'Stuck On'

Confessions of a reluctant ticket-writer

When you see the pen it means you’ve failed the attitude test

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From counterterrorism to fixed penalty notices. Let it not be said this Substack isn’t eclectic.

Last week I cast a sceptical eye over direct entry detective schemes, in which I suggested the traditional two-year probationary period for police officers was a Jolly Good Thing. I understand why some people think two years on the beat is unnecessary and even wasteful. It even puts some people off joining the police in the first place.

Still, I think UK Policing PLC abandons it at its peril. Why?

Well, it’s not because I particularly enjoyed it. When I joined the Job I wanted to be Bodie out of ‘The Professionals’ not ‘Dixon of Dock Green.’ But, in retrospect, my time on the beat was one of the most formative learning experiences of my life. Policing’s a people business. And a good way of learning how to deal with people is by upsetting them. It tests your mettle, not least because confrontation doesn’t come naturally to most.

In the police, a relatively gentle introduction to people-craft is dealing with traffic offences. Now, I’m not suggesting traffic enforcement should exist solely for the purpose of training rookie police officers. All I’m saying is it’s genuinely amazing how much you learn watching a busy London bus lane for three hours. You meet a rich tapestry of humanity, united in their loathing of you for issuing a fixed penalty notice for driving in a prohibited bus lane.

I’d also suggest (whisper it softly) the days when local coppers dealt with traffic offences were a good thing. I took a hot shower after having such thoughts, as back then most self-respecting police officers disdained dealing with traffic offences. Except for budding traffic rats, but they’re strange to begin with.

So today’s post is about sticking people on. ‘Stuck on’ is Job slang for being reported for an offence. You’d usually hear it in two specific contexts: The first is for misconduct (“Dave got caught sliding off duty an hour early, so the sergeant stuck him on”). The second is for traffic offences (“I’m sticking this bloke on for running a red ATS and having a bald front tyre”).

At Hendon we suffered many hours of lessons on the Road Traffic Act 1986. I still remember the definition of a ‘road’, a ‘mechanically propelled vehicle’ and the acronym COW (priorities at accidents, being Casualty, Obstruction and Witnesses). My earliest experience of writing evidential notes was completing the rear of a fixed penalty notice on the training roads around Peel Centre. My favourite bit, looking back on it, were the ‘White Notes’ (the lesson notes on everything taught at training school) on ‘Discretion.’ In it, you were told you were allowed to use your discretion to verbally warn people about traffic offences, with the caveat you had to make your mind up before stopping the offender whether you were going to verbally warn them or not.

This was, quite obviously, utter bollocks. There has always been an ‘attitude test.’ I will discuss this later.

Most of us had no interest in upsetting usually law-abiding taxpayers. Generally, I only stuck people on (a) during my street duties course (b) when my sergeant told me to, because I needed to show ‘a return of work’ or (c) someone was a known criminal and ruining their day via process was a righteous thing to do.

Note I don’t include drink / drive offences in this – I would ruthlessly nick pissed drivers whenever I was able. It was a view informed by attending fatal road accidents involving drink and drugs.

Nor, as divisional officers, did we issue speeding tickets. Only traffic cars had calibrated speedometers which were evidentially acceptable to a court.

Nicking drink drivers is God’s Work

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Back to my bus lane, on a balmy summer morning in the early 1990s. My street duties instructor is a very tall, broad man with a moustache. He’s called Richard and he used to be a police cadet (who we called ‘The Hitler Youth’) which means by his early thirties he’s already got thirteen years in. He’s an excellent instructor - patient and kind, with an eye for detail. A career uniform officer, with no interest in doing anything other than patrol work. Quite literally the salt of the earth and exactly the sort of person you want to learn from. “Right,” he says, hefting a leather-backed clipboard full of tickets and other road traffic ephemera (officers of my generation will remember HORT/1s, CLE 2/6s and process books). “We’ll use this bus stop as our hiding place and observe motorists entering the bus lane. I give them ten yards grace. Anymore, and they’re stuck on.”

