BOAR THE NINTH
by The Boar
G'day, everyone. Sorry I've been a bit tardy getting the ninth instalment out but I've been swanning about in retirement enjoying myself. Even managed to drag my arse to the World Supers and saw all the brothers from BIKE ME! Actually even saw Boris almost speechless when he had a 'penthouse letter' moment. Just before Race 1 he was standing at the urinal near the start line. Next thing, Troy Bayliss stands next to him for a nervous piss. I think Boris may have got a bit of stage fright!
Anyway true to form in the second race, Troy jumps off the big Duke, jumps the pit lane fence and rushes off for that final nervous piss. He wasn't the only rider either. Seems to me it just makes them even more human.
How good did Casey Stoner go?! Yee haaaa! The Boar is a huge Casey Stoner fan; doesn't matter what he is riding the fuck out of. I was actually talking with Casey's dad after the race and it seems to me that Casey is happy with the team, the bike and the tyres so we might just be seeing even more of him on the podium. SENSATIONAL.
Now, not many questions to answer this column. I'm starting to think nobody is bothering to read me anymore. Oh well.
The most realistic police show? Fuck me none of them are that real but the closest, for New South Wales anyway, would be 'The Bill'. Yep, that's the one, and since they started a bit more stray rooting between staff members it's got even more real! Most of the Yank shows are wank shows and if you think Blue Heelers was even close then you must believe that Victorian country towns have more crime than the Bronx!
Which brings me to a few war stories. Generally I try to hide the innocent by changing a few names and places but this bloke I'm going to talk about doesn't deserve anonymity. I won't use his name, but, I will use his nickname so that anyone who has met him will know of whom I speak.
I have mentioned before that there are many types of people who make up the Police Force. We are a reflection of society, plain and simple. Then occasionally you come across a single individual whose behaviour consistently beggars belief. I won't talk about strictly criminal acts (I refuse to acknowledge I ever witnessed those type of incidents); however I have never met a bigger fuck-up in all my career.
Boss Hog (yes that's the name he insisted on being called) was a Senior Constable when I met him. Even considering that in those days that rank was automatic on time served in the job, I'm still not quite sure how they managed to sneak him through. If incompetence required a pictorial definition his photo would loom large in any copy of the Oxford dictionary. Having said that, he was also the funniest bloke I have ever worked with, he just didn't know he was.
Hog (I can call him that, you must call him Boss Hogg) stood about 5'10" in the old scale and weighed at least 18 stone. He was a fat tub of shit with a jowl not unlike Jed Clampett's blood hound. He spoke with a slight speech impediment which seemed like a rolling of his vocal cords and tongue with a ohhhhhherr sound. Shit it's hard to describe; if you were sitting with me I could impersonate him perfectly. Anyway, when excited this ohhhhhherring sound would be more like OHHHHHERRR, if you know what I mean, getting louder and longer the more excited he became. When driving around in the truck, no matter what shift, he would fall asleep and when his head fell to his chest the movement of the truck would make that sound come out of his mouth without him even trying, not loud mind, just sort of cute (?). Ohhherr, ohherr, ohherr with the movement of the truck stressing his vocal cords.
Right, I will give you four case studies about Boss Hogg's behaviour and you can see why I spent most of my time when working with him watching him for something new to add to the hall of fame!
Case Study 1: Hogg gets a new girlfriend.
Two alert tones come over the police radio?
"Car 23, reports of shot fired, 123 Country Lane, Small Country town. Further reports of a woman screaming. Ambulance informed"
"Car 23, copy that." And off we go, sirens a blazing. This was shaping up to be some serious shit, shots fired and screaming women usual mean something bad has given birth. I heard the other car (containing the Hog and a police woman) call on to back us up.
After a short warp speed drive we get there simultaneously with the other Hog-containing police vehicle. We arrive at a small country property and unusually beat the ambulance to the site. We find a woman standing outside a tin shed screaming her guts out and pointing at the interior of the shed. ?Shit', methinks, I'm starting to think that whatever's inside that shed is not suitable for younger viewers. The four of us charge in, guns drawn. Screaming woman follows.
Old mate is propped up in the corner of the shed, across his lap is a .243 high-powered hunting rifle. Atop his shoulders where his head used to sit is a bloody pile of gumpy looking shit that in no way resembles a human head. I can clearly see the medulla and a bit of hair, not much else. This bloke has blown his head completely to bits, and I mean completely.
