Arrested for Hummus - Part III
Jail. *True story alert*
You can read the two parts of this true crime trilogy here: Part 1 and Part 2.
Two police vans pulled up.
The response from Thames Valley’s finest seemed a little disproportionate to our crimes against finger food.
Half a unit piled onto the pavement, braced for all-out supermarket hyperviolence. At the sight of three mellowed-out inebriates, the force lowered their batons.
Me, Kat and Faris were completely unfit for the tear-up they were promised. The boys in navy-blue had us kettled into a fast-tiring heap at the base of the security scanners.
Our mall cops filed an adorably thorough report with the everywhere-outside-of-the-mall cops.
In the calm before the police’s arrival, my thoughts had turned to the gravity of my current situation. The last thing I would ever want is to let the people I care about down.
My heart was set on making sure my arrest was the unforgettable spectacle my friends’ deserved. Mind made up, I settled on a homage to the legendary detainment of this booming Aussie eccentric*.
Two flat-arsed constables paraded me, handcuffed, out into the busying city street. The duo took great pleasure in angling my face towards murmuring clubcardholders.
Truly, the pleasure was all mine. With a wink to my accomplices, I started spasming for freedom like an upcreek salmon. As the cops strong-armed my floppy carcass towards the van, I rumbled out:
“You may take away my dignity! You may take away my freedom! But you will never, I say, never, take away my love of caramelised onion hummuuuuuuus!”
The street was silent. Except for the restrained applause of the cuffed. The only two who got it.
Despite my theatrics, Katrina was awarded a mobile detention unit all of her own. The 90Ib woman rightly assessed as more of a threat than me, a double-handcuff guy.
In our paddy wagon, me and Faris laughed off our right to remain silent. The stony policewoman was jotting down our every heckle. Delighted, we emptied our frazzled imaginations of anything that could and, hopefully, would be used against us in a court of law.
There aren’t many crowds tougher than the back of an arresting officer’s head. Sat on our hands, we finger counted her occasional lip quivers in the rearview mirror. Around one a piece, we lost track and nominated a new official scorekeeper.
Here’s an excerpt from the police notes of the police notepad:
… oops I smiled again. I should not have done that. That’s 3-2 to the heavy-set, yet staggeringly handsome, gentleman in the Hawaiian shorts. I’m a busybody bacon bobby on the beat. Yes I am, yes I am…
Here’s another:
What are you in for?
Murder.
What are you in for?
Arson.
What are you in for?
Tzatziki.
As the city cells were full, we ended up in a little-known outpost in the arse-end of Bumfuck, Oxfordshire.
The van door clunked open. Maintaining intense eye contact with Faris, I nailed a majestic double-cuff belly flop onto the gravel - pulling it even to 3-3.
The cell was a modest 1-room stay, complete with en suite, extra bedding available upon request.
I woke with a breathalyzer in my mouth and a policeman stood over me, ¾ shocked ¼ impressed.
A pretty-decent microwave lasagne was slid through the food slot.
“The service here is excellent!” I cheeked at the uniformed lasagne fairy.
“Thank you, we really do try our best,” she responded, taking it as a genuine compliment.
Thinking about turning my life around, I heaved out a dozen or so press-ups. After heaving out a dozen or so throw-ups, I decided the current direction would have to do.
Jail cells are not the horniest of environments. Although, that’s little concern for the young, hungover and bored. The moment I worked up anything structurally significant, the fingerprint guy appeared - as if he were some kind of shaft genie.
“Terrible service,” I muttered at the shaft genie. “Where’s the lasagne fairy,” I thought.
My court-appointed solicitor, Jayne*, was enjoying a moment of relief in her grim caseload of Sunday morning regrets. Of which I had zero. Still complacently waved, I explained the primary motive of my crimes, peckishness, and secondary motive, the dehydrating properties of kettle chips. She, too, conceded it was not enough dip.
The police interview presented an unfair test of my biological incapability for taking anything seriously. My interrogators were coming at me bad-cop worse-cop for the chickpea-charge of hummus larceny.
“Why did you take the…*looks at notes*...says here.. hoummous?”
I told them the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It wasn’t enough dip.
“And did you nick anything else?”
For the benefit of the recording, the suspect is clenching the smirk from his face and appearing sincerely remorseful.
“Tzatziki, sir.”
Interviewing officers are an even tougher crowd. But, in the end, even the feds had a curt chuckle.
“Hardly the heist of the century, is it?”
Which I resented. We tried our best.
My freedom was tainted by the fact the fairy would have granted me another lasagne for a quarter hour’s more bird.
Later that day, ‘The Trempette 3’ were reunited. We exchanged jail stories over a disappointing kebab, elevated to ordinary by the taste of freedom and sum of sauce.
Inside, Kat had batted her eyelashes with the same effectiveness, she had the security guard. No charge. Eventually, Faris’s clarification of his innocence wore down the department’s anyone’s interest in his guilt. No charge. I got a feather-light warning. Yes charge.
I always knew dip would be my downfall.
It was an alcoholic marvel that each member of the gang was hammered enough to take down a supermarket - but not-so hammered they couldn’t recollect the job. Maybe, just maybe, that furniture polish preserved something in us after all.
We’ve fallen out of contact over the years, but you never forget those you’ve served time with. If you’re reading this, what do you say gang, let’s get Tesco’s Most Wanted together for one last score.
*If you haven’t seen it, you’re in for a real treat - here.
**My solicitor is actually a subscriber. Shouts out to Jayne!
I've never been arrested, but I did take a shaker of pepper flakes from a Pizza Hut because my order was taking too long. My little brother was with me, and he was scared someone would catch me. The shaker is still in my parents' pantry!
“What are you in for?”
“Tzatziki.”
LOLOL Brilliant