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In 1973 the police department finally realised the poor use of the resource of clearway cyclists, of which I was one, working at Redfern Police Station and they began transferring them.
 
I had heard the rumours but nothing official and eventually I received a call from Sergeant Bruce Scott at the Traffic Branch asking me if I wished to be transferred to the Special Traffic Patrol at Waverley or return to general duties.

To my mind there was never a choice.   I had had my time working on general duties and for a period as a cadet in the detective office at Newtown and this seemed the very best option.   I was never really career orientated.

Bruce said I could to to Special Traffic Patrol Headquarter, Bullshit Castle, as some referred to it, under the northern railway approach to the Sydney Harbour Bridge or Waverley.

I had heard of the Special Traffic Patrol (STP) police at Waverley, in particular Dennis Stephenson who had gained a spectacular reputation of being a tyrant of the Eastern Suburbs, (poor Dennis is dead now but would have loved to have read those few lines) and jumped at the opportunity to join the group.

The day came and myself plus John Murphy, also from Redfern were transferred to Waverley STP.  The only problem, we had to take our bikes with us, so on the first day, I arranged for my father to drive me into Redfern early pick up a Honda 450cc and it's diary and ride it over to Waverley.

Seven other cyclists did the same from their respective stations.

So on that day John Murphy, Jerry Ambrose, Owen Simpson, Greg Freeman, Bill Davies, Alan Ring, xxx (can't remember his name) and myself started at the head station of number 10 division in what would probably turn out to be the best two years of my police service.

The others had come from Mascot, Waverley traffic room, and Darlinghurst.

The boss there was Sergeant Ron Thompson.  A long term traffic man, about 45 who lived in Tupia Street, Botany.  He was in charge of the 10 or so police who were broken up roughly between cyclists and high speed car drivers.   Ron was pretty much the heart and soul of the place and he too had a police bike which he treated like a baby and rode it to and from.  I found him a very nice person, even if he did accuse me of arranging the disconnection of his home phone through Telstra! [if you were there and reading this "I didn't F****well do it!!!!]

We joined a group who had been there for about 18 months. They  included: Alan Rugless, John Andrews, David Morris, Chris Bult, Dennis Stephenson, Kas Jankowski, Peter Russ, Bob Dickson, Billy White and Les Carter.  Some of the original members had been transferred out.
 
We swelled the section to about 18 -  with one sergeant, probably a poor ratio, but Ron handled it quite well.
 
He was a laconic, cynical but amiable sort of fellow with a pleasing disposition who got on well with all.  Within the office environment, I later altered his name from Ron Thompson to 'Tommy Ronson' which caught on.  I can remember on night a number of us from the section went to a traffic branch function at Coogee-Randwick RSL and whilst one of the Superintendents was making his speech, I slipped down to reception to a public phone, rang the club (Coogee-Randwick RSL) and asked for a 'Tommy Ronson' to be paged.  So the page is coming across as we are all sitting there and it caused an enormous amount of laughter between us but of course everyone else in the room was ignorant of the joke.
 
The STP (Office) was located in a former locker/muster room at Waverley Police Station.  This room was big enough to accommodate us all and positioned behind the stairs on the ground floor and off the corridor which led to the cells.  It had a back entrance which allowed the police access after parking their vehicles underneath the rear portion of the station.  Ron was normally the only one domiciled in there fulltime, so it was never a matter of being over crowded.
 
Waverley Police Station then was a relatively new building and so it was an aesthetically pleasing place to work in.  All the other police stations I had worked at were (very) ancient by comparison.
 
On the first day, Ron had us all paraded in the room and the Inspector in Charge of the station gave us some words of welcome and wished us an enjoyable stay at Waverley.  He noted that some of the new staff had one stripe, meaning that we weren’t a bunch of green horns.
 
At that stage the rank of Constable 1st class (one stripe) which then required an examination plus a continued service of 5 years before promotion.  I was one of those - ahem!
 
Despite our ranks we all had to endure a probation period of 3 months there to see if we were suitable and one of the more pleasing features was being allowed to take our bikes home with us so we could ride to and from.  This was general practice for all STP motor cycle police and it provided an additional police presence on the road.

I had a police radio on my bike and attained the call sign, 10-41.  When Tommo got a radio on his he thought it was Christmas and used to put all the politically correct messages over VKG.  He had me change my call sign to 10-42 and he to 10-41 as a note of seniority.  Well I guess seniority had to count for something!!  He used to love posing on that bike.

It used to be so funny when we were out on the road and Tommo would call VKG for something or other: "10-41 to VKG.  Yes 10-41" would come the reply.  With us listening like a bunch of little puppies.  "Radio [all the old blokes referred to VKG as 'Radio' as if to put them or the operator in their place], I am on Botany Road at Alexandria and there is a vehicle on the clearway.  It is causing a minor disruption to the traffic and I think it should be removed.  Who is the next tow?"  "Stand-by 10-41."  [and a moment later] "10-41 are you still with the vehicle?"  "Yes radio"  "10-41 are you in a position to remain with the vehicle until a tow arrives, we have contacted the next contractor"  "Ahh, well, yes OK Radio" [fullwell knowing that he was a sergeant and he didnt do that shit work]  "Radio, I will remain here and direct traffic around the the vehicle until the tow arrives".  " Thank you 10-41".  By this stage we would be pissing ourselves laughing because whilst Ron was doing the good samaritan trick he had got sucked up into 'standing guard' over this unimportant abandoned or stolen vehicle.  Didn't we give it to him when he got back to the station, but that was the type of guy Ron was.  Very much by the book, but a great bloke.  The job came first.
 
It was well known that if a cyclist was late for work, he would merely have to stop a vehicle and issue an infringement to justify his late start, even if, in reality he had slept in.  This might read as an incentive act but believe you me, when riding a police or in a pursuit vehicle, you saw people breaking the traffic laws happened alllll the time.  And I mean all the time.  If I were to ride down a one kilometre road, I would justifiably see 10 breaches of the Motor Traffic Act, so stopping someone as described above was not an over reaction.
 
