A diary of one man's (Using the term man lossely) utter failure, depression, frustration, cock-ups, and impecuniousness, starting in August 1947
The Night of the Call-Out!
The client requested two Security Officer to cover for the night, for their own guards who had both reported in sick. To cover a meeting/party of executives party.
It was at a posh mansion just outside Leicester, and the duties were:
* To tactfully check the tickets of the aristocratic posh guests as they arrived, and make sure they parked safely.
* Monitor the car park for security during the meeting.
* Ensure no gate crashers/intruders were not allowed to gain access.
* Then guide the Rollers, Bentleys and BMWs back onto the main road safely as they departed.
They insisted that the officers were of sufficient calibre and skills to carry out such duties, that required tact, firmness, understanding and politeness!
The company's manager assured them it would be so.
But unfortunately they could only get me and a chap called Martin Smith to respond to the late call out for the shift!
It was arranged for me to go to control to get the details, then go and pick Martin up, and take us to the site, using the map drawn on the back of a Senior Service tipped fag packet by the manager for us.
We found the site with plenty of time to spare, and I drove into the front car park, parking my rusty but trusty Skoda Estelle in between the BMWs, Vauxhall Viscounts, Humber Imperials, Vanden Plas Princess's, Jaguars, Rolls, and even one Porsche 912.
This Neville Chamberlain lookalike came out to us, ans instructed us to park around the back of the mansion, then return to him at the front, for further instructions.
This we did.
I was posted on the gate, (just as it started to rain), and Martin was to organise the parking in the car park. He did a good job too, so many vehicles with cumberbanded men and jewellery encrusted women arrived, I don't know how he got them all in, but he did.
We were told to remain in position all the time so as to deter any unwanted intruders.
Luckily there were plenty of bushes and trees for us to nip into to relieve ourselves.
When the party started, one of us stayed at the gate, while the other patrolled the grounds and car park, then we'd swap over for a while.
A, what I assumed was a butler came out during a break in the rain, to inquire if we knew who's rusty car it was that was in the rear car park near the garage, and why was it admitted to the grounds.
Martin asked what we were supposed to do with the invites that all the guests had handed in - a good question!No one had informed us to do anything with them. I said to hang onto them for now, and we'll asked someone later.
Martin trudged off munching on his pork pie, back to the main gate, and I started a patrol of the grounds.
As I was walking past the swimming pool, I espied a pair of knockers bouncing about under a diamond necklace, on a tiara wearing female, who was as pissed as a newt, and spilling champagne (I assumed) from her glass, as she tried her best to light a Peter Stuyvesant. She was close to the pools edge, and I was concerned for her safety.
I managed to get her walking back towards the hall, although conversation was impossible, bless her. As he staggered back through the glass doors, I hear Martin on the RT - calling for back up!
I ran (yes I could in those days!), back to the front gate, I could see Martin leaning in through the drivers window of a Vauxhall Velox, and gently shaking the driver around the neck!
I arrived to find that the driver of the Vauxhall, had been choking. We got him out, and a good slap on his upper back removed the brazil nut from his throat.
The party was just breaking up then, and the man seemed okay after a moment or two, so Martin guided the drivers out of the crammed car park, and I took up my position in the road outside, to signal a safe exit for the departing vehicles.
After an hour or so, it seemed that all the guests had departed, I locked the gate, and we went in search of the client, finding him talking with some well attired gents in the car park.
He informed us that one or two more guests had yet to depart, as he did this, someone sounded their car horn at the front gate. I gave martin the key, and he responded.
It transpired later, the departing personage was non-other than Rex Fletcher, Nottingham's Chief Constable, and his family.
All over and done, the snotty client seeming content with our performance (a rarity), slipped us a fiver each, and sent us off on our way!
I drove Martin back to return the stuff to control.
Then drove on to Mansfield to take Martin home.
Then home to Nottingham to get my head down.
Then received the call from Control to say that the client had called asking where the gate key was!
Then back to Mansfield to pick up the key up from Martin, when I eventually managed to wake him up.
Then back to Leicester to apologise and give the client his gate key.
Then back to Nottingham... well pissed off!
I'd used more than a fiver on petrol to get the key back to the client!
"Oh bother" I said!