The Constabulary

June has seen two encounters with the Metropolitan Police, the guardians of law and order in greater London.

The first episode was on a Saturday night, or more properly Sunday morning. Having had a little bit of a late one, Lou had just gone to bed, and I was thinking of turning in at about 2am. Just getting to bed, and we were woken to the sounds of a phalanx of rowdy people storming the stairs to one of the upstairs flats, accompanied by some well-meaning girls yelling – shh shh. They get in and decide to turn on the bass, it was reasonably loud to be fair. This continued until about 4.15, when some random neighbour from around the way managed to raise the party on the intercom (which is located just outside our bedroom so we hear everything). The jist of it was the neighbour was incensed, and thought that the noise was far too loud, it happens too frequently (not a great sign), and that they had woken his entire family. The party responded by saying ‘it’s a Saturday night mate’, only a valid linguistic form if you are an Australian (these guys a rich English lads).

Nicely enough, they did go turn the music down, from over loud to just loud for the sizeable period of what felt like 5 minutes. No sleep was had, and Lou tried to call the council, but to no avail as the noise control officers stop work at 3am. We tried to use the intercom to get in touch with them and were not heard/ignored.

However, the cavalry arrived at 5.30am with the police trying to access the building. Lou kindly let them in, as she had arisen to go for a walk. In charge the police, and first politely try and bang on the door with their truncheon announcing that it was da police. Again, the party can’t hear them and thus the police are up for a bit of action so call for the enforcers (the battering ram people). Looking back now I think that the party realised the police had arrived and were hastily disposing of or consuming whatever drugs they had left. Anyway, the party do finally let in the police, just before the enforcers turn up. A stern talking to is given to the resident (who firstly denies being a resident, then sheepishly admit it when the police demand whoever is in charge to come out), and then out trot 12 young cool and hip people to the now quiet residential street. We were impressed by the level of response, 3 police cars with 6 officers, following up on what was apparently quite a few complaints.

Post script to this was a very sheepish young toff coming down and apologising the next day, Mr somebody somebody Esq. Good on him for showing the balls to apologise.

The next incident happened on a Wednesday night following a game of netball in Shepherd’s Bush. Lou and I were waiting at the bus stop – I hear an Oi!, I look round and there are 2 beeps on a horn and some guy has run onto the road and is hit by a small car, just avoiding a cyclist. London hasn't yet rubbed off to the extent that I don't care about anyone other than myself so I figured as I was a witness I needed to stick around.

The poor driver is quite upset, so have a quick chat to her. However the guy has disappeared around the corner. He is sitting down on the ground, and says he is ‘solid’ in an Irish accent. Being skinny, he is meaning he is fine, and he wants to go to the pub to meet his mates. ‘Let's walk to them’ I suggest, suspecting a tiny bit of bravado. He manages 2 steps before needing to stop, with that I try and support him, but he is having none of that and falls to the ground. So I prop him up, send some random girl to find his mates, and call an ambulance, with a side of police.

His mates turn up, and are very keen to move him away, saying he doesn’t need an ambulance. Taking quite a strong line with them was required, as there was no way he was moving anywhere, and being big lads it was a little confrontational. From my basic bit of medical knowledge I reckoned he had either a bruised or broken thigh. Finally convinced the boys that they need to let the professionals handle it.

So the police turn up first, and take statements from everyone, I was impressed by their handle on things, and their easy manner with all parties. Ambulance arrives less than 5 minutes after my call, and start looking at the victim. He is still professing that he is ‘solid’ and so the ambulance officer jokes and says ‘well I’ll be off then’. But the poor victim is in a bit of pain so gets the good stuff, some nitrous oxide, or laughing gas, which I had when I got KO’d and broke my thumb at Aussie Rules. It is pretty good at numbing the pain. So the dude is safely in the ambulance and Lou and I go head home. Made for a late night.

Wembley

Before we arrived on English shores, my club, West Bromwich Albion had made the FA Cup semi-finals. So this created a bit of excitement in the Yarrall family ranks, as Dad is a long term shareholder in the club, having been convinced to buy into the initial float in the early 90’s whilst on a boat following a long day in the sun after an England-South Africa cricket test.

Given that this was likely to be a once in a lifetime chance to see WBA in a FA Cup semi final at Wembley, a foreign concept to supporters of the likes of Arsenal, Manchester United et al, we thought it would be a worthwhile introduction for Louise into the football experience in the UK.

During many of the first calls home, Dad was always wondering how ticket purchasing was going. Poor was my inevitable response as the only way you could get a ticket was to have proof of having been on the club’s ticket database in the last 10 years. Given the last time we had been to a WBA game was in 1997, before the ticketing database was established meant we failed to reach the minimum requirements for a ‘club’ ticket. With all the other tickets held by corporates and season ticket holders, there were no official tickets available.

This meant we would have to follow the more risky ticket option of turning up to the game and buying off some dodge reseller. As Lou’s brother put it, the good thing about England is that you can turn up to any game and there is bound to be someone trying to make a buck from their ticket. Knowing our chances of getting a ticket were OK, Lou and I set off to Wembley.

The actual ticket purchasing options were fine once we got there, as a company was trying to flog off their tickets as no-one had wanted to go! I managed to pay the reasonable sum of £100 per ticket (face value of £160), not bad, but certainly a shock as we were still converting to NZD ($250 to those who care). Tickets were seated in the club level, and came with a free programme, which was a nice touch. Actually ended up sitting next to the brother in law of the WBA director of football who was a pleasant chap to talk to. We were situated behind the Portsmouth fans, which was a little disappointing, but they provided excellent vocal support for their team.

The pre-game atmosphere dominated anything Kelburn Park could produce, with 80,000 fans milling around, performing various witty chants. There was not a great deal of aggro going on, probably due to the great numbers of fluoro vested police officers.

As far as the game went, WBA dominated the first half, but failed to get close enough to seriously pressure the Portsmouth goal. Having not got the breakthrough I figured that we were going to struggle in the second half and sure enough we conceded soon after half time and spent the rest of the fixture chasing the game. However a number of positives did arise, firstly as Louise so quaintly put it, as least we wont have to pay for a FA Cup Final ticket, and secondly, WBA played well enough to suggest that they will be able to battle respectfully next season in the Premiership and not face the ignominy of another Derby County style season.

All in all, a great introduction into the world of English football for Louise, and hopefully we will be able to get to a few more games when the new season starts.