STP or later, Highway Patrol Police were not particularly popular with the rest of the service.  You see it was us who booked their fathers, brothers and mates and of course in their eyes, they were never guilty.  There were not many who put their hands up and say "yes I am a dickhead.  I was doing 110kph in a 60 zone" or whatever.  I know that now because I am just a motorist and I have been booked a few times since.
 
My attitude was that we prettywell evened up things (not that we tried to) in a society where I felt some sections of the police service were more prone to graft and corruption rather than upholding the law.  The latter certainly didn’t happen at Waverley, if  it did, then I didn't see it and I always considered myself as a reasonably perceptive person.
 
Generally, I got on well with all police.  I was always friendly and chatted to everyone with the most important feature I thought between us was the police brotherhood, I never booked a policeman or an ex-policeman, and I pulled over plenty.  I always knew that one day I could be in the same situation.

Not only that, soceity dictated that we were different.  Separate.  Most police would have felt that they were a normal part of society but that really wasn't the case;  They were always identified in the crowd but they became so oblivious to it they failed to recognize it.  Thats all probably another story.

If I were at a party and someone would ask what I did I quickly realised that I would offer another vocation.  I had the times of saying I was a cop with a reaction of "I got booked two weeks ago for .... what do you reckon?"  or someone always knew someone in the police force.  My immediate reaction to that was "Hmmm, no I am not sure if I know him.  Is he a big guy (answer - yes [we were always big men then]), short hair?" (mostly cops had short hair, we stood out in a crowd.  Either in the army or a cop).  So I would continue down these recognition indicators then say "No, I don't know him".
 
In the police numbers and particularly at Waverley, there were of course some cynical detective sergeants who were flat out acknowledging your (our) presence.   Yes, I thought they for the most part were just in it for other reasons and most, not all though, didn't rate that well with me.  But I guess we all had different goals and priorities in life and anyhow I was just a pleb.
 
Ron Thompson had to come out and inspect the premises (homes) where our bikes were kept.  I remember my mother telling me that she was at the front of the house one day chatting to some neighbours when this policeman rode his bike up and down the street a couple of times, much to the curiosity of Mum and her cronies.  Obviously this was Ron doing his inspection.  He did not mention it to me.
 
We were supposed to get some specific training on the issue of infringement notices and other procedures, but that never happened.  However we did team up with some of the police who had been there for a while to learn about checking speeds, defect notices and the like.
 
Ron didn’t want to alter his original people from their normal tasks and I think really saw the repetitive clearway work that our group had been doing (clearways were no stopping areas along major arteries during peak hours which were patrolled by motor cycle police and the same work which the eight of the new arrivals had done before being transferred to Waverley) as a bit below his staff.
 
And so, he was happy for the eight new personnel to continue with their clearway duties and carry out normal traffic patrolling during other times.  It suited most of us too because we continued to get the weekends off.  But for about 12 months or more after we arrived I always had the feeling that we were just not in the same league as the others who had all come through the STP Headquarters.
 
The fact that we all rode the sub standard 450cc machines as opposed to the classier and more powerful 750cc bikes the others used, added to this perceived stigma.
 
Those who didn’t ride motor cycles drove high speed pursuit cars and when I arrived these cars were Holden Toranas which had just taken over from the unpopular mini-clubmans.

In order to drive these cars, the eight of us newcomers had to undertake a high speed pursuit vehicle course at the St Ives Driver Training School, which was held over a two day period.
 
I never did like driving them.  I found them small and unfortable and in a pursuit it was difficult to get up beside an offender and I only travelled in them when it was raining or I teamed up with someone of an afternoon shift.
 
Whilst everyone might have their own opinion on booking motorists, I found the work satisfying (not that giving someone an instant bill was orgasmic) but it was work with little supervisory problems, so long as the job was done.  I don’t mean the actual issuing of traffic infringements, but rather being out on a motor cycle riding around the streets of the sunny eastern suburbs of Sydney – and getting paid for it!
 
I used to go home to Matraville for my meals, apart from lunch.  Very occasionally I would call into a police station within the patrol to eat.  One time a group on my shift found that they could eat cheaply (if not for free) at Long Bay Gaol in the Warders canteen.  I went there once and after surveying the scene quickly realised that the inmate serving the food could just as easy spit and/or piss in the food before it reached my plate.
 
As I have said, Dennis Stephenson was reputed to be the guru of traffic police in the section but upon my arrival, I found someone who far, far outweighed him in every respect and, I was fortunate enough to work on his shift.
 
This was John Andrews, a senior constable (two stripes) who’s police number was 11111.  John was 3½ years older than me and had been in the STP almost since he finished his probation in 1965.
 
John was then stationed at North Sydney STP, Wyong, Tarcutta, Lismore and then back to Sydney following a domestic change in his life.
 
He often told the story that after his first marriage break-up he arrived in Sydney from Lismore with a suitcase and "two bob to his name."
 
John was we would call, (in the trade) a ‘big lister’.  At the end of each week each officer attached to an STP office was required to type up a short report listing his breaches for the previous seven days.  In this way the supervising staff could see what type of a worker the person was.  This was often ignorantly considered by some outside the system as ‘the quota’.  It was not and was never perceived as such by us.
 
A normal weekly breach list for a member of the STP (later, Highway Patrol) would range between about 20-50 (traffic and parking breaches) with the latter considered to be on the conscientious side.

On an afternoon shift week, John’s list would range from between 200-300 with the details of the breach on parts C & D (the part the public doesn’t see which is sent off to the traffic branch and if needed to the court) written in the most legible of hand writing.  Luckily, we had rubber stamps which would fill most of the details in, but where he had to, John’s handwriting was faultless.
 
Ron Thompson loved the big listers.  It made his job look good and in reality was evidence that the people working under him were having a go.  He in turn would submit a branch list which would go to the Traffic Office.  I have no doubt that  for a number of years, Waverley would continually top the state for the number of infringements issued.  Thommo was your real classic old time traffic man.
 
