenir' memorabilia and ephemera, somewhere up in the far reaches of the loft.

Amazingly, during the whole of my police service, spanning over thirty years, I have only been involved in an incident involving firearms twice. And they both occurred during the same week of nights. The culmination was the award of the rare and coveted “Barney”.

Not that I was in any way a complete stranger to firearms I hasten to say, after all I had become a trained and authorized divisional firearms officer as a constable and had re-trained, to preserve a credible level of accuracy, on several subsequent occasions, including when I became a patrol sergeant. Armed police officers were not as ubiquitous in those days mind and there was nowhere near the perception in the police service that a requirement for instant fire-power, 24/7 was remotely needed.

The redoubtable Sergeant Derek Dunne, who just happened to be both the Force fingerprints and firearms expert organized the training, ably assisted by several experienced firearms instructors; for example the late Sergeant John Hamlett, a true gentle-man in every sense of the word. For the most part it was good fun; especially on such occasions when the Force took over a huge white, empty mansion on Eaton Road, Handbridge, for bespoke firearms training purposes.

The exercises here were specifically to educate students in the art of entering, re-taking and flushing-out a bunch of armed criminals in a siege situation. Instructors acted as the criminal gang, embedded in the large, three story multi room old house. We were instructed to open fire only when absolutely necessary and the taking of live prisoners was preferable. What could possibly go wrong?

Right from the start there was an unspoken but justified sense that the meticulously planned operation wouldn't end well. The first clue was when we couldn't gain entrance through the rear door because nobody had 'clocked' that it opened outwards. It all went downhill from there really. When we did eventually get in, working in pairs, we moved stealthily along the ground floor corridor checking each room for insurgents until the leading group came to the large family kitchen.

The leading officer spied a pair of boots, strategically placed by the instructors in a gap under the large open pantry door and immediately convinced himself that he was about to come face to face with his nemesis and therefore, in real life, his maker. When the pantry door suddenly violently swung, under the influence of an attached string pulled by one of the cunning 'criminals', in hiding a safe distance away; he instinctively reacted and let rip with a few rounds toward the door panelling of the empty walk-in cupboard. 'Tap-tap'...'tap-tap'. More accurately, in the echo inducing deserted building, 'boom-boom'...'boom-boom'.

That was the trigger and catalyst for blank rounds to be discharged by both sides from every nook and cranny in the rambling building, in a scene reminiscent of the shoot-out in 'OK Coral'. The house quickly filled with acrid cordite smoke.

I am now at liberty to tell you that this tactic isn't an option to be undertaken lightly because it's nigh-on impossible to 'flush-out' anything by this sort of dangerous notion – save, perhaps, for employing the extreme strategy of letting loose the SAS, as in the style of the Balcombe Street siege of 1975. The lesson learned now was graphically clear.

Firearms training took place at several venues including Sealand Ranges and occasionally, in a massive borrowed remote farm barn off the Calveley Straight. On one particular occasion the afternoon session was to familiarize students in the deployment of CS Gas and for them to gain an appreciation of its effects through personal experience of the substance. It was to be a reality check for everyone because we were to be administered a goodly dose of the stuff in an intimate group environment. No expense spared.

For those interested, CS Gas is so named after its inventors, Ben Corson and Roger Stoughton at Oxford in 1928, the title assuming the first letter of each surname. The noxious gas was further developed for military purposes at Porton Down in the 1950's and 60's and now it was to be our pleasure to sample some of it for real, within the confines of the barn. Its effects are instantly debilitating, causing immediate symptoms ranging from mild 'tearing' to choking, vomiting and prostration. Strangely, it doesn't affect dogs (and many other animals) much because of their hair and under-developed tear ducts.

So then, I had been chosen, quite randomly from the group, to deploy a canister of CS from a shotgun type launcher and was directed to aim the missile through the huge open barn doors in the side of the building from about 50 metres distance. I shouldered the instrument, identified the target, closed one eye, aimed high and to the centre of the substantial opening, fired...and missed. The projectile had missed the generous target by a country mile. The smoking missile had started its journey in a rather pleasing trajectory toward the farm building, had caught a sudden crosswind and veered off-target left, ricocheting off the roof.