I nod and stand behind the bus stop. Both Richard and I are about fifteen-odd stone and six feet-plus tall. We’re wearing beat duty helmets. Bus stop notwithstanding, if you can’t see us you shouldn’t be driving - you’re obviously as blind as Mister Magoo. We aren’t, however, wearing day-glow jackets as the job wasn’t as health and safety conscious back then.

A convertible Mazda MX5 pulls into the bus lane and cheekily undertakes other traffic. “A-ha,” Richard exclaims, a bit like a uniformed Alan Partridge. He steps smartly into the road, holding up his arm in the approved manner. “Good morning, would you please pull over,” he says to the driver, an astonishingly pretty air stewardess.

The air stewardess is adept at eyelash-fluttering. She offers a scarlet-lipped smile. “What’s the problem officer? I haven’t done something wrong, have I?” she says coquettishly.

“Yes,” Richard replies, explaining in quite technical detail the workings of a bus lane. Remember, he’s training me, so it’s all by-the-book. “In any case, I shall be issuing you with a fixed penalty notice,” he continues, then he cautions her.

Then she starts crying. Sobbing. I’m mortified. She’s so pretty. And it’s only a bus lane. She’s probably just finished a long haul flight. It’s like pulling the wings off of a beautiful butterfly. There’s no way I’d give her a ticket.

But Richard sticks her on, although he does tell her it’s not that bad. “No points on your licence, at least, eh?” Scowling, she takes the ticket and drives away. The tears, I suspect, were tactical.

“There you go. Now it’s your turn,” Richard smiles. He sounds like a father introducing a small child to the basics of fishing. “Are you ready?”

You see wholesome cabin crew. I see suspects for Road Traffic Act violations. We are not the same.

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I observe an oxblood Mercedes thundering up the bus lane. I step out into the road and stop the car. The driver is a puce-faced man in his sixties. Smartly dressed. A businessman, perhaps. “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” he snaps. It’s a fair point, but driving in a bus lane is an absolute offence and I’m on the second week of my street duties course.

“Please step out of the car, Sir,” I reply, explaining the offence just like Richard did with the air stewardess.

“This is nonsense,” the businessman replies. “I wasn’t even in the bus lane.” Now I’m pissed off as he’s accused me of lying. See what I mean about the attitude test?

“Yes you were,” said Richard. “I saw you too.”

“Right, I’m having a heart attack,” says the driver matter-of-factly. He begins gasping theatrically and flopping against the Jag’s bonnet.

Nowadays I imagine you’d call an ambulance and begin CPR. Back then? “Don’t be a tit,” says Richard. “Honestly, you’re a grown man.”

“Yes,” I say, “it’s only a ticket. Pull yourself together or I’ll arrest you.”

“What for?” says the driver, between fruity (and not very convincing) gasps.

“Section 25 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, as I’m unable to establish your identity to summons you for an offence.”

“Very good,” says Richard, “I’m glad you’re paying attention, Dom.”

My legal knowledge seems to have a restorative effect on the driver’s heart condition and he takes his ticket. He drives away, fuming. “He was a twat,” I suggest.

“Yes, he was,” Richard agrees. “Now, do three more and then we’ll go for breakfast.”

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I am sent to a team of sweaty patrol officers. The average length of service is fifteen years. As the probationary constable, I’m required to fill out a small yellow ‘record of work book’ to prove I’m not loafing. “We’re not a busy team, but we’re a happy team,” the sergeant (who looks and talks like Jack Dee) explains. “Although you’ll be busy, as the prob does all the team’s traffic process. Now fuck off and start sticking people on.”

The other probationer on my team, who’s younger than me, was also a former police cadet. He’s only got a few months left before he’s confirmed as a constable and shows me the best hunting places on the division to stick people on. “The sergeant’s a good bloke, really,” he says. “Just do a couple of tickets a day, some stop and searches and take any shoplifters or sudden death calls you hear on the radio. He’ll be happy then.”

