Hey, I just got raided!

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I'm sitting here at my computer A2K-ing away, when I hear a knock on my door. I open it to see two gentlemen of the law. Beyond them are three more, stationed a. at the corner of the property, b. at the end of the drive and c. at my car. A police sedan and station wagon are parked along my fence line.

I live on the corner of Smith and Jones streets. The house faces onto Smith St but the address is actually Jones St. Don't ask me why, I only rent the place.

Anyhow, I timidly asked "Can I help you?"

"Joe Bloggs?" the leading cop asked

(I'm not exactly Michelle Pfeiffer, but I'm no Joe Bloggs) "Sorry" I replied
"No one here by that name."

"This is 25 Smith Street, isn't it?" he asked

"No, it's 25 Jones Street" (The pedestal on which the letterbox sits actually has '25 Jones Street' painted on it.) "I think you'll find 25 Smith Street is further along that way." And, trying to be helplful, I pointed down the street.

"We've got the wrong place" he called to the others. they piled into the two vehicles and took off.

"Well" I said to myself "That was a bit of fun and excitement in an otherwise dull and dreary day." and went back to scrutinising Msolga's latest cartoons in the Next Election Oz thread.

Five minutes later, through the window I see the cars pull up again and out climb the officers. This time though, they take up their positions around the house on the opposite side of the street. (Which is also on the corner of Smith and Jones, fronts onto Smith, but is number 27 Jones.) and they go through the same rigmarole with the occupant there.

They didn't get any joy there either - obviously someone screwed up when passing the information onto them - and off they went.

"So what?" you ask. Well, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Obviously it was something important and/or dangerous if there was a need for five officers, with three stationed at access/escape points. This seeming to be the case, their having to go to at least three addresses in the one street, each one being 'wrong' has a certain keystone kops look to it. If someone was up to something really nefarious they would have had plenty of time to finish what they were up to and just take off. (Or even send the police off on another wild goose chase.)

About six months ago I rang the police because the man who used to live in No. 27 was evidently beating his wife up (thumps and screams and yells at 1 am). They told me a car had been sent. I hope this wasn't them just arriving today!

Anyway, folks, no moral to the story or anything like that - I just thought it was funny and that I'd share it with you. :wink:

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Oh my!

Actually, you're kind of lucky.

In the bad old days, (when police were, one gathers, naughtier than today, and I was working as a Probation/Parole officer), a group of us at my office began to refer to a serious offence that was not on the public law books, but clearly existed.

We called it: "Wilfully Disappoint Police".

This offence generally occurred when police had been given a tip off that drugs were being sold at a particular address.

The drug squad would bust the door in, and swarm all over the place....if they found nothing, it was not unusual for them to plant something, and then leave...only to burst in again a while later, and bust the occupants for the planted stuff.

This was presumably on the basis that the tip off was correct, and there just happened to be no drugs at the time.

I used to take clients' claims about this with a grain of salt, until it happened to friends of mine!

They moved into a new house, and were shocked to be raided in the middle of the night.

The police found nothing, and went away grumbling.

The householders, desperate for a cigarette to settle themselves down, could find none...and were reduced to searching under the cushions of sofas etc.

There, in the crevice behind the sofa cushions, (which had, of course been searched by the constabulary previously) they found a large bag of white powder!

Horrified, they flushed it down the loo, and burned the bag on the fire (phew!).

The police reappeared some 30 minutes later.

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Fascinating, Bun. Just checked behind the cushions. All is clear!

The funny part is that from the comings and goings across the road, the foul language that emanates from the place, the blankets hung at the windows for curtains, etc, he possibly is in the trade. I just keeps meself to meself...

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Thank God they didn't find your bathtub full of hootch!

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You ain't just whistlin' dixie.....!

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Chai Tea wrote:

Thank God they didn't find your bathtub full of hootch!

Lol!!!!

That is too close to the bone..or nearly so.

Once upon a time I shared a house with two men.