The thunderous metallic noise from the corrugated iron roof panels causing a nearby herd of grazing Frisian cows to panic and bolt in every direction; and the voluminous white smoke and gas slowly drifted in the breeze, serenely in the direction of heavy vehicular traffic at Bluestone Crossroads, leaving several of the beasts coughing and spluttering.

Sergeant Dunne was mortified by what had taken place and stood motionless,

gazing at the billowing clouds racing away, diminishing exponentially in potency but nevertheless still representing a hazard. Apart from the expense involved, what if the milk curdled and there was a claim from the farmer? Worse still, what if passing drivers became victims and sprung a chain reaction?

My fellow students who had gathered to observe my marksmanship skills at a safe distance fell about on the grass convulsing and writhing about in uncontrolled fits of laughter, tears in their eyes, pretty much as if they themselves had copped for a decent dose of the gas.

Needless to say I was severely embarrassed by my unfortunate personal misfortune and endured uninhibited mirth, in the form of, “couldn't hit a barn door”, for several years to come.

Anyway, as I was saying before I interrupted myself, both gun incidents happened during the same week of nights when I was on Traffic Patrol duties in Chester Division. We had two cars out that Monday night, Tango Alpha One covering Chester and the south and Tango Alpha Three over at Ellesmere Port; both single manned. It was quiet first half and after my scheduled refreshment break I called in at the Force Control Room as requested to pick up a package wanted next morning at the Port.

It was just after two o'clock and there was quite a bit of interest going on in the room; several operators were monitoring the progress of a 'high speed' chase along the coast road in North Wales. In rapid succession on the previous evening there had been a robbery at a convenience store, a burglary on school premises and a bilking at an all-night petrol station.

The culprits had made off in a stolen Ford Cortina towards English border, with somehow, a North Wales police van in 'hot' pursuit. Incredibly, the van had got fairly close-up to the suspect vehicle when the police driver reported being fired at, apparently from a hand-held firearm brandished by a passenger from the passenger window of the fleeing Cortina. The police officer had reported seeing flashes each time the gun was discharged; but nevertheless, to his unnerving credit, the policeman kept up the chase as best he could. For his outstanding bravery he was subsequently awarded the Queen's Commendation for Bravery; and rightly so.

Perhaps predictably, the stolen car eventually ran out of road in Broughton near the aircraft factory, mounted the verge and crashed into a substantial tree. The passenger, with firearm in hand, made good his escape on foot, vanishing into the darkness. The hapless driver was arrested at the scene by the police van driver and was safely in custody.

I ran from the control room to my patrol car parked in the yard below and blasted down Hough Green toward the boundary at Saltney where I took up a position to intercept vehicles or pedestrians heading for the city. Constable Ian Litherland in TA3 was making his way across to join the search but to be perfectly honest neither of us realistically expected the fugitive to come our way.

It wasn't long before North Wales Police circulated details of the wanted shooter, provided in short-shrift by the arrested getaway driver. And it emerged he was a bit of a bad lad. David Jones from Wigan, Greater Manchester, six foot-four inches, well built with long, spiky ginger hair and copious self-inflicted tattoos. He was wearing jeans and a distinctive chequered jacket. Jones had been in trouble with the law since early childhood and had dozens of convictions for assault, theft, drugs, robbery and...firearms offences. He ad no fear of the police and was wanted on warrant.

We set-up a block on the boundary and to pass time stopped and checked everything that moved in or out of the city, including the driver of Pickering's Dairy milk float. Ian had stopped a car heading out of town and was busy chatting to the driver.

It was just after three-thirty when I saw in the distance, near to the entrance to a small trading estate, a darting movement of some sort. I told my buddy what I had seen and that I would drive up and have a “shufty”.

And so I did, switching off the headlights and turning slowly into the estate entrance. In truth, I couldn't swear that I had seen a 'person' in the roadway; had I been absolutely sure of that I probably wouldn't now be approaching in such a cavalier fashion.