My favoured spot is a pedestrian crossing outside a school. It has (a) a bus stop for cover and (b) a café where I can write up tickets. Driving on a zebra crossing when a pedestrian’s still on it (‘failing to accord precedence’) incurs three penalty points on an offender’s driving licence. Watching kids having to run a gauntlet of fuck-witted motorists zooming across the zebra motivates me - this is going to be the safest zebra crossing in London! I soon have three tickets and am thanked by one of the schoolteachers. This makes me feel less guilty about sticking people on.

As the months pass, I discover most people are stoic about getting a ticket. Some are obstreperous, but I’m indifferent to abuse. I even make arrests (one bloke has marijuana in his car, another a knife and a fake tax disc). My sergeant is happy. I start getting court appearances out of my traffic work. Court experience is good - screwing up and losing a job involving a red traffic light isn’t the end of the world.

Wandering around on patrol, I start having fun. I decide to administer road-side eyesight tests (perfectly legal) to naughty but reasonable motorists in lieu of a ticket. I stop lorries and inspect the tachygraph. I have no idea whatsoever what I’m looking at, but I’m allowed to do it and I get to initial the little cardboard disc inside. I see a van driver eating a McDonald’s big breakfast balanced on the top of his steering wheel. I stop him for driving without due care and attention. He’s a lairy, gobby shitbag. A namecheck on the PNC reveals a conviction for sexual offences. I get on the radio and ask for an ‘Oscar’ unit to look at the van, as it looks dangerous to me. I also know a traffic rat can find fault with a brand new car in a showroom if he put his mind to it. The rat arrives on a motorbike and is delighted with my catch. “This van is a disgrace,” he says to the driver, pulling his biro of automotive justice from his pocket. “Consider it impounded.”

Then I go back to the collators office and submit a report about a sex offender and his van. A few months later a Dc calls me to say it was a good lead for an offence he was investigating. I begin to realise traffic is a good way of getting into the lives of criminals. It’s another tool in the box. I remember a colleague stopping a car for having no headlights and finding a pistol in the boot. Remember, it was traffic officers who caught the Yorkshire Ripper.

“Please step out of your vehicle, Sir,” Peter Sutcliffe, ‘The Yorkshire Ripper’ who was apprehended by traffic rats

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And guess what?

A camera can do none of these things. When did a speed camera ever catch a drink driver? Or a drug dealer? Or someone driving a deathtrap of a motor vehicle?

Never.

Nowadays, it’s cameras doing 90% of the traffic enforcement in the UK - and enforcement is subtly different from policing. ‘Road camera safety partnerships’ are run alongside local authorities (i.e. revenue harvesting opportunities partly-designed to rinse motorists). Or private parking wardens, indifferent to dangerous parking as long as they’re making their ticketing quotas.

Britain has been privatising different parts of policing for thirty-odd years. I’m not sure this benefits the public, but I’m sure Group 4 shareholders are pleased. I remember when London boroughs began privatising traffic wardens in the early 90s, replacing the police version (the ‘yellow peril’). People soon missed them - they were primarily focussed on obstruction and road safety. The new ones just harvested cash.

Now, I’m not against privatisation in principle. In fact, I’ve got a bit of an Adam Smith streak when it comes to economics; the State should primarily concern itself with the security of its citizens at home and abroad. To whit, law enforcement and the military. Most other stuff - go ahead. But on a purely ethical level, I take a dim view of placing a profit motive on criminal sanctions. Ask yourself the question - if you commit a minor traffic offence, would you rather take your chances with a copper or a camera?

And so, slowly, roads policing became less of a priority as the police had ‘better things to do’, which really meant they were required to be auxiliary social workers.

I think the police missed a trick. I hope new police officers are still trained in some of this stuff. I hope experienced colleagues teach them how to leverage small offences, like traffic, into detecting serious ones. Or are they slaves to the radios clipped to their armour, attending spurious calls to feed the performance monster? Or are there simply too few of them on shift in the first place?

Yes, I think I know the answer to that one too.

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