One time, Bob Pearson, a new person who had transferred in about 12 months after me had completed his last shift the same time as me and was typing up his list.  He casually asked how many I had for the week and I told him 110.
 
“How many have you got?” I asked.  Bob didn’t answer but said he had to get something from his bike and left the room.  Strangely Bob was gone for about 20 minutes and when he returned, I had almost finished and was about to leave.
 
I asked him where he had gone to and he replied that he had to go up to Bondi Junction.  I didn’t think anything of it and in the conversation, asked how many breaches he had for the week.

111 was his reply he said with a sheepish grin.  In the period he was missing, Bob had ridden up to Bondi Junction, only about 500 or so metres away and book 5 or so illegally parked cars.  That 5 or so just got him over my number of 110.  It didn't take me long to work that out.  It was an ego thing.

Ron used to put the staff on the roster patrolling various areas within the whole eastern suburbs.  This included the City to Watsons Bay, down the Coast to La Perouse, across to about Cooks River and virtually along a rough line back to the City.

A typical roster entry would read: Constable 1st Class Granland: Solo cyclist 2.00pm – 10.30pm.  Patrol New South Head Road, Old South Head Road 4.00pm – 6.00pm. Meal 6.30pm-7.00pm.
 
We didn’t take much notice of this and usually went were wanted to.  Additionally as I mentionied before, the cyclist would sometimes team up with in a Torana and later the Chrysler Charger pursuit vehicles if were raining or simply if they wanted to. 
 
In the two years I was there the staff turned over a reasonable amount.  Strangely enough not so much from the original number, but rather from the cyclists who were transferred there with me.
 
Xxx was first to go who went to Muswellbrook, then Billy Davies, who was transferred to Newcastle where, soon after he suffered a serious road accident whilst riding his police bike and was hospitalised in Prince Henry Hospital at Little Bay, well within our patrol.
 
We visited him on a number of occasions and used to collect his wife to make her journey to the hospital a bit easier.  That’s another story.
 
Greg Freeman was also transferred to Newcastle, Owen Simpson to Goulburn, then eventually, me.
 
I nicknamed Greg ‘Gimme’ because he would forever say when someone else was eating something “Gimme a bite”.
 
The nature of our job meant we were forever being asked our name and station.  I resolved to have business cards printed and along with John Andrews, ordered a a couple of hundred each.
 
The first ones I had printed had the words “Service with Efficiency” printed under the name.  We would give these out to irate motorists which would add fuel to the fire and piss them off even more.  I did have some reluctance about issuing the cards because I felt some people might use them as a lever with police indicating they were an acquaintance of mine.

Early in my time at Waverley, a fellow used to come to the station whom I believe was a friend of Dennis Stephenson’s.  His name was Ray Jonkers and he was a Qantas Flight Steward.  Ray used to bring the boys watches and other trinkets from his overseas flights.  They would have to pay, but a lot cheaper than what they could purchase in Sydney.
 
Ray was a bit unusual and gradually drifted off out of the scene.  I have no idea what happened to him.

A few months after I arrived, a soon to be colleague in ‘crime’, rather, mischief, Dennis Monk was transferred from General Duties, Waverley to STP Nth Sydney, then back to us.
 
Early in the piece in my time at Waverley I recognized that many cars failed to stop at the stop sign in William Street Double Bay at the T intersection with New South Head Road.  At this juncture, William Street was on an incline and it was much easier for drivers to look right, change down in gear and turn left into New South Head Road and continue their journey.
 
I would station myself about 50 metres east of the intersection in New South  Head Road and watch them travel through the stop sign.
 
This was work was less taxing and strenuous and I soon called it ‘position 10’ as an unofficial code used amongst us in the section, particularly when identifying our location over the police radio.
 
Other police used to join me there and we might fill in an hour or two issuing breach notices.
 
There must have been numerous complaints about our action, because after about 18 months, the local council changed the sign to a give-way and we no longer serviced the intersection.
 
One night when riding along New South Head Road, Rose Bay, I noticed the driver in the car in front of me flick a lighted cigarette onto the roadway.  I stopped him, told him what I saw and gave him two options.  Either he go back and pick up the butt, which was now about 100 metres or so away or I book him for littering.
 
“How am I going to find it” he pleaded, “its almost pitch black” (apart from the street lights).  “Not my problem” I told him, so he chose the option of walking back and looking for his butt on the busy New South Head Road.
 
I waited and watched until he was about 80 or so metres away, got on my bike and rode off.
 
Double Bay was a favourite haunt of several of the police cyclists because for the most part, the locals couldn’t care less where they parked.  It wouldn’t be unusual to issue 20 or so parking infringements in one session.
 
In New South Head Road was the Double Bay Bridge Club, a quite open but notorious and illegal casino.  One of the type the police commissioner of the day said “didn’t exist”.
 
One Friday Evening I was writing parking infringements for the vehicles parked in Knox Street and Knox Lane when I was approached by two men.  I recognized one as the infamous and hardened criminal, Stewart John Regan.  A high profile and extremely violent Sydney criminal to whom police attributed many assaults and murders.  He was later shot dead in a Marrickville street.  The other man I later learnt was his 'bodyguard'.
 
“Am I OK parked over there Constable?”  He asked, pointing to his late model white Thunderbird convertible.  “Yes, you’re fine” I replied, not wanting to incite any trouble from him.  With that they both walked in the direction of the Bridge Club where he was well known for his stand over tactics.
 
My immediate reaction was to get out of the place and return to Waverley where I submitted a report to the Crime Intelligence Bureau on the sighting of Reagan.
 
Another time I was riding back to Waverley one night to knock off when I was driving behind a yellow GTX Torana in Allison Road Randwick, near the Racecourse.
 
I had no intention of stopping the vehicle but intended to turn up Darley Road and up to the station.
 
