"Don't You Throw Bloody Spears At Me"

I was watching Zulu the other day and Michael Caine's famous mis-quote reminded me of a job I went to as a Probationer.

I was single-crewed and on one of our more visited housing estates taking a statement. Just as I was finishing off a call came in reporting a domestic disturbance just around the corner. The report was that the man who lived there had gone bananas and taken his family hostage. I quickly called up for the job, thanked the chap who'd given me the statement and ran off to my car. I could hear that other officers were also calling up for the job too, so I knew I wouldn't be on my own for long.

Within a minute I'd pulled up outside the address and was met by an older woman who came running out of the house to me. She screamed, "he's going mental in there! It's going to take more than one of you!" So I pulled on my body armour and calmly updated the control room saying, "apparantly this chap's quite violent so I'll probably need somebody else to assist."

Unfortunately I was a little too calm. The other officers attending told me later that they thought everything was OK so slowed down. But I didn't know that at this time.

I walked into the house, drawing myself up to my full height of 5' 7" and making my shoulders look as broad and meaty as possible. Not easy. I weigh 9st. But still, it must have looked fairly impressive because the bloke saw me and ran off through the house and into the back garden. I ran after him shouting to his family to run to a neighbour's house.

I got into the back garden just in time to see him dive into the shed. I called out, "'scuse me mate, I think we need to have a chat." He replied by chucking a spade at my head. I tried to remember the input we'd been given at training school on negotiating with people who are trying to decapitate you. As a garden rake narrowly missed my swede I realised that perhaps I should've paid a bit more attention in class. The lawn mower came next, but didn't get anywhere near me. Maybe he was tiring?

"Look, mate. There's no need for all this. Let's just chat."

"Fuck off and leave me alone!" And then he smashed the window of the shed so he'd be able to throw things at me without having to duck in and out through the door. Clearly a man capable of thinking on his feet under pressure.

I heard a noise behind me and gratefully turned round to give my colleagues an update. I was met by two paramedics who'd been called by our control room. I suggested they might want to wait inside. They asked me why just as part of a Black and Decker workbench landed just behind me. "Ah, right. We'll be inside."

I got on the radio to give an update. "The male has run into the back garden, has locked himself in the shed and is now chucking the contents at me." Again, perhaps I should have put a bit more urgency in my voice as the area car responded blithely "yep, noted. Not far away now". Fortunately, the Sergeant was listening in and started organising a shield team to do a forced entry to the shed.

A tray of seedlings richocheed off the wall behind me. I was clearly well out of my depth. And I wasn't thinking straight. Why wasn't I thinking straight? It's because I needed a cigarette. Checking to make sure my Sergeant hadn't arrived, I lit up and took a deep drag, considering what to do next. The bloke wasn't going anywhere, but any minute now he might realise I was only about half his size, do the maths and decide to take his chances with me.

He popped his head up to chuck one of those small trowel/spade things at me and stopped mid-throw, like Fatima Whitbread with a javelin. We stared at each other, like gun slingers at high noon across the battle scarred garden.

"Er, can I have a fag?"

I looked down at the smouldering tobacco in my hand and a little smile sneaked across my face.

"No, you keep chucking things at me."

He dropped the trowel. "Sorry."

"I'm going to have to handcuff you first, before I give you one of these. You know that don't you?"

"Yeah, no worries. I didn't really want to hit you."

I slowly inched towards the shed. Maybe this was a trick? Any minute now he was going to surprise me by launching a tomato plant at my nose. But no, instead he popped his hands out of the shed window in a "it's a fair cop" kind of way and let me cuff him up. I lit up another ciggie and placed it in his hand.

About 30 seconds later the cavalry arrived. They were met by the same screaming reception committee as I had been, this time saying how their colleague was in the garden being bombarded by all sorts of things. They grabbed a couple of shields from the car and ran through the house into the garden. To see me and my new mate stood chatting over a cigarette. The next officer to arrive was the Sergeant, so I quickly lost my ciggie as the bloke was lead away by the area car officers. I asked him why it had taken so long for everyone to turn up. "Well, you sounded like you were OK. So everyone turned their blues off." Right, mental note, next time give updates in a slightly more high pitched voice.

Anyway, the point is, all the way through Zulu, Michael Caine is very composed and the very epitome of stiff upper lip Britishness. But as the Zulu nation descent upon Rourkes Drift at no point does he reach into his pocket and pull out a packet of Bensons. If he had, his story might have had a totally different ending.