I got out of the patrol car and stood there for a moment not immediately realizing that I was silhouetted by the sodium street lighting behind me. As my eyes adjusted, I couldn't believe what was emerging. From behind a low brick

wall, twenty yards or so from where I stood, a head 'popped-up' and faced toward me. The head was covered in a thick matt of spiky ginger hair and two piercing eyes were looking in my direction. In modern parlance he was Ed Sheerin's doppelganger.

I was clearly in deep trouble, a 'sitting duck', so to speak. I'm still not sure what motivated me in that instant. Most likely it was the 'fight or flight' response, the physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack or threat to survival. It certainly got me thinking that I might not be that immortal after all.

There was no alternative; I launched myself towards him, screaming like a mad, male Banshee, simultaneously drawing my baton and raising it swiftly to the one o'clock position, determined to surgically neutralize him before he could inflict any harm on me. Madness abounded, especially as I reached the wall and David Jones, for it was him alright, inexplicably dropped down into a foetal position, curled up, both arms raised over his head in self-protective mode.

I have absolutely no idea what made Jones capitulate so rapidly; whether it was through his sheer exhaustion, a resignation that arrest was certain or simply to avoid waking up with one very sore head.

I seized the opportunity and handcuffed him, used every ounce of strength that I could muster and dragged him around the wall to my patrol car where I unceremoniously deposited him, face down over the bonnet. Marvellous this adrenaline stuff, but in truth, I was still shaking uncontrollably when Ian arrived a minute or so later.

The pair had stolen two weapons and ammunition. It turned out that they were

in fact starting pistols, stolen earlier that day from the sports hall of a secondary school they had broken into in Wrexham. Nobody involved could have known that the weapon was to turn out a harmless imitation. Both pistols had been ditched by Jones on seeing my approach. They were found nearby.

Jones was handed over to the North Wales police together with a statement of arrest. Job done. I understand that some years later David Jones died from an unprescribed, self-inflicted, drug induced episode in his cell whilst serving a long sentence in Strangeways Prison.

The rest of the week passed off reasonably quietly until Sunday, that is, when I had a young probationer straight from Bruche, riding 'shotgun'. I regret I can't recall his name but he will surely recall this event if he ever gets to read about it.

We had purposefully held close to the city to get stuck-in to any weekend action but about half-eleven we had a call to a traffic accident on Sealand Road near to Ferry Lane. A driver had 'lost it' on the bends and rolled his vehicle, half

blocking the road. He had fled the scene but witnesses were eager to tell us that he was well drunk. We cleared up the mess and established that the driver was from the Eastham area. So we repaired for an early break, intending to deal with him later when he arrived home.

About half-past one we set off from Chester along Liverpool Road turning left onto the A41 at Moston. Just beyond the bend a beige coloured Austin 1100 straddled the left hand pavement, partly on the road. The rear offside tyre was flat and two youths were standing aimlessly at the rear, one holding a scissor-jack, the other the jack handle. I had recognized the vehicle registration number straight away.

I placed the patrol car in a protective position, switched on the hazard and blue lights, and radioed control room to send back-up assistance, urgently. I had no idea if the probationer was up to speed with the current situation or how he would react if it all kicked-off, as I fully expected it would. But as we exited the car I urged him to be vigilant.

The car and its occupants had earlier been circulated by North Wales Police as wanted in connection with a series of armed robberies throughout their area at petrol stations and shops. On one occasion a sawn-off shotgun had been discharged into the ceiling of the garage to draw the cashier's attention to the seriousness of his predicament. These villains were potentially dangerous.

As we approached the men they were clearly agitated, the one with the jack in his hand particularly so. I had no intention of letting them gain an advantage by getting themselves behind us, that's for sure. They told me that their problem was, that although they had a good spare wheel and jack, they had no wheel brace, so couldn't remove the wheel and flat tyre.

“What a shame”, I said, but no matter, we could help.

I asked the probationer to get our wheel brace out of the boot, knowing full well he would have a job finding the tool among the masses of equipment; and anyway, even if he did, I knew it wouldn't fit the wheel-nuts of the stricken Austin. The young officer took his head out of the boot once or twice to report that he couldn't find the wheel-brace but I urged him to renew his efforts, winking at him, raising eyebrows and developing surreptitious, convulsive and spasmodic tick, just for emphasis.