Suddenly this vehicle accelerated away from me, through a red light at the intersection of Doncaster Ave towards Randwick.  I gave chase and with my hee-haws going full blast and radioed into VKG of what was happening.  No doubt they found it extremely difficult to read me over the sound of the horns.
 
I was on a 450cc bike so he left me for dead and was way in front of me to do anything.  He came upon the intersection of Belmore Road where he overtook the traffic turning right, through a red light at an enormous speed and sped off south towards Coogee.  Me on my trusty 450, followed up some time later together with a Night Wireless car who had joined the chase.
 
That’s the last I saw of the car.  It turned out that it was probably Jockey Smith and his co-horts a well known Sydney criminal who later shot and wounded Jerry Ambrose, a cyclist from our section and who himself was killed in a gangland slaying several years later.
 
Over the two Christmas periods I was at Waverley, the section had a selective enforcement, where all the staff worked 14 days straight, working 12 hour shifts and we were asked to be vigilant in our efforts.
 
This proved a lot of activity on the roads in the Eastern Suburbs.  I don’t know if it saved any lives, but certainly gave the traffic violators something to think about.
 
For overtime, we would have to submit a form which was countersigned and ended up at the accounts section.  Pay from that period would actually be paid to us in about two pay periods hence – one month or so.
 
I queried one amount with a clerk at the accounts section and he agreed that he was wrong and I had been paid under the wrong award.  I just wonder how many others had the same treatment.
 
Two of my colleagues at the time were Jerry Ambrose from Ireland Irish and Owen Simpson a New Zealander with a reasonable amount of maori in him.
 
Dennis Monk and I taunted these two until they gave us what we thought were swear words in their respective native tongues, one of them, "pugmahon" became an almost unit catchcry whilst I was there.
 
"Tortikki pakiah" was another maori term we used a lot.  I think it meant ‘you are heap of white xxxt’.
 
Chasing vehicles on a motor bike was a very dangerous past-time and thankfully, given the generally bravdo which existed within the unit, I was only involved in one or two.
 
Late in a week day evening in 1974 I was riding my Honda, this time a 750cc, west in Wentworth Avenue, Pagewood.  It was late and I intended returning to Waverley to write up my breaches and sign off.
 
Just as I came to the intersection of Southern Cross Drive (the road at that stage had not been continued across the swamps to intersect with Botany Road) a motor cycle and a car came racing from Mascot and zoomed north into the expressway.
 
I immediately flicked on my siren and blue lights and went off after them, but as I was coming from almost a standing start, they soon lost me in their dust.
 
I got the bike up to about 160kph but backed off when it got the wobbles and luckily a HWP high speed Ford Falcon from North Sydney which was travelling in the opposite direction, traversed the very wide median strip and chased them as they pulled away from me in pursuit.
 
He stopped the vehicles where Crescent Street intersects with South Dowling and realising I was still in pursuit had the occupants out of their vehicles by the time I trundled along.
 
The speed these two were doing well constituted a charge of driving at a speed dangerous, if not more.
 
“I’ll take them up to Redfern (police station) for you” said the Constable in charge of the Ford.
 
Now the time was about 10.45pm and I had no intention of working overtime nor wanted to get myself tied up in a court case the following day, so I said “No, I will issue them with infringements”.
 
The other policeman was gob smacked.  “What? You have to be joking”.  “No, I replied, that’s what I want to do”.
 
“As you wish”, he reluctantly said with an obvious dose of the shits and left.
 
Of course I didn’t tell these two young lairs the real reason why they didn’t end up in the dock at Redfern Police Station.  I merely said “You can thank your lucky stars you are just getting a speeding ticket.  I suggest you just pay it and don’t get caught again”.
 
All pursuit vehicles had to have their speedos calibrated to ensure that they were correct, should a person plead not guilty and take his offence of speeding to court.  If the speedos were not regularly checked and calibrated, the charge could not be substantiated in court.
 
We would have ours checked under government tender, at a place in Wentworth Avenue, Surry Hills.  I hated doing it because it meant mucking around outside the place removing the speedo then replacing it after the calibration had been done.
 
One time I was there with one of the police my section and whilst I struggled removing the speedo affixed to the bike with a spanner, he calmly removed an identical speedo from his pannier (saddle bag) and walked upstairs for the check.
 
When questioned he said that he had never had a speedo come back faulty after calibration so obtained a spare one from the Government Garage in Ultimo which he used as his ‘duty’ speedo.
 
After this we all used his ‘duty speedo’ which he left in his document tray in the office.  I am guessing that speedo got more checking that any other in the history of the NSW Police Force.

I think it was Christmas 1973 that I got a bit carried away.
 
I worked with Dennis Monk one Friday Night before I was to go on leave.  We were in the Green Charger and after we knocked off ended up having a few beers at a place where we could be anonymous.
 
Next thing we ended up at a party in Bondi Junction, drinking ‘someone elses’ of course and with radio  a certain personality who was one of the party goers.  The function went on for some time and I was steadily getting more under the weather and ended up talking in shorthand.
 
In the end Dennis and I made our way back to the station, annoyed the station staff and then home, on my police bike which I should have left at the station seeing I was going on leave.
 
I decided to pop into an address in Wentworth Street Randwick where the party had adjourned to.  As I walked in, still in uniform, I felt them eyeing me with the “whats he doing here, I thought we got rid of him at Bondi Junction” look.  So a short time later I departed.
 
During the summer of 1973-74 I walked into the station one morning after the normal patrol to see a woman of about 40 or so, dressed only in a coat sitting in the dock with such a forlorn look.
 
She was an attractive blonde, not carrying any excess weight and I thought at the time, not a bad sort for her age.  Her name was 'Joan'.
 
I inquired with Harry 'The Lamp', the station constable why she was there.  He said there had been a big function on at the xxx Inn, in Newland Street Bondi Junction the previous night and for some reason she went along.  This was a three or four storey motel type place with a function room on the top floor. The lift there opened right onto the function room floor so she decided to appear naked for all to see.
 
