When a fine was really fine

LIVING as I did, in a Midlands industrial area, the sight of a policemen often meant trouble; but only in a cautionary or secondary manor.

I am of course reflecting on the bobbies there that I came in contact with seventy or eighty years ago who sported sharp pointed helmets and mostly were of a happy nature.

They were the benign symbol of good and were largely problem solvers. They carried watches and whistles 'want to know the time, ask a policemen' was parodied in a 'hit song' sung on stage by comedians.

Helping old folk and school kids to cross the road was one of their main jobs and one they were good at. There were no ‘lolly-pop men’ in them days. They could show you the way home – and help you if you were a touch inebriated after dark. That was then… and of course things changed as we grew up and so did the coppers. We thought we knew how to ‘bamboozle’ them and they - humorously and without force - knew how to bend us to their will.

Then yonks of years past and the Un-Godly began to become powerful and the enemy of the ‘evening all’ policemen became ‘the fuzz’, ‘the heavies’, the ‘Sweeney’, ‘the unloved’ and a lot more unlovable nick-named beings that made life less easy and more stringently controlled.

Instead of helping old ladies across the road and saying ‘hallo, hallo, hallo’, they took on the role of being primitive warders, 1984 style. Even for us perennial peacekeepers, bobbies, from being our guardians became something of a heavy hand beyond the reach of the Jack Frost brigade.

Perhaps I’m being a little extreme but policing became a threat rather than a protection and sometimes the mild became the accused. And – like it or not - with it crept just a slight touch of corruption. I know this for a fact because I have benefited from the subtle changes.

I have talked, wheedled and bought my way out of uncomfortable situations which luckily have ended up in no more than the odd reprimand and miniscule fine but NO criminal record.

Often these imprecations have been unfair – like being taken to court and fined by my local shopkeeper-commagistrate, 15 bob for riding a push bike in excess of 15 mph – but then, some coppers and JPs are less humorous than others.

Law, though is dispensed differently outside the UK as I was quickly to learn when I became a nine-carat European.

I never got a parking ticket in London, Lincoln or Llangollen but I did – in short time – in Alfaz del Pi. I had parked in front of a bank (there were no yellow lines in those days) returned and discovered a bit of paper under my windscreen wiper accusing me of an infraction.

There was no written indication regarding my offence but I had incurred a parking ticket for 500 pesetas – 400 if paid within 24 hours – so being a most law abiding character, I rapidly nipped off to clear up the misunderstanding.

The ayuntamiento police station was barely two minutes’ walk away so I tootled in to pay. The place was like a morgue.

It was as barren as lunchtime at an ice-cream parlour in Greenland. A lovely toothless old lass with a squeegee mop and pail was the only occupant.

In my ‘Spanglish’ I enquired where was the local bobby. After a few loony looks she replied ‘He’s having his almuerzo’ then added ‘over there in the Café Royal’.

Like a startled rabbit, I shot across the street to the café where the owner Salvatore

was tending bar. Belly up, wearing a benign smile, the solo customer was el Policia Municipal munching a bocadillo and enjoying a Mahou.

With a degree of trepidation, I approached this guardian of the law and offered him the offending ‘multa’. He scratched his head, put on his rather smudged ‘gafas’ said nothing – his mouth was too full - and held out his hand.

‘Metálico’-wise, I counted out 400 pesetas into his sticky palm and made my way to the door. ‘Momentito señor’, he growled, tore the summons into bits, tossed it on to the already scruffy floor tossed a few of my coins on the counter and hollered: “Quiero una copa.”

After a signal to Salvatore he eased his backside on the stool and took another huge bite of his sarnie.

This was the first time I had experienced the long arm of the law in Spain and it didn’t hurt a bit!