As anyone who knows me will testify, there are many – many – occasions on which I should have been arrested. Occasions on which my being bundled into the back of a Black Maria would be entirely justifiable, if not on grounds of public safety, certainly those of my own.

The recent occasion, for example, when I – after a rum and coke or two – decided to stick my oar in when I saw a far more drunk man being shoved about by a short-arsed little Community Support bastard who looked like my old physics teacher. Quite why I wasn’t carted off for obstruction when the proper police turned up I don’t know. Oh, yes I do – because the only people the police hate more than drunk former law students spouting bollocks about assault are Community Support bastards.

Or then there was the time a few years ago when the Obscene Publications Squad shut down my website about paedo hysteria on the grounds that some fucking morons on a Portsmouth housing estate might be driven to violence. Even the Evening Standard got behind the police on that one. And, fuck-sake, I even posted an open letter on the site asking for them to have the decency to charge me with something rather than sneaking around with my ISP. But they backed down. The cowards.

You know the phrase, “he couldn’t even get arrested in this town”? That was me.

And then I got arrested. For the most rubbish thing ever.

Last month it was, after the first FCL meet up. 2am, in a club, I decided to lend a female pal my cashcard to get home safe. Like the gentleman I am. The gentleman I am being an idiot who forgot to get it back before she got in the cab.

Dissolve three hours later and I’m in the back of a black cab on Lordship lane with some fucking tool of a cab driver yelling at me as I try to explain that I’ve just realised I have no means to pay him.

I offer him my business card, with the promise to settle tomorrow.

No dice.

He threatens to take me to the police station.

I readily agree. Anything to shut him up.

We go to the police station where, I fully expect, the police officer will appreciate my plight, verify my details and send me on my way.

No dice.

You see, Savannah – the only person whose number I can remember off the top of my head, other than my parents’ (yeah, right) – had had her phone stolen two night before. I’d phoned up on her behalf and had it cancelled. This I’d forgotten.

“He’s given us a false number, sarge”

“No I haven’t. Try it again.”

“Be quiet. Sit down. We’ve tried it twice.”

“Oh don’t be stupid, you’ve got my details, I’ve given you a proper phone number. I haven’t even committed a proper crime. Why don’t you call the number on the business card I’ve given you. The phone in my pocket will ring. Then you’ll know it’s me and I can go home to bed and sort this tomorrow.”

“You can’t verify your own identity.”

“Well I seem to be doing a better job than you are.”

“Sit down.”

*An hour – a pointless hour – passes*

5:30am.

“Look, this is silly. I’ve done all I can do this morning. Are you going to arrest me for something or can I go?”

“You’re being detained.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re being detained.”

“So what happens if I leave?”

“You can’t.”

“So, I’m being arrested?”

“You’re being detained.”

(Repeat to fade.)

“Ok, well I’m going to leave.”

I stand up and walk to the door.

“Ok, I’m now arresting you for making off without payment.”

Me: (and I have the transcript of the whole two hours if anyone wants it) Well, about time. What happens now?

I’ll summarise the 11 most boring hours of my life:

Back of a police van – they fucking hate it if you mess with the handcuffs.

Another police station. Another hour passes.

Photos and fingerprints. Asked if I could pull a funny face for photos. Told I could. Did.

DNA swab. Refused. Fuck right off. Told that if I refused they’d have to put on special gloves and stuff and it would be more difficult for me. And they’d assume I had something to hide. Made them put on special gloves. They looked like ordinary gloves to me.

Noticed a sign that said one of the cells was closed due to ‘ligature points’. Asked for that cell as it provided the only possible escape from the tedium of the arrest process.

Asked if I’d like to make a phone call. Dialled Savannah. Realised what was wrong with the number. Explained.

No dice.

Cell.

Slept for an hour. The hour they served breakfast.

Woke up.

Nothing to read, nothing to eat.

Solicitor shows up at noon.

Finally allowed to make a phone call at one.

Interviewed at two. Told they were going to recommend no further action as they’d now verified I was me and I’d made it clear (twice) that I was happy to pay the moment I could be reunited with my cash card.

Custody officer had other ideas. “He seems like a good candidate for a caution,” he said. They love a ‘result’.

“But,” says I “surely you can only give me a caution if I admit that I was trying to run off without paying.”

“That’s right.”

“Well that’s hardly likely to happen as I wasn’t.”

Back to the cell. 11 hours in total now.

Another hour passes.

Bemused solicitor appears.

“They’re – I can’t believe this – they’re going to charge you under section 2 of the fraud act for misrepresentation.”

Me: “Ha! Fucking brilliant. You’re joking?”

Her: “I’m afraid not. Did you do anything to annoy the custody officer?”

“Well I did make a joke about hanging myself. Oh, and I told him he’d have to pry my DNA out of my cold dead cheeks.”

“Yeah, that would probably have been it.”

Dissolve again. One week later. Court.

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“And you’re aware that you could be liable to a stronger penalty if you don’t plead guilty?”

“Yes.”

Bailed until my trial date: 1st of June.

(As an aside here, the magistrate was actually a very reasonable man. The drug dealer who preceded me pleaded guilty and was treated with the utmost courtesy by an old man who certainly had no time for him or his felonious ilk. The clerk was helpful and – as I was defending myself – gave me advice on not fucking myself over. The only thing that bugged me was the constant standing, when it was time to speak, and sitting when it was time to shut up. The magistrate had a horrible habit of saying “Stand up.” when it was time to stand. It took all my strength not to respond with a sarcastic “Please…”. I was an innocent man after all.)

Wrote a letter to the CPS. Included paragraphs from their own guidelines on when a prosecution is in the public interest and when it’s a total waste of everyone’s time.

Day before the trial (yesterday); phonecall from the CPS. Charges dropped. Not in the public interest to carry on. Very sorry for the inconvenience. I can apply for costs incurred during the process. Said that wouldn’t be necessary as they’d wasted enough taxpayer money as it was.

The end.

Still, 12 fucking hours of my life, locked in a concrete box, for lending someone the money to get home. But on the flip side, an anecdote that will surely liven many a dull dinner party in the future.

I can’t decide what to do about the DNA though. It doesn’t get destroyed if the charges are dropped. That bugs me. Another letter, I suppose. And to think I really don’t like to cause a fuss.

Sigh.

Oh, I almost forgot, a definite highlight of being arrested and then representing yourself is the transcript of your interview they send you ahead of your trial. There’s a scene in I’m Alan Partridge where he tells a Dixons shop assistant that if you’re going to work in Dixons you really should have a rudimentary grasp of Latin. During my interview, I was asked to explain how I came to forget that someone had my cash card when I got in the cab. I responded, quite good naturedly, given the circumstances, “In vino stupitas.”

The joke apparently was lost on whoever transcribed the line from the tape. The official record shows me responding “In deano stupidas.”

…

Apropos of the above, one of my other attempts to get arrested – by phoning the Met and asking whether SOCPA would allow me to protest against myself on the roof on my old flat in Westminster – is mentioned in a book about civil liberties that’s just been published. The film of the book – Taking Liberties – is out on 8th June. Go see.