Hog: "OHHHERRRRURRRR! would you fucking look at this cunt -- he's got no fucking head."
Apart from being particularly obvious insofar as comments go, the fact that the screaming woman was clearly a relative made such an astute observation probably unwise.
Hog: "OHHHERRRRURRRR! fuck me, his fucken head's gone, OHHHERRRRURRRR! Can you see it Boar? Can you see it?"
Boar: "No Hog, I can't see it. My eyes aren't working at the moment and I've actually driven here blind. OF COURSE I CAN SEE IT YOU USELESS CUNT! AND IF YOU DON'T MIND ,WOULD YOU JUST STOP POINTING IT OUT TO THE ENTIRE NEIGHBOURHOOD PLEASE!"
Hog: "OHHHERRRRURRRR!"
Then another siren arrives. It's the ambos burning rubber and coming to a screeching halt, grabbing the oxygen bottle and running towards the shed.
Hog shouting to the ambos (now standing right next to old mate's recently widowed wife): "OHHHERRRRURRRR! No need to hurry with that oxygen thing, fellas, there's nowhere to fucken connect it to!"
At that stage the three remaining police seriously considered adding to the carnage by slotting a couple of .38 rounds right between Hogg's beady little eyes. You know what? No jury would have convicted us.
Anyway the postscript gets worse, or as they say, truth is stranger than fiction. Old mate who dispatched himself to a higher plain was filthy rich, and I mean filthy. Hogg did the job and got to know the widow, eventually, in the biblical sense. She buys him a big red ute and has steer's horns and 'Boss Hog' sign written on the bonnet. He moves in with her and convinces her to buy him an opal lease.
Case Study 2: The siren breaks
I was working one morning with Hog. It was a Saturday and we were driving around in the old 351 V8 Ford F100 truck (ute with cage on the back). I was driving and Hog was nodding off in the passenger seat. Big night on the piss, you know! And yes, he was making that sound as we were bouncing along.
A report comes over the radio about a woman being raped at a camping site some 40km distant. Big job requiring immediate attendance. Where we were at the time necessitated us travelling down through the CBD of a large regional centre through heavy vehicular and pedestrian traffic. No worries thinks I, a flick of the switch and the alternating horns (sirens to the uneducated) will soon shift this traffic and allow me to rush to the aid of this damsel, doing deeds of bravery and valour, saving her virtue in the nick of time and arresting a heinous felon! (Shit, did I just write that?)
Anyway, flick goes the siren switch and we're greeted with sweet fuck all. Not a peep. Confronted with bumper to bumper traffic I make the only observation possible?
"Well, that's fucked that. We'll never get through this shit traffic. She'll end up fucked every which way."
"Bullshit," replies Hog. He unbuckles his seat belt and manages to squeeze his big fat mud-guts out the passenger window. His entire upper body is hanging out of the truck. His head has gone the colour of a bruised egg plant and he's waving his left arm (a rather meaty morsel as you would imagine) like an orchestra fucking conductor, screaming at the top of his voice: "OHHHERRRRURRRR! GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU CUNTS, FUCK OFF! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"
"OHHHERRRRURRRR!"
Repeat the above continuously.
When Moses did that cool shit at the banks of the Red Sea I bet his followers were mighty impressed. Well I was impressed that the cars were nearly putting themselves up on the footpath and through shop windows to get out of our way. Pedestrians were actually standing there with their jaws dropped. I then noticed that Hog had decided to support his hand commands by inserting a .38 calibre in the mix. Yep, he had his gun out, was hanging out of the truck screaming. He must have thought he worked for Wells Fargo!
At that stage I decided I wasn't going to be there so I ducked down under the dash and drove by means of quick glances until we cleared the CBD. I could see my career (not that there was much of one then) gurgling down the shitter. Meanwhile, the Hog had re-holstered his piece and was urging me in his most polite tones to get the truck travelling faster than it was to get to the job. Now before you start getting into me about "What's funny about this dickhead with a gun?" please bear in mind he never had the thing loaded. I actually think one of the 1st Class Sergeants took his bullets off him. In fact I saw times when he actually carried a banana in his holster or a form guide. I shit you not.
Case Study 3: The 'major' accident
Boss Hog on nightwork was a sight to behold. In those days we would start at 11pm and by 1am he would be asleep on a table, snoring like a bastard and woe betide anyone who might think of trying to wake him up and give him a job. His job was sleeping on the table (though he'd wake up for a card game, a carton of piss, or a root, if one was also on offer).
