I was going through my paces in Hyde Park, sweating out the booze, raising the heartbeat with short wind sprints, keeping my mind off the weekend’s debauchery and the ensuing Karamazovian hangover. I sat down on a bench, took off my sweaty polo shirt, opened the Daily Telegraph, and took in some rays.
A police officer approached me — but with a smile. ‘Are you by any chance Taki?’ he said. ‘Guilty as charged, constable, but this time I’m clean.’ He smiled broadly and asked if he might sit down.
Well, Constable Hackworth turned out to be straight out of The Blue Lamp. A Spectator reader, he somehow recognised my 80-year-old countenance and complimented me on my training. His beat that day was Hyde Park, and he gave it his full attention without being too obtrusive, as a good policeman should. American tourists kept asking him for photos, and he was generous to a fault. But he was also eagle-eyed and took everything in. I’d hate to be on the run with Constable Hackworth on the lookout. I haven’t had my picture in a newspaper in 20-odd years, but he spotted me among hundreds. We didn’t discuss politics, just how coppers used to be loved — under Attlee, say — and how the leftie media, and scummy people such as John McDonnell, have slowly but surely turned the young and spoilt against the blue line that protects us from the mob.
The left romanticises street thugs, but I learned to love the fuzz early on. I was about seven when I saw policemen whose salary hardly fed them and their families die right on our doorstep defending us from commie guerrillas bent on cutting our throats. Yes, men who ate bread and a little cheese as a main meal gave their lives defending a couple of indulged little rich kids.
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