"You're under arrest for possession of a suspected Class A drug," she said. I can remember hearing that and looking at the chick (who was wearing an NYPD T-shirt, and honestly I thought she was joking) and thinking, "Yeah right." So I continued doing bumps out of the bag until she clapped a pair of handcuffs on me and started spouting the usual cop spiel. By this point I'd done four or five bumps of what was the best yay I'd had in a long time, so I was pretty fucked. If I'd not been so fucked I'd have spotted them a mile off, they were dressed like backpackers circa '97 that had to find clothes in a bin when they'd run out of money in Romania, or something. They even had goatees.THE ARREST
First of all I'd like to clarify that the cocaine wasn't even mine and I'd basically been caught holding some fucking trust fund kid's bag of yay. He and his two douchebag friends had been intent on standing in the middle of the street doing bumps (well, I think it was my idea actually). They wanted to do it off some table in the middle of the street, but either way we'd definitely been caught. As it transpired the police had been watching for some time on CCTV and this wasn't trust fund and co.'s first visit to the end of this street to do yay. Apparently the feds were just awaiting the best opportunity and seeing as we were standing right under a revolving CCTV camera we were probably the easiest arrest they'd ever had.
So I'm standing there in handcuffs and the other three are all looking rather stunned, but there are only two undercovers who are waiting for uniformed officers in a marked car to turn up. When they finally arrived they spoke to us separately. The usual questions: "Where did you buy the drugs? Is this your first arrest?" One of the uniformed officers, a pretty chick who must've been in her late twenties, took an instant dislike to me. She looked at me with total disgust and said, "You're no better than a crackhead." As I was still completely trashed (White Ace is a hell of a drink), I asked her to repeat what she'd said.THE CAR
The marked car arrived, lighting us up like a fairground, attracting the attention of all of my mates who were still drinking up the square. They all came over and were just standing right befuckingside me. I was a bit pissed at them to be honest, as I was really trying to conceal my intoxication from the cops. So I gave them a customary double thumbs down and they kinda dispersed. I could hear faint shouts of, "He fucks kids!" and "He has more in his ass!" from them as they walked back up the street. I got in the unmarked Mondeo with the two undercover officers. In the car I could hear vague strains of "Straight Outta Compton," which I thought was a little odd considering they were police officers. I thought maybe my mind was playing tricks on me and I was really close to asking the cop to turn it up for me when suddenly I realised it was my iPod in my pocket. I focused on the faint sounds of N.W.A. and detached myself from their dry conversation.THE STATION
When I arrived at the station I realised that the kid who'd bought the yay in the first place had also been arrested, but his two friends had been let off. I could only guess it was because he was being a total dickhead at the time we were accosted by the undercovers. He wouldn't shut up and was basically the most annoying dude EVER. Anyway, after handing in all our belongings we were led to separate cells in Bishopsgate Station, everywhere else was full. I wasn't looking too good: they'd already found out I was unemployed, but was carrying £112.37 at the time of arrest. But like a lot of things during this arrest they didn't even bother to ask about it. Nor did they even ask who I bought the coke off. They actually didn't care. I guess you get gratis points for arrests or whatever.THE STRIP SEARCH
Now I'm not sure what happened to the other guy, but I got strip-searched. By two male officers. With the cell door open. Nice one fellas. First off was the flannel. They checked the pockets and put it on the bed. Next off was the Slayer shirt. Then I was just in jeans, boxers and socks, still fucked, thinking, "Oh man, I really don't wanna take off the rest." One sock at a time next, turning it inside out for the bastards. Then off came my jeans. So I'm standing there in my boxers when one of the officers tells me to put my T-shirt back on. It isn't a very long tee. Then they asked me to remove my boxers. I've always wondered what's less sexy, a man fully naked aside from a T-shirt, or fully naked aside from socks. Both are equally grim, but now I've decided the two together are worse than one or the other. So off came the boxers. Hello shriveled cock, thank you cocaine. "Lift up your balls please sir." OK. "Now turn around and squat." Degradation. But luckily no cavity search.THE CELL
After all this, nothing really happened. I had been dying for a piss since the arrest and as soon as I was alone in the cell I whipped out my decimated penis and began pissing lamely in the steel toilet in the corner of the cell. Then I was like "Fuck these guys," and started pissing all over the floor. I had a little chuckle and a fart too. Cells are fucking boring. All I wanted to do was smoke a zoot and fall asleep. I couldn't kip on what was practically a Lego bed, the air con was freezing, and the lights were so bright they pretty much found a way through my eyelids. I just lay there, dozing off occasionally. I was regularly awoken to be asked more retarded questions like, "You're Irish. That's in the UK right?" After eight hours I'd had enough. There are only so many arrangements you make outta the screws on the AC panel over the door, or so many times you can work out the amount of tiles on the wall and how they're laid out.THE OUTCOME
Anyway, after even more questions, a tape recorded confession, finger printing, more gaffes and stupid comments from the police—I was free. Not exactly Nelson Mandela but I was glad to be outta there and back to reality. 11:37 Sunday morning to be exact. Just before I left a friendly-enough cop entered my cell told me I was being cautioned and that if I wanted to do drugs that I should do them at home, not in the street and that if I insisted on doing drugs in the street, not to get caught. No shit porkchop.ROCKWELL
Advertisement
First of all I'd like to clarify that the cocaine wasn't even mine and I'd basically been caught holding some fucking trust fund kid's bag of yay. He and his two douchebag friends had been intent on standing in the middle of the street doing bumps (well, I think it was my idea actually). They wanted to do it off some table in the middle of the street, but either way we'd definitely been caught. As it transpired the police had been watching for some time on CCTV and this wasn't trust fund and co.'s first visit to the end of this street to do yay. Apparently the feds were just awaiting the best opportunity and seeing as we were standing right under a revolving CCTV camera we were probably the easiest arrest they'd ever had.
