I’m surrounded by coppers for the first time since my LSD arrest

On the hottest day of the year so far, I found myself on the verge of the roundabout between Colindale Station and Aerodrome Road. I was wearing a tweed jacket, my black Levi’s 501s and a fetching but heavy dark shirt because it was the cleanest in my wardrobe. I had had very little sleep over the previous couple of days; that morning I had woken up at 5am, after finally dropping off at 2am. I had plenty of time to kill, so I lay me down to rest while the traffic roared past me.

I wondered if this was an arrestable offence, or whether I presented the kind of unsightly spectacle that would prompt a passing police officer to suggest I move on. A large part of me hoped that such an officer would accost me, as then I would be able to say: “Funny you should say that, constable, as in about an hour’s time I will see one of your lot graduate.” For I was about five minutes’ walk from Hendon Police College, where I was to go to see my friend L—, previously referred to in this column as “the pint-sized polis”, graduate from the college as a detective constable in the Met. I was to witness the ceremony with L—’s mother, K—. The pint-sized polis had given us a rather earlier time than the official kick-off, for she knows that her mother’s timekeeping is atrocious.

We walked, sweltering – K— as overdressed as me – to the college, carrying our jackets. The sergeants had been taking bets as to how many of the recruits would faint in the hot weather. Their dress uniforms are woollen, heavy and dark, and they have to do a lot of marching and standing. The previous form put the smart money on around seven out of the 97 who were graduating; I was looking forward to this immensely (it is, after all, called a Passing Out Parade), but I was beginning to wonder if I would be another casualty.

The first cheering thing about the Hendon Police College is that outside its front door they have a Tardis. The second cheering thing was, on this day at least, the crowd of proud parents, siblings and friends of the new recruits, all dressed smartly (if a bit more sensibly than me). A multicultural crowd, plenty of Muslims and the odd Sikh; two of the Sikh children, aged about five and seven, were dressed in identical suits with black bow ties – adorable. I saw two or three girls, about the same age, dressed as police officers: also adorable.

Inside, L— showed us round before the ceremony commenced. Remember when Nicholas Angel receives the Baton of Honour at the start of the film Hot Fuzz? Well, that’s not a gag. It’s a real thing, in a display case, and it looks like it does in the film.

It was odd being in a building so full of coppers. The last time I had been surrounded by so many officers was when I was arrested for possession of LSD in the small hours outside Buckingham Palace in 1982, but that’s another story for another day. At that time my relationship with the law was somewhat fraught; today the only awkward moment was trying to have a wee while surrounded by policemen in dress uniform, including white gloves. And of course they have their helmets to carry. So many helmets all over the place! They look much bulkier when put on a table.

In the parade ground were three police cars on display from the Met Historic Vehicles collection. One was an American import with the licence plate V12 COP (after its engine) and a Triumph Stag from, I’d say, 1974. But I only had eyes for the blue Rover P6, one of the most beautiful cars ever made. People of a certain age will remember them vividly. Its curator was particularly proud of this one, and let me sit in it. And gave me a badge afterwards. Yes, I know. I’m a kid. (But I learned to drive in one of these, so it was also Memory Lane.)

The parade was impressive and moving. The new recruits had only two days to practise their marching. There was also an incredibly shouty sergeant major who put the fear of God into me. She must have had quite an effect on the people she was actually shouting at. I later learned that she was six months pregnant. “She must be nails,” said K—, as in “hard as”. It was very military; there was even a band of Scots Guards pipers.

Although we were sitting under cover, police officers – including sergeants – were handing out bottles of water to the guests. Was this them being mindful? Honestly, it’s political correctness gone mad. Disappointingly, only one recruit fainted. Afterwards I was told that he was one of the younger ones, aged 18, and that his peers had beforehand nicknamed him PC Plod. Inside again, another PC was cradling a very young baby; no idea if it was his or not. He called over to a colleague: “Come and say ’ello, ’ello, ’ello.” I cannot tell you how much this pleased me, but then I got the strong impression that the Met is very conscious of its traditions. And it seems to have shed some of its more unwelcome ones: being gay is now barely worthy of remark; and the multicultural nature of the spectacle gave me great hope. And I fell in love with a lady sergeant, who had looked at me. Not the shouty one.  

[Further reading: Arsenal winning made me absurdly happy]