An Irishman abroad

The Day I Felt the Long Arm of the Law

Hello there Dear Reader,

Please forgive my neglect of you in recent weeks. Unfortunately my work situation (i.e. the fact that I actually had to do some) has meant that I have been unable to further my correspondence with you. The suggestion to use up my valuable free time to do such things is a non-starter – I’m afraid there's too much living of life to do so that I can continue my writing of life.

I'm sure you understand.

Anyway, the reason I now feel compelled to give our friendship a bit of resuscitation - a passionate French Kiss Of Life as it were - is because of an experience that I went through on a recent Monday morning that I feel the need to share with you.

I have to admit that it's been quite some time since I've had a police escort. In fact in all my years preceding 08:15 on Monday, September 08th 2003, I would have to say that I have had exactly zero police escorts - well - at least not one that was organised purely for my benefit (but that's another story).

But before I relate to you the events of that fateful Monday morning, I hope that you would first join me as I take you back in time to a few hours prior to this dark moment in my life. I hope you realise that this is not merely overindulgence on my part for "colouring in" purposes. (Although I must confess to being guilty of this crime on more than one occasion in the past - as you are only too fully aware).
No Dear Reader, this is more an opportunity for me describe the state of mind that I was in, when I found myself on the receiving end of the strong arm of the Antwerp police.

As we all know - Mondays are crap. It’s as simple as that.

Unless you are a hairdresser, work shifts or are some sort of masochist, there is just no other way to describe that Monday feeling. Barely 60 hours after the weekend begins with much optimism and excitement at the prospects of a couple of days off from our weekday responsibilities, we are brought crashing back to reality again by the incessant, indefatigable ringing / buzzing / beeping of our alarms into the start of another week to once again repeat the cycle.

Repeat until death or retirement.

It’s a terrible way to exist and one that will see whole lifetimes fly past as we live in a constant state of eagerly waiting for the next weekend and with it the next respite from our mundane day-to-day lives.

A depressing thought? Perhaps. But it only goes to emphasise the importance of enjoying life at every opportune moment. If a chance arrives to have some fun, then you must grab it with both hands. But then, of course, Dear Reader – you already knew that.

The weekend that preceded my encounter with the police had provided me with such an opportunity. Indeed, the weeks leading up to it afforded me with a welcome distraction. What was the event in question that had gripped my attention, so? None other than the chance to see the event of the year, the Rolling Stones play live on the Belgian leg of their World Tour.

I had been looking forward to the event with much anticipation and the oldest rockers in town didn’t disappoint, putting on a show with so much energy that would put most boy bands to shame. Front man Mick “The Lips” Jagger showing that despite being in the business for over 40 years, that he still hasn’t learnt how to dance. Opting instead for his own impression of a drunken rooster strutting its stuff across the stage.
Well I suppose if it’s worked for him for the past 40 years why change it?

Leaving the concert on a Rolling Stones (and several beers) induced high we made our way back to the car. We were expecting a bit of traffic problems - 70,000 people don’t just disappear off home – especially when the concert is held in the middle of nowhere and the only way out involves driving along small Belgian country roads – but we were more than a little pissed off once we had spent three hours without moving so much as a car length. I mean come one, for the love of God, concert organisers – its not as if the numbers of people at the concert was a surprise!

So it was, that at 03:50 on the Monday morning we crawled into bed, exhausted but still not too deflated – because after all – it’s not every day that you get an opportunity to watch one of Rock and Roll’s greatest legends performing live and in the flesh. Except for Keith Richards of course – everyone knows that he has been dead for years and is nothing more than a state of the art flesh covered puppet, with the Devil himself the puppeteer. Sympathy? Do me a favour!

Anyway - there I was just over 4 hours later driving on my way to work. As you can no doubt appreciate, the Monday Morning Blues were even worse than normal.
As I was leaving Antwerp in the direction of Brussels on the A12, I followed my traditional route (as all good Orangemen should) to the office.
To try and avoid the heavy traffic, I usually filter off to the right of the main central highway, to the lanes at the side, which generally contain less traffic.

In my keenness to get to the office and in an effort to save some time, I decided to overtake a slow-moving lorry that was struggling to climb the hill that preceded the filter exit.

As I started the manoeuvre, I overtook across the dotted white line. However, because I was close to where the line becomes solid, completing the manoeuvre meant that I had to come back across the solid white line – a manoeuvre which I know as well as you do that is illegal.
In my defence, I would like to say that I do feel my actions were in no way life threatening – in fact if anything I was performing a safe manoeuvre – especially when you compare with the alternative of forming the beginnings of a queue behind a lorry that was travelling at a speed of around 60km per hour.
The whole manoeuvre took less than 5 seconds to complete and not I, nor any other motorist was forced to take evasive action as a result of it.

Try telling this to Officer W. Ankur (name changed to protect the guilty).

“Weet je wel waarom ik je heb gestopt?”

