Can I Come in Now Sarge

Can I Come in now Sarge is my police autobiography. This first book of my autobiography consists of 96.686 words; there is ample scope to increase or decrease the wordage as required.
The story starts during my strict Catholic upbringing. In 1963 I joined the Royal Navy serving around the world. After leaving and working for a short time building the M27 motorway (2 weeks!) I joined the Cheshire Police. Some of the interesting learning curves are outlined.
After two years, I trained as a detective and this was followed by a period as a plain-clothes officer and a short time in uniform. There are many anecdotes from this period.
I then joined the CID, again stories from the period which include CID politics!
In 1985 I started work on the No 1 Regional Crime Squad, advanced driver training, surveillance training and undercover work on the biggest police drugs operation in the North West at the time. This operation included the arrest of Andy Rourke, bass guitarist with 'The Smith's' pop group; the band was broken up shortly after
I later returned to uniform duties as a Sergeant at Macclesfield and Wilmslow. After 15 months I returned to the RCS where I again dealt with serious crimes including murders. Commendations and car crashes.
The day before the Berlin Wall came down I sorted out the offence of kidnapping that had made national headlines on that day. I recovered the kidnapped child.
Returning to leafy Cheshire, well, Warrington! I set up the present Cheshire Paedophile Squad. This was the second most important of its kind after North Wales I took the first complaint and arrested the offender. Detected a murder and interviewed the murderer. Etc Etc.
All is written with a strong sense of cynicism and humour which enables the story to flow comfortabley from hilarious anecdotes to heart rending sadness. Examples of the poor state of the police force today compared with what happened in the 'evil' seventies.
See below for the first page.
Remember the copyright!
Can I Come in Now Sarge.
104.562 words (Original full MS) Now edited for publishing.
An Autobiography.
Each Chapter. ‘Can I come in now Sarge?’ A Police Autobiography
Chapter One:- From One Career to another.
Chapter Two:- Cheshire gets a new recruit.
Chapter Three:- The Police Love Public Disorder and other big earners.
Chapter Four:- Back to Uniform and Strange People!
Chapter Five:- CID at Last & the Ways & Means Act!
Chapter Six:- When You Don't Know What to Do, Go For a Drink
Chapter Seven:- The No.1 Regional Crime Squad.
Chapter Eight:- Operation Atherton, an Introduction to Undercover Work.
Chapter Nine:- Hard Work Pays Off.
Chapter Ten:- A Good Detective! Or a Bent Detective? A Fine Line!
Chapter Eleven:- Back to Uniform with Stripes.
Chapter Twelve:- Dealing With Famous People Again!
Chapter Thirteen:- Return To the Regional Crime Squad and Domestic Upheaval.
Chapter Fourteen:- A Kidnapped Child Recovered and National News.
Chapter Fifteen:- Chasing the Welsh Nationalists or Shall We Punch the Solicitor and Steal it Back Boss!
Chapter Sixteen:- Detective Sergeant in Warrington. Murders to Be Dealt With!
Chapter Seventeen:- A Long Interview with a Bizarre Murderer!
Chapter Eighteen: The Cheshire Paedophile Squad Is Set Up With a Horrendous first Enquiry.
Chapter Nineteen:- Putting Meat on the Bones!
Chapter Twenty :- Back to Divisional CID. More Paedophiles!
Chapter Twenty One:- A Nasty Paedophile and Fun Trip to Ulster.
Chapter Twenty Two:- A Detective Works for a Counterfeit Goods Dealer.
Chapter Twenty Three:-Police Federation Work and Discipline Duties.
Chapter Twenty Four:-Dealing with a Rape ????
Chapter Twenty Five:- Putting the World to rights.

Chapter One.

From One Career to another.
'Just so as I know mate, what name did you give?'
The man addressing me in the raw Irish brogue was a rough middle aged Irishman with a complexion like hammered leather and hands like meat plates.
'I gave my own,' I replied meekly looking up as he peered down from the dumper truck, a look of disdain on his face.
'What's that? I can't bloody hear you!'
The rough engine drowned out my words as the smelly blue exhaust smoke enveloped me.
'I said I gave my own name when he asked me,' the last four words were shouted across the site as the trucks engine was suddenly switched off causing a motley mixture of labourers to look across from their digging in the white fossil rich clay.
The distinguished old Irishman was Stan and he had the rank of 'Ganger,' we were on the site of one of the bridges on the new M27 motorway at Fareham in Hampshire. This was my first day as a building site labourer after spending eleven years cosseted from civilisation in the Royal Navy.
'Well you're a prick, what are you! No one gives their own name around here, they'll catch up with you and you'll drop us all in the shit.'
It was February 1974 and I had joined what was then known as 'the lump,' a dedicated band of construction workers who were paid by their company. Later in the week they received a special bonus care of the governments munificent DHSS office when they signed on for unemployment benefit! It was all totally alien to me but accepted by many.
I was brought up in Weaverham Cheshire in a good Liverpool Catholic house, my parents had moved from the Scotland Road area of Liverpool just as I started school. My father had been in the RAF but had never been up in a plane; he was in Burma and Singapore where he had gone by troop ship and ended up with stomach trouble for the rest of his life as a result of his stay.. He was a lovely man in every sense of the word, quiet and unassuming, not particularly religious but highly respected in the neighbourhood. We lived in a council house like our neighbours but when they mentioned my dad he was referred to as 'The Master' as in 'Go and get the master, you're dad's died!' that was the comment made by one of the neighbours when the sad occasion occurred.
In 1972 HMS Devonshire on which I was serving at the time had just left Miami for Philadelphia. I got the telegram to say that he had died suddenly at work of a heart attack, he was 51 years old.
HMS Devonshire
My future, like that of my peers was to be a priest. This was not my wish, but that of my mother! It's what all Catholic mothers aspired to be - mothers of a priest. If they all got their way, we would live in a Father Ted society where the good, the bad and the ugly are all priests. I did however become an alter boy, in this way all of my older female relatives could look proudly at me every Sunday as I wore my black and white vestments to serve Mass. These angelic alter boys, so beloved of the old Eleanor Rigbys had a dark side however. The altar wine was a favourite and the game of trumping on the alter could guarantee a severe glance from the priest especially as the trump only escaped from the voluminous cassock when you moved. Usually to go to the priest for some part of the ceremony.
One day we were volunteered to take part in a fashion show at the local Memorial Hall. A posh shop staged it and we, in our finery, were to lead the models on to the stage. It didn’t take long for one of the angelic altar boys to discover that our room was next to the models changing room. If you climbed up to the open loft, you could creep along and look down at the girls changing. The hormones were doing somersaults at the thought. The first of our number dressed in his black cassock and white surplice climbed up. Got over the dressing room and fell in! Well, not completely in, he managed to grab a steel beam and hang there as the white plaster dust settled gently on the half naked women below, his cassock hem caught on a nail pulling it up to reveal that he wore only Y front's under it, mucky baggy schoolboy Y fronts as well! This is what the good ladies in their flimsy underwear had presented to them for their delectation. The priest was called and our services were dispensed with.
Like almost all of my school friends, I never did become a priest, one got close to it, but was caught having sex with a cleaning lady at the seminary and sent home!
Religious education was an overriding priority in catholic schools in the 50’s and priests were still highly respected.