The function was full of businessmen who were astounded by joyful at seeing a naked 'Joan' at the lift door then prancing around the room.  Trouble was, no-one invited her and in the end she wouldn’t leave, so the police were called.
 
I went into our office and was chatting to Dennis Monk about the situation.  He came to check her out.
 
Then, I had a gem of an idea.
 
I asked 'Joan' (obviously an exhibitionist or maybe a little short in the top paddock) if she would help us play a joke on our sergeant, ‘Tommy Ronson’ who was busy working away in the next room, oblivious to all that had happened.  She agreed.
 
I gained the keys to the cell from Harry, promising she would not escape and took her, wrapped only in the coat she came in with, into the HWP Room.  By then most of the staff had returned from their early morning patrols and were chatting or having a cuppa.
 
They all looked inquisitively at 'Joan' as I stood her in front of Ron’s desk, not knowing who or what 'Joan' was.  He looked up but made no comment as he continued removing breaches from one of the officer’s traffic infringement pad.
 
“Sergeant” I said.  "This is Mrs Wardell she has a complaint about one of the police here".
 
Now Ron thought all his boys were squeaky clean and would have been incensed to think that anyone would have the audacity to make a complaint to him in person, but complaints were pretty common place in our particular line of work and I could see him sitting there, seething.
 
In fact, as he was working on the infringement book, hardly giving 'Joan' a glance, he was contemplating what action he would have to do if the complaint was serious enough to go further.
 
He spent about another 20 seconds on his work before he closed the book, pushed it to one side and very seriously looked at 'Joan', who too had just a serious look upon her face as could be and said “Yes, Mrs Wardell what can I do for you”.
 
I was standing next to 'Joan' and before anyone had a chance to utter a word, I said “Show him your xxxx 'Joan'” and with that she flashed open her coat to reveal a naked well endowed female body and looked at Ron with a huge grin on her lips.
 
Ron’s jaw nearly hit the ground.  I can still see his expression.  He was obviously shocked beyond belief and the five or six other police in the room roared with laughter – and I would hope in approval of this practical joke.
 
This was one of the funniest and yet innocent jokes I had ever pulled, thanks to a compliant 'Joan'.  She had a big smile and soon after I took her back to the cells and thanked Harry .  I can imagine that story was told in police circles for years.  Thankfully or perhaps unfortunately we only saw her once again.
 
It was about six months later, same situation.  She was sitting in the dock one morning.  I inquired at the station what she was doing there this time and was told that earlier that morning she had been harassing the early morning fishermen on Bondi Beach by running up to them naked and wanting sex – half their luck I thought.  She was arrested for indecent exposure by the police at Bondi then brought to Waverley to appear before a magistrate.

Shortly after Dennis arrived back at the station.  I filled him in with what Joan had been up to.  He stood there for a while looking at her.  "You know Granny, shes not a bad sort".  "So", I said what are you going to do about it.  "I have an idea" he said as he smiled and I could see the wheels turning in his head.

Luckily he did nothing apart from satisfying her request of a Cadbury's chocolate.  It was getting obvious thought that was a shingle short or maybe she just had a fetish for doing the outrageous.  She was a quite a nice person to talk to.

When 10:00am arrived Joan was shunted over to the nearby court to face her charge so Dennis and I decided to sit in and listen to the evidence.  She was convicted of wilful and obscene exposure and then the magistrate asked if she had anything to say.  Thankfully she didn't notice Dennis or myself in the body of the court when she addressed him:  "I want to make a complaint about two coppers from the police station.  They were making obscene suggestions to me."  Both Dennis and myself immediately began to slide down the into the seats until we were almost on the floor and out of sight.  We looked at each other and asked "What have we done?"

"Thats not a matter I can deal with" the magistrate told her.  "If you wish to make a formal complaint see the inspector next door" he said as he dismissed the quite unstable young lady - thank christ.
 
I came off the bike twice whilst I was at Waverley.  The first time I was riding west along Cleveland Street in the morning peak hour traffic.  It was a two lane road either side and I was riding between the two lines of traffic moving in the same direction.  Traffic had stopped and banked up which really didn’t impede me, but had left an opening at the T-intersection of Pitt Street.  I continued across the opening whilst at the same time a car coming from the opposite direction failed to see me and turned right into Pitt Street, across my path.  I did not see them because of the roofs of the stationary vehicles around me.
 
Luckily, the vehicle was a split second earlier into his turn and I collided with the front passengers near side door doing about 30kph.  Had I been going a bit faster or he a bit slower, he would have run over the top of me.
 
Down I went like a bag of shit after I heard the hideous thud.  His vehicle continued on for a short distance into Pitt Street and stopped whilst motorists from other cars alighted to check on my condition.
 
I was OK, unhurt apart from a dented ego but the front wheel of the bike was buckled and mudguard smashed in.
 
The occupants of the offending vehicle were a couple of homosexuals.  How do I know?  Well, it doesn’t take much to pick up a lisp or two from the post hysteria of a collision.  I rolled my eyes.
 
The local police were called and Senior Constable Humphries from the Redfern Traffic Office attended in his little blue mini minor.
 
I knew Ron and in fact had worked on the same shift as him 12 months or so before when I also was stationed at Redfern.
 
Ron asked me what happened and the first words I uttered were “These two poofs did a right hand turn in front of me.  He failed to make a right hand turn in the correct manner”.  Ron, whom I thought I knew reasonably well, made a reply which to be quite honest, surprised me when he said “I’ll be the judge of that”.
 
The remark took me back a bit, so I said nothing else, apart from answering his questions.  The bike was collected by the police motor cycle branch and the driver of the vehicle subsequently issued with a summons for ‘Not make right hand turn in prescribed manner’.
 
The other time was in 1974 when I was taking my motor cycle home being followed by Bob Dickson in the high speed Torana to bring me back to Waverley.
 