“I’m sorry but I’m from Ireland - I don’t speak Flemish. Do you speak English?”

“Yes I do – Do you know why I’ve stopped you?”

Drat – my “You-can’t-speak-Flemish-so-you-are-going-to-have-to-let-me-go” defence was crumbling before my very eyes.

“Err, no I don’t know why you stopped me”

“You just crossed a full white line after passing that truck” (I hate it when they learn their English from American TV shows – and probably police shows at that)

“Ah, OK – I didn’t realise officer. Sorry about that.”

“Give me your papers please”

“Certainly. Here you go officer,” (as I hand over insurance documents, drivers license and passport)

“Wait here” (Like I’m going to go anywhere without those documents).

He and another colleague then proceeded to stop other motorists who had done the same thing. For 50 minutes I was made to sit and wait in the car like an eejit. Even his colleague had decided that he’d had enough and left my boy in blue to continue stopping motorists - with all the zeal of a man on commission. I might have been tired when I got into the car, but now my blood was boiling. I was pissed off, but certainly not as much as when he returned to the car and uttered the immortal line “That’s going to cost you 200 euros.”

Just like that. Face straight. No hint of a smile.

“You must be joking” I chuckled in reply.

“No – I’m deadly serious”.

“So what does that mean?” I asked incredulously

“That you have to give me 200 euros”

“But I don’t have 200 euros on me – do you take 200 euros to work with you? I mean the cafeteria at work is expensive, but it’s not that bad!!” (Feeling sure that the famous Northern Irish abrasive wit would rescue me from the situation).

“Then we’ll have to take you to a cash machine”.

I couldn’t believe it!
“All I am trying to do is get to work and earn a living – should you not be out catching real criminals?” Obviously cutting sarcasm was sure to work where abrasive wit hadn’t.

“I am doing my job. Rules are rules and it is my job to enforce them!”

I was clearly not going to get away with this one.

“I’m not saying that I didn’t do it! I am just saying that all I’m trying to do is to get to my place of work and now you want to take me to a cash machine to take out 200 euros?! This is unbelievable!”

“Wait there” he said as he returned to his motorbike and started talking into his radio.

A few minutes later, his colleague returned – but not before he took the opportunity to stop one more poor motorist. This was a man on a mission indeed!

Now that ChiPS, Antwerp style, were reunited, I followed them as they took me on a police escort through Wilrijk in the suburbs of Antwerp. I was mortified. Perhaps I should have used the opportunity to start playing Dr. Dre at large volumes, wearing shades, trying my best to look like a “gangsta rapper”, but instead I kept my eyes straight ahead ignoring the looks I was getting from other motorists and pedestrians.

After a few moments, we arrived at the cash machine. Disgusted I got out of the car and approached the other colleague and gesticulated in a manner, which I hoped implied “can you not have a word with your Nazi colleague and make him see sense?” but he responded with nothing more than an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders.

I turned to my tormentor and said, “I can’t believe you’re making me do this!” to which he replied, “Rules are rules and you broke the rules”. I walked away arrogantly dismissing him with a wave as I walked off in a huff to the cash machine.

As I pulled my wallet out of my pocket, a sudden realization dawned on me. My heart sank. Opening my wallet, my worst fears were realised as I discovered that I had left my cash card in my jeans from the Rolling Stones concert the night before!

In my preoccupation to be disgusted and indignant at the ludicrousness of the situation, I had managed to overlook this small matter. Realising that this new turn of events was unlikely to endear him to me any further, I stopped mid-step and turned to face the policeman.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I don’t have my cash card on me – it’s at my apartment.”

“Well then - we will take your car away” he replied, fixing me with a cold stare.

“You cannot be serious!” I said, in danger of sounding like an Irish version of John McEnroe. “How the hell am I supposed to get the money if you’re going to take away my car?”

“Where do you live?”

“The center of Antwerp, just off Nationaal Straat”

“Well then I suggest you take a bus!”

OK – all bets were off now…..

“This is bloody ridiculous! You want me to take a bus to my apartment so I can get the 200 euros for you to give me my car back so that I can then go to work? Why are you being such an asshole with me? Why don’t you treat me with some respect?”

This seemed like the right thing to say at the time, Dear Reader, but as I stare at my screen now and look at these words in the cold light of day, blessed with the benefit of hindsight, I would have to say that they were ill chosen to say the least.

“What do you mean I’m not treating you with respect? – I’m speaking English to you, aren’t I?”

I think we’d all agree that he did indeed have a point here. But if I thought my previous outburst was ill advised, my next witty response was just plain suicidal.

“Oh, dank je wel, meneer” I said, my Flemish words laced with an overdose of Irish sarcasm, my faced screwed up in contempt, similar to the school bully picking on the class nerd.

I might as well have said that I was going to have sex with his wife and make his children support Man United, judging by the look that he gave me.

“You’re going to follow us to a garage where your car will stay until you return with 200 euros. Once we get the money, you’ll get your car back.”

