F&%k The Police.

I'm young, and i'm Black, and though my hat's not particularly low, the first two attributes to my person have caused me to be mistrustful of the police. I couldn't tell you exactly when this mistrust began or what it was based on, perhaps it was from watching too many movies in which Police officers would ruthlessly pursue innocent Black men as a child. Maybe it started in my adolescence when i saw with my own eyes, Police officers treating people of my skin colour with less than the greatest respect, as exemplified on one particular occasion when i witnessed a Police officer force a young Black man to strip to his pants in the middle of the road, in the heart of Croydon shopping centre, a performance i later found out was illegal, under the PACE act of 1984. Luckily for him, he wasn't a tighty-whitey man, and he was wearing some pretty free flowing boxers. They weren't especially fashionable, but they saved him some dignity. The rest of his pride was lying in the fetal position, crying like a little bitch, before the Police man's heel, but that's beside the point. It's possible that my distrust of police comes from growing up with my mother constantly telling me, 'Don't trust white people, O! Especially not the Police'.

Like i said, i really couldn't say why, but i've never been particularly comfortable around the Police, so much so that i often bring unnecessary attention to myself by looking extremely shifty and anxious in their presence. However, despite my suspicious behaviour in their presence, i had always managed to avoid being stopped and searched by the police by perfecting the art of appearing harmless. This mostly involved styling myself on Carlton from the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Police officers just don't feel the need to stop and search a man wearing a pink shirt and a brown vest jumper, even if he is black.

Now, this method worked for years, until one night when i found myself walking home from a party in the early hours of the morning. I passed by a Police car and, as i usually did, went out of my way to appear nonchalant, and short of whistling and twirling a walking stick, whilst wearing a bowler hat and monocle, i was about as contrivedly nonchalant as it got. I made it passed the car, and was thinking to myself that being a nineteen-year old Black male, having never been stopped by the police was impressive and perhaps i should have been given a medal.

It was then that a second Police car pulled up and a single Police man got out. I tried to walk past, nice and casual-like, but he very politely asked me if he could stop me for a minute...  I had spoken too soon and jinxed myself only moments before. He claimed that i fit the description of someone who had escaped from a local precinct. I imagine the description was 'Black, with black hair, and black-black, black, black and black. Oh, and he's short'. Luckily for me, the final characteristic of this escaped convict was that he had a scar on his forehead, which i did not.

The moral of this story is that the Police are not to be trusted.

Unless you're white.