The atmosphere grew tenser by the minute and it was becoming increasingly clear that this prevarication wasn't going to last much longer. Luckily it didn't need to.

The sweet, high-pitched sound of a screaming Morris Marina engine, ear-

piercing decibels in the still night air along Liverpool Road, was unadulterated music to the ears. It just had to be my counterpart, the late (I seem to be using that word far too often lately) Constable Richard “Dick” Perks, clearly with his right foot flat down to, or perhaps through, the floor-boards.

The sound of Dick's, err, Richard's imminent arrival had another inevitable effect too. The pair had smelled a rat and the bloke with the jack decided it was high time to take a swing at me; I got to grips with him and all hell broke loose as we both dropped to the deck with evil intent on both sides and in equal measure, both struggling to get the upper hand.

The probationer realized instantly what was happening and grabbed hold of the second bloke before he could exacerbate proceedings, cause a nuisance of himself or retreat into the night. In the circumstances the young lad had acted marvellously well; astutely correctly interpreting my weird gesticulations and sudden facial afflictions; and pouncing to make the arrest at exactly the right moment.

And Dick Perks' timely intervention finished off any threat of further violence that this malevolent pair of Scousers might have intended to inflict, especially if we had been daft enough to allow them to regain access to their vehicle. For lying there, on the back seat of the car, hidden under a jacket, were two fully loaded firearms; a sawn-off single barrelled .410 and a sawn-off, side by side, twelve bore shotgun. Both weapons ready to go.

That particular summer's week North Wales Police had suffered a spate of really nasty crimes committed by interlopers visiting from metropolitan areas far away. A friend of mine, an inspector from Pwllheli, told me that in the summer months the population of North Wales can swell by well over 50% with hoards of resident holidaymakers and day visitors. But the number of police officers on duty remains fairly constant.

Where was I? Oh, yes, after a well earned two days off I returned to duty on Wednesday afternoon and was summoned to see the sub-divisional superintendent. I can't possibly divulge his name because he is still about so I'll do all that I possibly can to protect his anonymity and call him by his nickname; “Dixie”. See what I did there?

The superintendent was newly in place as sub-divisional commander having been promoted to uniform duties from his detective superintendent role in Special Branch. Apparently, there had been some sort of 'kerfuffle' in the elite echelons of this mysterious group. It had been described by one insider as “the night of the long knaves” or something like that and Chester Division had been the winning beneficiary of the outcome. For “Dixie” was a real breath of fresh air.

“You had a bit of an exciting week, last week by all accounts, didn't you Roy”? He said, looking pretty chuffed.

“Well, you can say that again, Sir”, says I.

“Seriously though, both jobs are well worthy for a Chief's commendation. But you can't have both, not two in the space of a week, it wouldn't look right. So which one do you want then?”

“Both”, says I.

Without speaking further he began to draw something on a small piece of paper, I couldn't make it out but he signed it with a flourish, folded it carefully and handed it to me with a kindly smile. I opened it up; upside down as it happened, and stared at it for several seconds; bemused.

“Know what it is”? He asked.

“A trumpet”? I said.

“No”, he said.

“A cornet then”? I offered.

“Nope, it's a 'Barney's Bugle' for you to keep safely and treasure. Consider it to be a personal award in lieu of the Liverpool Road job. Next time you get into deep doo-doo I will personally exchange it for a mitigated pardon. I owe you one, a sort of Monopoly 'Get out of Jail Free' card, do you see”?

Now, I don't know for sure but my guess is that the seriousness of your alleged misdemeanour would be roughly commensurate with the “mitigated pardon”; and would therefore dictate which end of the bugle is inserted during the redemption process.

See what I mean? This style of boss was like a breath of fresh air and always a pleasure to work with.

I have “treasured” my 'Barney's Bugle' all these years but I can tell you that, on the one occasion when I needed it most... it malfunctioned, spectacularly!. But that's another story.