So I'm standing there in handcuffs and the other three are all looking rather stunned, but there are only two undercovers who are waiting for uniformed officers in a marked car to turn up. When they finally arrived they spoke to us separately. The usual questions: "Where did you buy the drugs? Is this your first arrest?" One of the uniformed officers, a pretty chick who must've been in her late twenties, took an instant dislike to me. She looked at me with total disgust and said, "You're no better than a crackhead." As I was still completely trashed (White Ace is a hell of a drink), I asked her to repeat what she'd said.THE CAR
The marked car arrived, lighting us up like a fairground, attracting the attention of all of my mates who were still drinking up the square. They all came over and were just standing right befuckingside me. I was a bit pissed at them to be honest, as I was really trying to conceal my intoxication from the cops. So I gave them a customary double thumbs down and they kinda dispersed. I could hear faint shouts of, "He fucks kids!" and "He has more in his ass!" from them as they walked back up the street. I got in the unmarked Mondeo with the two undercover officers. In the car I could hear vague strains of "Straight Outta Compton," which I thought was a little odd considering they were police officers. I thought maybe my mind was playing tricks on me and I was really close to asking the cop to turn it up for me when suddenly I realised it was my iPod in my pocket. I focused on the faint sounds of N.W.A. and detached myself from their dry conversation.
Advertisement
When I arrived at the station I realised that the kid who'd bought the yay in the first place had also been arrested, but his two friends had been let off. I could only guess it was because he was being a total dickhead at the time we were accosted by the undercovers. He wouldn't shut up and was basically the most annoying dude EVER. Anyway, after handing in all our belongings we were led to separate cells in Bishopsgate Station, everywhere else was full. I wasn't looking too good: they'd already found out I was unemployed, but was carrying £112.37 at the time of arrest. But like a lot of things during this arrest they didn't even bother to ask about it. Nor did they even ask who I bought the coke off. They actually didn't care. I guess you get gratis points for arrests or whatever.THE STRIP SEARCH
Now I'm not sure what happened to the other guy, but I got strip-searched. By two male officers. With the cell door open. Nice one fellas. First off was the flannel. They checked the pockets and put it on the bed. Next off was the Slayer shirt. Then I was just in jeans, boxers and socks, still fucked, thinking, "Oh man, I really don't wanna take off the rest." One sock at a time next, turning it inside out for the bastards. Then off came my jeans. So I'm standing there in my boxers when one of the officers tells me to put my T-shirt back on. It isn't a very long tee. Then they asked me to remove my boxers. I've always wondered what's less sexy, a man fully naked aside from a T-shirt, or fully naked aside from socks. Both are equally grim, but now I've decided the two together are worse than one or the other. So off came the boxers. Hello shriveled cock, thank you cocaine. "Lift up your balls please sir." OK. "Now turn around and squat." Degradation. But luckily no cavity search.THE CELL
After all this, nothing really happened. I had been dying for a piss since the arrest and as soon as I was alone in the cell I whipped out my decimated penis and began pissing lamely in the steel toilet in the corner of the cell. Then I was like "Fuck these guys," and started pissing all over the floor. I had a little chuckle and a fart too. Cells are fucking boring. All I wanted to do was smoke a zoot and fall asleep. I couldn't kip on what was practically a Lego bed, the air con was freezing, and the lights were so bright they pretty much found a way through my eyelids. I just lay there, dozing off occasionally. I was regularly awoken to be asked more retarded questions like, "You're Irish. That's in the UK right?" After eight hours I'd had enough. There are only so many arrangements you make outta the screws on the AC panel over the door, or so many times you can work out the amount of tiles on the wall and how they're laid out.THE OUTCOME
Anyway, after even more questions, a tape recorded confession, finger printing, more gaffes and stupid comments from the police—I was free. Not exactly Nelson Mandela but I was glad to be outta there and back to reality. 11:37 Sunday morning to be exact. Just before I left a friendly-enough cop entered my cell told me I was being cautioned and that if I wanted to do drugs that I should do them at home, not in the street and that if I insisted on doing drugs in the street, not to get caught. No shit porkchop.ROCKWELL