We drove down the very steep incline of Taylor Street, which travels from Bronte Road to Queens Park Road.  I felt myself going too fast but ran out of road and down went the bike and me.  Wearing only a police shirt on top, slid along the asphalt.   I skinned my inner left arm and received a few scratches here and there but otherwise I was OK.
 
The bark I took off my arm though made it a pretty serious injury and Bob took me off to the nearby Eastern Suburbs Hospital for treatment.  I had two weeks off work and still bear the scar.
 
Senior Constable John Andrews from my section took particulars of the accident.

A few times whilst working at Waverley and riding in the sun I was sunburnt quite severely.  I mentioned this to Ron Thompson the day following and he found jobs for me to carry out in the station negating the need to again go out into the damaging sun.
 
On morning shift I used to start at 6.00am.  Up at 5.15pm, did the three S’s, had a schooner of warm water to clean out my innards then onto the bike (again probably waking the family next door) and on my way to Waverley.
 
Normally I would travel along Anzac Parade, through Maroubra, turn right onto Avoca Street to Frenchmans Road Randwick, turn up Carrington Road and to the station.
 
Another route I would take would be to turn off Anzac Parade at Beauchamp Road and follow Malabar Road to Coogee, down Arden Street continuing on to McPherson Street then left and up to the station.
 
It was on one of the latter journeys about 5.50am on a nice summer’s morning, when travelling along Malabar Road at about Lurline Bay or South Coogee, just as the road dips and descends from the intersection of Torrington Road, that I caught a glimpse of four early morning joggers running against the traffic on the eastern or sea side of the road.
 
I recognized from the gait of one of the runners that it a friend of mine from my Aussie Rules days, Ron Porter.  Ron had been severely injured in a speed boat accident some years before on the Murray River, and as a result had his right leg shortened necessitating him to walk and run with somewhat of a limp.
 
He worked as an accountant at ICI and besides his involvement in AFL, later became the treasurer of Maroubra Surf Club for a considerable period.
 
Ron was extremely fit and was always out early running on the streets of Maroubra.  One of the others was a former Detective Sergeant, Paul Rhodes (not his name). I did not recognize the either of the other two.
 
As I was riding down a slight decline and there was very little, if any traffic on the road, I veered to the right hand side of the road, put the bike into neutral and glided down behind the runners who were running in the same direction as myself.  The bike made hardly any noise so they were quite unaware of my presence.
 
When I was no more than 2 metres from them, I flicked on the bike's double ‘hee haw’ siren, which if you have ever stood in front of these things when they are operating, can be deafening.
 
Understandably, the runners absolutely shit themselves.  Their reaction was quick and all they were trying to do was get off the road, but it just seemed they were doing it in slow motion.  You could see their brains wanting to move but their bodies just weren’t co-operating.
 
I just engaged third gear and continued on.  I don’t think Ron ever forgave me for that, but the fright didn’t kill him.
 
Another time I was patrolling around Bondi Beach and I noticed a person about 37 years of age, driving a vehicle and not wearing his seatbelt.
 
I stopped him in Campbell Parade Bondi Beach about opposite where the Astra Hotel was.  His family was in the car and he made no effort to get out of the vehicle.
 
I parked the bike behind his car in the regulation manner, offset from the road, walked to the driver’s door and informed him that I had observed him driving his vehicle without his seatbelt.
 
By then he had the belt engaged and said he was wearing it.  He told me he was wearing the belt and further, that he was an alderman on Waverley Council.  This didn’t phase me because in this line of work, we got all the stories under the sun.
 
I asked him for his driver’s licence and upon obtaining it moved to the rear of the vehicle where I proceeded to write out the infringement.
 
As I moved back to behind his vehicle, he slowly opened the driver’s door and when as he stood on the street, slammed it with such verosity, I thought it would end up in New Zealand.  This immediately turned on the warning bells with me.  “I have a live one here” I thought and all this with his kids on their knees peering out of the back window of the car.
 
My immediate thoughts were that he was going to assault me and it was going to be on for young an old in the middle of Campbell Parade.  There were plenty of people around but they seemed oblivious of what might occur.  It was times like these, I thought that you need more than one cop.
 
As he reached the rear of his vehicle, John Andrews pulled up on his bike.  He had no idea what was about to unfold, but his presence completely defused what I was imagining could have become an extremely volatile situation.  My would-be assailant made no further comment nor provocation at all.
 
John sensed something was wrong and said “Is everything OK here?”.  I said “Yes, but just hang around for a bit if you can”.
 
One time I stopped a vehicle for speeding in South Dowling Street Kensington.  The driver turned out to be a prominent medical practitioner and very well known at the time in gynaecological circles of Australian medicine.  I had read of his feats.  His name was prescribed as Dr Smith (not his real name) on his driver’s licence.
 
Initially, he made no effort to intimidate me, although I could see he looked upon me as a mere peasant and told me he was in a hurry to get to a hospital in the southern end of the city.  After I completed the infringement I began to give him the normal explanation speech on what the infringement is and how it could be dealt with.
 
I said “Mr Smith, this is a traffic infringement notice…”  With that he stopped me and said, “Its Doctor Smith”.  I looked him in the eye and repeated “Mr Smith, this is a traffic infringement notice….”  Again he stopped me and said “I am a doctor of medicine, please refer to me as such”.  The intimidation had begun.
 
I said, “Mr Smith, I am a Constable of Police.  I do not have ‘Constable’ inscribed on my licence nor do I solicit people to call me Constable when I am not working or carrying out my duty.  You may well be a doctor, but to me, you are Mr. Smith”.  He made no further comment.  Strangely enough I stopped his wife some months later for a similar offence.
 
One of the requirements police had to do was write the comment the person initially made when approached about the alleged offence.  Nearly everyone had an excuse, like “I’m sorry, I’m late for work” or “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise”. Near everyone said “I’m sorry”, which I guess is pretty normal under the circumstances.  Since I have left the police force and been booked I have used the same response.
 