I was working on the other car this night and we copped a flogging with jobs while the fat fuck slept like Snow White (an obese one to be sure). Anyway, about 4am there was a persons injured prang. Minor injuries, but we (the other crew) were just too fucking tied up to deal with it. Finally we went and kicked the fat cunt in the guts and told him to go do the job.
"OHHHERRRRURRRR, fuck me, who'd be drivin' around this time of fucking morning. Inconsiderate cunts. Fuck me, I've got better things to do that chase after fucken idiots driving around at four in the fucken morning," he grunts.
Anyway he wanders up to the hospital, takes some form of details from the involved driver and wanders back to the station to do the paperwork.
You've probably guessed two things. Firstly Hog would avoid work at all costs, so getting him to do a minor bullshit persons injured prang was like trying to pull teeth out of a pissed off crocodile. The other thing was that Boss Hogg was not good at paper work. In fact he could hardly string a typed cogent sentence together on any station records. And, when it came to actually handwriting, shit -- it was a sight to behold.
In those days, collisions were recorded on a form that was handwritten. I was sitting there watching Hog start a form, fuck it up, screw the form up and throw it on the floor. Repeat this six or seven times and you get the picture, it was a scream. The pressure was on Hog and he actually took his gun belt off to try and get comfortable to deal with the paperwork.
Anyway something as serious as a fatal motor vehicle accident was an absolutely abhorrent thought to the Hog, which gave both my work mate and I a great idea.
Enlisting the aid of a female cleaner (with a great sense of humour) we sent her off to another part of the station with strict riding instructions. The call as I remember went something like this:
Ring, ring, in the station. Answered by the station constable.
"This is Sister Jones from the hospital. Is Senior Constable (insert real name here) there please?"
"Yeh love, hang on." Yelling to Hog: "Hey Hog, the hospital's on the phone for you."
Hog: "Well, what the fuck do those cunts want?" Struggling to get his big fat arse out of the seat, tripping over his gun belt and the fast-growing pile of screwed-up accident forms on the floor around his desk.
Hog, entering station and grabbing phone: "Senior Constable (insert real name). What is it?"
Sister/cleaner: "Well Senior, are you in charge of that motor vehicle accident involving Mr Smith?"
"Yeh."
"Well I have to inform you the driver has just passed away."
"HE'S FUCKING WHAT?!"
"I beg your pardon, officer?"
"DON'T FUCKEN WORRY ABOUT IT, I'LL BE STRAIGHT UP!"
Hog's face had gone purple, he'd broken into a sweat and was actually running, picking up his gun belt trying to pull it around his mud guts whilst sprinting (read waddling) towards the car park.
"What's up Hog, where you going?"
"OHHHERRRRURRRR, fuck me, come on Boar, the fucken cunt's died!"
"I'm too busy Hog, you'll be right."
So off he goes to the hospital. I genuinely believed he was going to try and convince the medical staff that the person hadn't actually died, that it was all a big mistake, or, that it must have been a natural causes death and didn't need him to do any work. We warned the hospital of course. Suffice to say they absolutely gave it to him when he arrived. Also suffice to say, my work mate and I made ourselves scarce when the big fat cunt got back.
Case Study 4: The morning glory
Lastly, the piéce de résistance?
Hog on night work, rostered to work in the station. He manages to stay awake until about 3am, and then falls asleep at the desk, leaning back against the wall. We turn down all the phones in the station, turn out the lights and tip-toe around. Morning shift arrive at 7am and Hog is still asleep. They continue the tip toeing. At 8am the real boss (not the Hog) arrives and wanders into the station to check the message pads. Just as he wanders in, Hog, who no doubt is deep in REM sleep, starts to moan and pull at his crotch. It is noted by all and sundry that Hog has a piss-horn the size of a babies arm holding an apple and he is wrestling the fuck out of it in his sleep! Everyone apart from the real boss is almost pissing themselves. The real boss is on the verge of a coronary occlusion (bearing in mind of course that Hog is sitting in the public area of the station). The real boss smacks the Hog up the side of the head, waking the poor dear up and tells him to get to his office. I'm told that Hog didn't have much to say during that audience with the Officer in Charge.
I don't know where Hog is now. I miss him (not). And, let me tell you there would be at least a thousand more stories about him that I will never put down in print!
