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ornament elsewhere, andmore strangely was the thought of how it actually came to be there. However I had little time to ponder these questions in any depth as George continued with the tour, pointing out various houses and giving thumbnail sketches of all the occupants, their habits and offence histories. He also revealed an unusual public relations skill during this introductory walk – the wife of one of his ‘regulars’ came out to us and started to complain about the antics of one of her neighbours, demanding that George do something about it. We went into the complainer’s house, apparently to take more details. The carpet was dark and sticky underfoot, a huge pile of dirty crockery filled the sink and draining board, the obligatory fat-encrusted chip pan sat on the cooker, and a large dog of indeterminate ancestry was draped along the settee. Amid this scene of underprivileged poverty there was one incongruity – in the lounge was an enormous television, out of all proportion to the apparent income of the occupants.
    The woman was by now in full rant about how her neighbours were causing all manner of problems, and how she demanded the Police do something about it. Had George and I not been passing she would probably never have phoned up about it, but the convenience of a passing policeman (and one who she knew to be capable having been on the receiving end of his attention) meant that she wanted full value for money.
    But then George’s eye fell on the television, and he spoke.
    ‘Let’s see your TV licence first please.’
    The woman stopped as if stung. ‘What do you want to see the TV licence for?’ she asked. ‘I want you to sort out my neighbours.’
    ‘The law says you must have a TV licence – let me check you aren’t breaking the law and I’ll gladly help you.’
    The woman paused, deep in thought. She obviously knew George well.
    ‘What if I haven’t got one?’ she asked.
    ‘Then I’ll report you for summons before I get on with dealing with your own complaint. You want wrongdoers punished, I’m only too keen to help, but the law applies equally to all. So, your licence please…’
    ‘OK, forget about me neighbours then,’ she said.
    Unethical it may have been, but George’s tactic reduced the number of times people would expect the law to be enforced on their behalf while not complying with it themselves.
    He applied the same approach to dog owners, as at that time it was still obligatory to have a dog licence. Knowing what was coming, one of his ‘victims’ had claimed that the dog in his lounge was what he called a ‘street dog’. This meant, he explained, that the dog was fed and cared for at random by residents in the street, with no specific family having outright possession. George countered this by deeming it ‘lost’ and taking it into the Police station.
    The following day the family arrived at the Police Station to see George, complete with apology and brand new dog licence. It was very rare that George lost a battle.
    Talking of dogs, it seemed that houses with domestic problems would always own at least one enormous mongrel dog, and as such was usually the most intelligent and well-behaved occupant of the premises. The owners were often the type of people who would complain endlessly about mattersover which we have little influence or control, but who would still call the Police at the drop of a hat for the simple reason that we are available 24 hours a day and free – even the 999 call is free. When (many years later) CS gas was issued to patrol officers, it didn’t take long for them to learn that dogs are not affected by CS, and there were several instances where if the resident shaggy dog followed departing officers outside it was quickly grabbed, taken round the corner and given a good squirt of CS. Of course when it came back indoors, the first thing it would do is have good shake...
    Other examples of policing George-style came thick and fast as we toured the