Stripper

Gill Davies

In the summer of 1988, I shared a squat in Haggerston Estate, Dalston with my brother Gordon, Boiled Eck (a friend from home) and Giggly Jim. Giggly Jim was a cheery stripper from Govan. His wife, also a stripper, had booted him out of their flat in the block over the road, so he moved in with us. Being a tidy sort, he hung up all his outfits on a big metal grill that was used for boarding up the windows of empty flats to keep folk like us out.

Giggly Jim had a whole range of outfits on display - the usual stuff like a gorilla costume and a cowboy outfit - but it was the Metropolitan policeman's uniform that caught my eye.

I asked Giggly Jim if it was the real deal and he assured me it was, but wouldn't tell me how he'd got his hands on it.

I had an idea. A couple of mates from work were leaving to go travelling around Greece in the summer and they were having a farewell party in a pub in the west end. They were forever going to 'eat as much as you like' restaurants and leaving without paying. I thought it would be a good idea for Giggly Jim to get dressed up in his policeman's uniform, stroll into the party and pretend to arrest them for stealing. Then he'd take his gear off.

For a small fee, Giggly agreed to do it.

On the party night, I waited in the work's club for him to arrive. I didn't recognise him when he walked in. He looked every inch the London bobby. Gone was his usual attire, the cheesecloth shirt, bellbottom jeans and shoes that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Bay City Roller. In its place, was the neat fitting policeman's uniform. He'd tucked the long part of his curly black mullet into his helmet and wore shiny black brogues. He'd even perfected a policeman's stance and, with his hands crossed behind his back, walked slowly down the club. The manager came straight out from behind the bar.

'Is everything alright, constable?'

'Yes, sir, just a routine check', Giggly Jim replied.

You should have seen the looks on the faces of the regulars when he stepped up to the bar, ordered a pint and lit up a cigarette.

Boiled Eck and one of his pals arrived soon after, worse for wear. The party was in a pub one block away so we finished our drinks and left. As soon as we were out the door, Boiled Eck lobbed a stone at Giggly's helmet, knocking it flying. As he bent over to pick it up, Eck booted him on the backside. I kept Eck and his mate back and let Giggly walk ahead,

He was about twenty feet in front of us, when a car screeched to a halt beside him. A big bear of a guy jumped out and pinned Giggly Jim against the railings. Boiled Eck and his mate were off like a shot.

'What are you doing?' I shouted. 'Leave him alone!'

The big bear took a wallet out of his pocket and flashed it at Giggly, who stood petrified, his hands behind his back.

It didn't click with me straight away that this was a real policeman. Albeit, a plain clothes one. He had a broad Glaswegian accent and I thought it was someone from Giggly's shady past.

'Get your hands off him! We're going to a party.'

'The only place he's going is back to where he came from to take that uniform off. If he doesn't, I'll be doing him for impersonating a policeman.'

He flashed his credentials at me. He was CID.

'How did you know he wasn't a real policeman?'

'A real policeman doesn't walk along the road smoking a cigarette.'

It was then that I realised Giggly had his hands behind his back because he was hiding a cigarette.

So that was that plan ruined.

Giggly Jim had to go back to the work's club and change into his civvies.

And to make things worse, the CID detective and his colleague followed us into the party and sat at the bar for most of the night to make sure he didn't put the uniform back on again.