Almost defeated, I returned to the car. I followed them to a garage in Wilrijk, but I wasn’t to be beaten yet. I was going to make this particular fine one that this policeman would remember. I handed him my mobile phone.
“Before you go, I want you to explain to my boss why I won’t be in work this morning”
“OK then – no problem”

He then proceeded to do just that - explain to my boss why I was not going to be in work that morning. After speaking to him, my boss then spoke to me.

“OK – I will send a colleague with the money to you there. They’ll be there within half an hour”

This made matters worse – and was not the purpose of my call to the office! Now I was going to be indebted to the company for a foolish, but highly innocuous bit of driving. It has to be said that this did not improve my humour one iota.

“Are you happy with yourself now? Does this sort of thing give you a lot of job satisfaction?”

“Rules are rules and you –“

“I’m not saying that I didn’t break the rules! I’m just saying that this whole exercise has been a waste of time from start to finish and for what purpose? Don’t you have real criminals that you could be catching??!”

“It’s my job to enforce –“

“Look – whatever!” I said as I dismissed him again and walked into the waiting room in the office but I couldn’t leave it without a wildly humorous “You’re my hero!!”

Ah Sweet Sarcasm my dearest friend….

About 45 minutes later two of my colleagues, Leo and Isabelle arrived (thus answering the age old joke how many Smart Solutions employees does it take to…). As we stood there I bitched about Antwerp police and their terrible attitude.

It was after a wonderful, colourful 5-minute tirade against the Antwerp police that Isabelle decided to tell me that her husband was a member of the Antwerp police force.

“He says that customers (as they funnily refer to the people that pay their wages) can be just as bad!”

Shortly after that, they left me to stand at the side of the highway waiting for the “policeman” to arrive back with my keys. But of course he wasn’t finished yet. After the girl from the garage phoned him to inform him that I now had the money, I was made to wait a further 50 minutes before he came back.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m sure that he was busy breaking some huge drugs and prostitution syndicate, or fighting the war against terrorism, or infiltrating some paedophile ring. I could only speculate – because whatever heroic deeds he had been performing in his relentless pursuit of law and order, that had warranted me having to stand twiddling my thumbs for the best part of another hour - he certainly didn’t feel the need to share with me.

“That will be 200 euros”

Like I didn’t already know that.
I looked at him with what I hoped was one of those “Looks that Kill” but didn’t respond verbally. Instead I began counting out the ten 20 euro bills one by one, prolonging the procedure as much as possible, until I couldn’t resist one more smart-ass comment:

“Well that was easy money for you!” I remarked.

“Yes, it was and for what purpose was it? What good did it do anyone?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying for the past three and a half hours!!” I said exasperated – pointing to my watch just in case there was any confusion on his part.

And then came the piece de resistance. This was when I realised that I was dealing with someone that wasn’t born like you or I Dear Reader.
“I was in England for a week last week and I don’t know about Northern Ireland, but I thought England was a country were rules are rules and they were made to be obeyed. But I saw people crossing the streets in England and THE MAN WAS RED!!”

There was no response possible to this so I took my keys and left him to contemplate how such a lawless society could exist and still be part of the EU. It must be really quite a worry for the poor man.

Now before I get emails of complaint:

I know what I did was wrong. It was a pretty pointless manoeuvre and one that would not really have made any difference in the greater scheme of things. I might have been in the office a few seconds earlier, but I’m not sure that that could be considered a benefit or not.
I do not condone wreckless driving even though what I did was most certainly NOT wreckless, but how many motorists out there can honestly say that they have never, ever broken the law when it comes to driving?

Policing of traffic is the easiest form of policing there is. It just smacks of laziness. Motorists are hit hard enough in the pocket, when it comes to taxes – to start taking ludicrous sums of money out of their pockets by way of fines is tantamount to highway robbery (if you could forgive the pun).

Antwerp is in no way a dangerous or crime-ridden city but it does have its problems. The police turn a blind eye to “petty” crime like theft of personal possessions, and even when it comes to car-theft there’s not a lot that they can (or seem to want to) do to solve it if it occurs.

But much more disturbing than this is the seeming increase in personal attacks on people. People, who after a night out, are getting mugged or beaten up and their only crime is being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A friend of mine is looking at months of visits to the dentist at a cost of several thousand euros for dental work that could have been avoided had he lived in a city that was policed properly. (And don’t tell me they can’t be everywhere at once – it doesn’t take a Law and Order genius to realise 4 o’clock on a Saturday morning in the Grote Markt of Antwerp is a place that should have a police presence)

Perhaps if the police of Antwerp invested as much effort on solving and punishing these crimes as they do on people crossing full white lines in their cars (or even crossing pedestrian crossings when the MAN IS RED!!), then the city of Antwerp could become a city to be truly proud of. I know I certainly wouldn’t be so pissed off the next time I get stopped for crossing a full white line!

THE END
(October 7, 2003)