Most of the issuing police would then write in the part C & D of the infringement, (part C going to the traffic office (headquarters) and eventually used as a document for the issue of a summons if not paid, and part D remained in the book) where it said “When spoken to he/she said “I’m sorry” – regardless of what was spoken or said .  This happened so much that a memo came out from the Head Traffic Office telling us to stop putting those words down and write down exactly what the offender said.
 
Another morning I was riding in Gardeners Road, Kingsford and I saw this female about 25 driving a 1967 Holden sedan going towards Mascot.  She too was not wearing her seatbelt.
 
I stopped her and explained that I had observed her without her seatbelt on, which was still not engaged.
 
“Yes Constable, I am pregnant” she replied to me in her resentful manner.
 
“You don’t look pregnant to me” I said, to which she quickly retorted that she had “just conceived”.  (Just conceived – oh yeah, sure, last night or this morning!!!! I thought)

The Traffic Act provides an exemption for people with a medical condition to not wear a seatbelt, so long as the driver (and these days the passenger) carried a letter from a medical practitioner indicating the wearing of the belt would be detrimental to their health.
 
“Do you have a letter from your doctor indicating that, and that it is detrimental to your health to wear a seatbelt”? I inquired.
 
“No I don’t” was the answer.  I pondered on the situation for a minute and gave her the benefit of the doubt, which, I might add, I very much doubted.  “Well make sure you get one, otherwise you can be booked” I said as I handed back her licence.
 
She thanked me and drove off.  At morning tea back at the station I was telling the others of the situation and that no doubt she had lied to me, which I guess was much the norm.  These things used to get to me and that’s why the vast majority of people I stopped were issued with infringements.  I had few court appearances as a result.
 
As life has it, about two months after this little encounter, I saw the same woman at the exact same place at the same time of the morning.  Again, she was not wearing a seatbelt.  “Got ya” I thought.
 
“Good morning madame, I have just observed you not wearing a seatbelt” which by the way was still not engaged.  “Yes officer, I am pregnant” she said – again, showing no signs of the pregnancy.  “Do you have a letter of exemption from your doctor?” I asked “No, I’m sorry, I don’t”.
 
Then I said, “It might work the first time, but you wont get away with it twice”  Heres a bill for $40.  Well, I didn’t say it like that, but you get my drift.
 
In early 1975 we sort of suggested to Ron that the area we worked in was a bit small and we need some extra space.  So the Inspector allocated us the adjoining two rooms, one a reasonable size and the other, next door, quite small.  The problem was that these rooms were no accessible from our main original room so we asked permission for a doorway to be installed.
 
This meant that some brickwork had to be cut out and in due course a tradesman from the Public Works Department turned up with concrete cutter and cut the through the brick in readiness for its removal.  He cut and left.
 
Trouble was, no-one came back to do the job, so Dennis and I armed with sledge hammers belted away at the cut brick until it gave way to reveal an opening into the adjoining room.
 
A week or so later, a carpenter from the Public Works Department came and installed the door jam and architrave around the cavity.
 
During the time I was in the Highway Patrol at Waverley for some stupid reason a number of us in the office adopted the words and movements of the Aunty Jack Show which was a popular but unorthodox ABC Australian Comedy on channel 2 staring Grahame Bond, Rory O'Donoghue and Garry McDonald aka Norman Gunston.  We used to sidled up to those who weren't into it and say in a deep voice: "ello me little lovlies" (load that into your search engine and you can hear it) or "I'll rip your bloody arms off".  It was quite daggy and I can tell you that some in the office used to get really pissed off with those of us who used to say it.   I don't know where it came from but it was quite funny to those of us who were a bit twisted.  The rest of the police at Waverley used to think we were quite immature, which we probably were - still, thats life.

I used to be involved in South Sydney Aussie Rules Club and we did raffles at the Hotel Regent in Anzac Pde Kingsford.  Parking was pretty hard to get in the adjoining Middle Street near the pub and so quite often I would just double park my 1972 Holden Kingswood sedan along with other vehicles in which mostly older females sat having a drink whilst their husbands were in the bar.

One Saturday I stayed there was there for most of the afternoon after doing the raffle just chewing the fat with a couple of friends.  I left about 5:00pm.  I hadn't had much to drink, it was just a slow day.  I did a 'U' turn in the wide Middle Street and left into Anzac Pde.  After going through Kingsford Shopping Centre and passing Souths Juniors I heard the sound of a police siren.  I looked in the rear vision mirror to see an unmarked green HWP Charger right up my clacker blinking his headlights.

I stopped the car and alighted.  As I did a very disgruntled Jerry Ambrose, a colleague from the same section as myself had stepped out of the police vehicle.  Upon seeing me he said "Doo ****ing ***t, its doo".  Jerry was Irish with a very broad accent.  He and Owen Simpson had sighted my vehicle double parked for several hours and thinking I would be drunk sat off me in the opposite Strachan Street waiting for me to drive off.

He had a fierce reputation in the Eastern Suburbs for locking up drunk drivers and I was his next victim.  He didn't stay to pass the time of day but re-entered his vehicle and drove off at high speed - without signalling I might add.  I had thwarted his efforts big time.

I spent much of my free time, probably because of my position of secretary, at the hotel although never drank to extreme.  I was happy helping with the raffles and chatting.  Through our association with the pub I got a couple of locals involved with the club.  Dave Barnes, a former cook in the army and also a Vietnam Veteran and Ian Duncan, a 58 year old sheet metal worker who lived in a boarding house in Borrodale Road Kingsford.  It would be safe to say that Ian was an alcoholic.  Because of his grey hair we gave him the nickname: Gunsynd 'The Goonddwindi Grey', a prolific grey racehorse in the late 1960s and early 70s who had 29 wins including the 1971 Epsom Handicap and the 1972 Cox Plate and also came third in the 1972 Melbourne Cup.

Both had no background in Aussie Rules but were happy to become involved in the club.

