Goosed by the long arm of the law

I’m not sure what is going on with our Chi, but over the last month we have been soundly goosed by the long arm of the law. Honestly, I have no idea what is going on. We are far too middle class – not to mention middle aged - to be embarking on a life of crime. However, we need to seriously consider that it is our destiny.

 

One evening, we were driving home when Andrew pulled out of a slip-road and into the fast lane on the motorway. Up ahead, we saw a police car negotiate the line of trucks crawling down the slow lane. The policeman drifted across the road, spent a little time contemplating the middle lane, then straddled the fast and middle lanes. Andrew had to slam on the brakes to avoid giving him a bumper up the exhaust.

 

“OH. MY. GOD! Will you LOOK at that feckin’ EEJIT? WHAT does he think he’s DOING?” I said (and I’m sure as you read that line you could visualise the accompanying gesticulations.)

 

“Niamhie, please don’t point,” said My Beloved, wincing.

 

Finally deciding on the middle lane, the policeman drew level with us. He flashed the blue, issued an impressive blast of siren and pointed to the side of the road.

 

Andrew pulled up behind the Fuzz in the lay-by. I considered getting out to apologise for ridiculing him – because that was obviously the reason he had pulled us over – but we decided it was probably unwise given that I was suffering chronic repetitive eyeroll. Also my arm was still twitching. And I’m a coward.

 

After Andrew produced his driving licence and registration card, the Fuzz said that Andrew was driving too fast. Now I would like to stick up for Andrew (hey, it’s the least I can do after getting him pulled over), and state that for once Andrew wasn’t trying to break the sound barrier: he was doing about 90kph in a 120kph zone.

 

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry,” said my poor husband. “I don’t know what I was thinking. You are so right. You are quite the hero and oh my, what a big penis you have. No problem, I can stand here for another five minutes while you wave it around.”

 

And oh my, what a stupid wife I have, he could have added – and I admire his loyalty/restraint in omitting that.

 

We were let off with a warning.

 

But the hits, they just keep on coming. This Saturday, Danny invited us out in his dinghy to catch a few rays, maybe do a bit of diving. 

 

We were about 100 metres offshore – barely 5 minutes out of port – when we were apprehended by the Coastguard. Danny had not been aware that his boat – little more than a US$ 250 upended tub with an outboard motor – should be registered.

 

Our twin-turbined friend was adamant that we sail down to Port Rashid to get a serious dressing-down (personally, I’m not sure whether we could have been any more dressed down without being indecent). He failed to appreciate that, at a top speed of half a knot, his plan was neither safe nor practical. We suggested returning to port, loading the boat onto the trailer and driving down to Port Rashid, but I don’t think his brain was capable of processing common sense.

 

He radioed a couple of his buddies and they spent two hours towing Danny’s boat to Port Rashid where we woke up the man in charge. He came out to greet us in a vest and a pair of really exceptionally skimpy shorts. The tedium must have been getting to him, because we were the highlight of his day: he devoted three hours to making inane conversation and waving his fat, hairy legs at us.

 

Apparently it is law in the UAE that all seagoing vessels (the Coastguard was particularly stuttery when it came to what constituted a seagoing vessel. A surf-ski? No, no, of course not. A kayak? No, no, of course not. A ten-foot dinghy? No- yes- no- hmm) are registered. Not only that, but you must request permission of the Coastguard every time you put to sea. Oh, and neither Danny, Andrew nor I had any identification on us, having left our wallets at the beach.

 

Just when we thought he was going to produce the nipple clamps, he tired of toying with us and called the police.

 

“They might want to press charges,” he said.

 

At this stage we were a sadly salt-encrusted and bedraggled trio: Danny in his panama hat with streaks of suncream down his cheeks; me trying to pull my Speedo top down over my midriff; Andrew shiny and red in a singlet with his hair all stuck up on one side. The policeman arrived and took a statement from Danny and, for just a moment, we caught a whiff of – was it freedom? – no, just bullshit; we were to be escorted to the Rashid Police Station.

 

And so we spent what was left of the afternoon with our buddies The Fuzz. Nobody was willing to make any sort of decision and the art of covering your arse may not be subtle but it is time consuming.

 

Most of the police I have come across in my life tend to be so stupid they could throw themselves on the ground and miss. Well ok, I haven’t come across that many (please refer to the note above re middle classness): in fact, until I arrived in the Middle East my only brush with the law was more a gentle dusting. When I was about 15, I was stopped in Limerick by the Garda Síochána for cycling the wrong way up a one-way street with no lights.

 

“Don’t you have better things to be doing than harassing citizens for cycling without lights? I mean, shouldn’t you be off catching rapists and murderers and the like?” (I was fearless as a teenager. And impertinent).

 

“Get outta dere before I call the . . . ,” he puzzled for a moment, before finishing: “your mother.”

 

“Thanks Inspector Sergeant Major.”

 

“It’s Garda.”

 

“Congratulations.”

 

“Tanks. Go wan now.”

 

The police in this country don’t seem to be much brighter, although they are possibly the most pleasant collective you could ever hope to come across. However, polite and all as they are, I am still far from inclined to voluntarily spend an afternoon in their company.

 

There was a lot of shrugging and, “What can we do? The Coastguard wants to press charges.”

 

In total, we spent 8 hours detained by the coastguard and police. At 5:30pm Andrew was finally released to collect the car and our IDs. The police wanted us all to submit our passports as guarantee that we would return the following morning for an interview with The Major.

 

I told them Andrew’s passport and mine were in the wash. “What the <expletive deleted> do they <extreme expletive deleted> want with our <expletive deleted> passports?” demanded Andrew when I called him.

 

Andrew’s patience threshold is generally pretty high and it is a rare and spectacular event when it is breached. “This is getting <expletive deleted> ridiculous.”

 

Upon his return, Andrew disregarded Danny’s strategy of exquisite public-school manners laced with sycophantic apology and morphed into full-frontal Diva mode: “You want us all to come back? For WHAT? If a driver breaks the law, are all his passengers at fault too, HMM? I DON’T THINK SO. Alright, alright, ALRIGHT! We’ll be here. What time? Well, is it 8:30 or 9:00? WHATEVER! *HUFF!*”

 

The following morning we presented ourselves at the station and, while I sat in Reception reading Emirates Today, Andrew and Danny went for a chat with The Major. Of course, The Major had no idea why his time was being wasted on these clowns, time that could have been better spent picking his nose and texting his mistresses.

 

Although there are no charges, Danny’s passport is being held until he registers his boat