One of them had a friend (called "Big Eddie"...he was 6' 8"...the other two were only 6' 3' and 6' 5"...to me, now, everyone is short. Sometimes I used to stand on a stool when arguing with those guys...but I digress).

Big Eddie hailed from somewhere in Central Europe, where they make hooch from plums. It was great.

Big Eddie taught my householder, Richard, to make fruit hooch.

R went out and bought an old copper, made the curly pipes etc, and we raided the garden for fruit and set up the batch.

Now, the man next door hated us. He had clearly had a laryngectomy, and used one of those voice boxes. As is not uncommon for those with these cancers, he had an alcohol problem. He also had a violence problem, and from time to time we called the police or intervened directly when he was bashing his wife. HER screams we could hear.

He declared war on us.

He would catch us when we came home and yell, as loud as his voice box would allow, for us to kill a plant we had that was invading his garden, or about other things.

The guys used to pretend to misunderstand him, and would reply very pleasantly to his curses and insults....

"Get rid of that ******* wandering jew!!!!!!" (that is a plant)

"Thank you, and a very good day to you too!"

"No, you ******* stupid bastard, I'm telling you to kill the plant!!!"

"Yes, my aunt is very well, thank you for asking. And your aunt?"

So it would go.

Anyhoo, we had our hooch maker in the laundry.

One night, I went out to feed the animals., and left the laundry door open as I went in and out.

Suddenly, I had that watched feeling, and I looked up. Yep...there he was....standing at the fence, gazing fixedly into the lighted laundry, with the most obvious illegal still you could ever imaging, bubbling away gently to itself, in the clearest possible view.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGHHHH!

We expected a raid any second!!!!

Down the loo went the mash!!!!

Down our throats went the teeny bit of glorious liquor we had produced!

Scrubbed and scoured were the copper and the tubing and all the other accoutrements.....and into the backs of our cars, and quietly dumped.

Thing is, there never was a raid.

I guess brewing alcohol was the only thing we ever did that he didn't hate us for.

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Poor buggar was probably spending his every waking moment trying to think of ways to make friends with you...

About a million years ago, when I was getting ready to go to Belgrade, a mutual friend arranged for me to meet some people from there, so I was invited to afternoon tea.

The only English speaker in the family was the five year old son. We sat at the table while he interpreted and poured the 'tea' - home brewed slivovitz - from a silver teapot into delicate china cups. Lethal stuff!!

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I loved both your stories. Thanks.

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Me, too.

Got any more up your sleaves?

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msolga wrote:

Me, too.

Got any more up your sleaves?

Thousands.

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Well ....?

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My old schoolmate is now looking after various Royals and having a rare old time, but back in the late seventies, he was in the Sweeney (Flying Squad) for a while and took part in many such raids as Lezzles mentioned.

Most of them were pretty straight forward, but a fair few were absolute cock ups, the more memorable one being the raid on a very posh flat in London.

The suspect was on the third floor of this block, and my mate said that there were maybe three or four other front doors on this corridor, all very grand oak, with exquisite hand carving.

They all assembled outside the appropriate door, and the boss rang the bell, shouting "Police, open up".

Nothing....apart from faint music coming from within.

"POLICE - OPEN THE DOOR NOW!" (Accompanied by loud banging on exquisite hand carvings.)

Still nothing - but definite sounds of movement in there.

Flat door down the corridor opens and man sticks his head out.

"Go back in, sir, for your own safety" says the boss.

Man asks if it would be alright to leave the building, so they wave him out.

A short while later, after the final warning, several burly policemen spend half an hour trying to shoulder barge the door which finally gives way, sending them spilling into the hall of the flat.

The rest of the group (including my mate) surge through to the living room, only to find a very famous BBC TV newsreader, wearing a pair of giant headphones and listening to classical music at full blast.
He looked quite surprised.
(for Brit readers...famous newsreader? late 70's? classical music fanatic?)

Anyway, you probably guessed that the man they wanted had been waved away and had quietly left the building.

Apparently, the cost of the door and frame repair came to over a grand, which was a small fortune in 1978.

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Hey, I just got raided!

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