Barnsey, who was three years older than me, lived at Erskineville and worked in the canteen at W D & H O Willis in Todman Avenue Kensington.  Later when he left the scene he opened a flower shop on the Great Western Highway at Springwood in the Blue Mountains, calling it 'Plus Ultra'.
 
On Saturday 23 June 1973 a bunch of us were in the hotel talking about the interstate game which was to be played in Canberra the following day between NSW and the ACT.  One of our players, Peter Marks, a national serviceman who chose to see his time out in the army after the compulsory national service was abandoned following the election of the Whitlam Government, was selected in the side.  He had formerly played with Fitzroy.

"I wonder how much it is to fly to Canberra" I questioned.  Only one way to find out so I rang the airline to be told it was $26 return.  Yes, you read right, $26.  Sounded like a good idea to us so we all booked to go the following morning.  When I arrived home I asked my brother if he too would like to come, he agreed so there was four of us travelling return to Canberra for just over $100.

Along with my brother, I picked the Gunny up early the next morning and we met Dave at the Airport where we had a few wet ones to start the day.

The flight was pretty uneventful.  We caught a cab from Canberra airport to Manuka Oval where a crowd was starting to build.  I was dressed in a suit and tie with a gabbadine overcoat, I didn't know what type of weather to expect.

It was cold.  The team played well but were soundly beaten before a good crowd.

Along with the team we went back to the Ainslee Football Club where the presentations were made.  We all purchased tickets in the raffle which the tinny Gunsynd won - a carton of long neck D A bottles, so we shared them and it wasn't long before I was pretty primed.

We teamed up with another group following the side including Johnny Dwyer who was the Aussie Rules columnist for the Sydney afternoon paper, the Sun.

Our plane was booked for 8:00pm out of Canberra and we just made it.  Midway in the flight John, who was also wearing the wobbly boot burst into song and had the plane enamoured.  Not to be outdone, I too started to sing only to be told by the stewards that if I didn't sit down and behave myself I would be collected by the Commonwealth Police when we arrived at Mascot.  I never made another sound.

Our group had a radar detection unit and Dennis Monk was one who undertook the course.  Others in the section also did it but I showed little interest in being stuck behind a static radar position for 2 or 3 hours, booking motorists.

One night a few of us worked together on radar on the south bound traffic in Anzac Parade Malabar, just before the vehicles round the bend and come into Malabar proper.
 
It was a 60 zone there then and I stopped a young guy checked at 72kph.  He was only 17 and on his p-plates and off to La Perouse fishing.  He was quite cut up that he had been booked, but to me, like to the rest of the police, we were just doing a job.  We had to look beyond emotions.
 
Shortly after he left, he returned with his father who was quite upset with the fact that his son had been booked and wanted it reversed.  The offence meant that him being on p-plates would loose his licence for a period of time.
 
I sympathised with him but there was nothing I, nor anyone could do.  The traffic infringement books were an official document and audited and checked by many people to ensure the transparency of it all.
 
I don’t think some people realised that once those infringements were issued there was the end of the section.  There was no taking them back.
 
Another time I was working radar in Moore Park Road Paddington, sandwiched between Victoria Barracks and the (then) Sydney Sports Ground.   I hated working radar.  It was so boring.
 
We had the radar facing up the hill checking the vehicles as they came down the declining Moore Park Road from the intersection of Oxford Street.  So they had a fair way to get up a bit of speed.
 
Several times the radar went off without any sign of a vehicle.  It emitted a buzzing or screeching noise upon the detection of a violation of a certain pre-formatted speed which had been entered into the unit by the operator.
 
This kept happening until we realised that the radar beam was bouncing off the houses on the northern side of Moore Park Road then angled back to pick up the speeding cars way out of our sight around the curvature in the road, probably some 400 or so metres from where we were parked.  We soon recognized the inconsistency in the location and abandoned our position.
 
That just goes to show that in various places, that particular make of radar unit was super sensitive and able to do things far beyond what was expected of it.

Whilst the Eastern Suburbs were quite popular and well populated, there were times when I could ride to what you would think would be a thriving place only to find few people, if any.
 
This was the case in the winter of 1975 when I rode to Bronte.  Down McPherson Street, round into Bronte Road and down to the beach.  Sometimes I would ride across Bronte Park on the concrete footpath to the surprise of people enjoying the serenity and a stroll along the grass, walking hand in hand.  I would then motor up into Bayview Street or Bronte Marine Drive, just south of Tamarama Beach.  One of the other guys, Dave Morris there showed me that route.
 
On this particular night about 7.30pm I was slowly riding along near the beach shops and suddenly this young kid on an unregistered 100cc bike darted out in front of me.  He failed to notice the police bike but when he saw it, took off like a startled gazelle.
 
I took chase and found myself weaving in and out of a private car park under a block of flats, built with that shitty red brick of the sixties.  He outfoxed me on his more nimble machine and got away from me quite easily.  At one stage I got stuck trying to ride through a doorway in the covered but unenclosed parking area.
 
Not to be deterred I ambled my way back to the street and sat there under the poor street lighting wondering where he went.  Then suddenly the sound of a putting two stroke gave the game away and the chase was on again, up Bronte Road and through the old channel gorged into the natural sandstone and formerly used by the Bronte Beach trams, now called Calga Place.  This time I had him.
 
After I stopped what turned out to be a frightened 14 year old blonde surfie type (who would be near on fifty now) was as scared as could be.  I pondered my options.
 
“Where do you live?” I asked.  “Collingwood Street Sir, just near the cemetry”.
 
I was still pondering.  Then I said, “OK, I’ll follow you home, I want to speak to your parents and don’t try to piss off”.  “I live with my mother” he replied.
 
We stopped outside and old 1940s styled block of 4 flats.  He waited for me as I dismounted and he led me to the top back flat where a surprised mother of about 36 or so greeted us.  I asked if I could speak with her and she invited me inside, obviously conscious that the neighbours might see ‘the police’ visiting her premises under the possibility of questionable circumstances.