The Mike Lockley Column: I'm the new Clint Eastwood after nabbing parish burglar

May 24 2009 by Mike Lockley, Sunday Mercury

From there, I executed a citizen’s arrest, uttering such immortal lines as, ‘you’re totally surrounded’, while my wife stood menacingly over the villain with a large piece of wood.

“Do what she says,” I warned the thief, “my wife knows how to use that.

‘‘And if you run, she’s got a can of soup in her bag. She can fell a man from 50 yards with one of those.”

That’s a skill honed during 18 years of marriage.

The police are very pleased.

“Just describe, in your own words, how you captured the individual,” said Pc Dixon, licking the tip of his pencil.

‘‘We were walking down the track…’’

“Not so fast,” he warned. “I’ve got to get this down. Right, ‘we were moving in a north-easterly direction at a vigorous pace…”

I cast a puzzled glance at the file and then added: ‘‘When we spotted the bloke…’’

‘‘‘When we,’ he mouthed, writing furiously, ‘spied – I love that word – an individual matching the description of the individual we now know to be wanted in connection with a number of bds and botds in the area.’”

‘‘What are bds and botds,’’ I asked?

“Burglary dwellings and burglary other than dwellings,” he explained, seemingly staggered by my lack of police-speak knowledge, “things like a shed break-in. Come on, Mr Lockley, it’s not rocket science.”

One hour it took Pc Dixon to record my statement.

“It may seem laborious,” he apologised, “but it’s important we get every detail, no matter how irrelevant it may seem to you, absolutely correct.”

“You’ve spelt my name wrong,” I pointed out, scanning the A4 sheet.

“Don’t worry about that,” he huffed with a dismissive wave of the hand. “The barrister will sort little things like that out.”

“Unfortunately,” he apologised, “the stolen silver cross and chain were not among items we recovered.”

I coughed nervously and confessed we’d made a mistake. The cross hadn’t been stolen – we found it down the side of the sofa.

“And the Krugerrand?”

Er, that was down the sofa, too.

“And the £90 in cash?”

We’ve found quite a bit of that down the side of the sofa.

“Seems to me,” said the officer, casting his eyes to the heavens, “the burglar scored something of an own goal by not nicking your sofa.”

My act of vigilantism has elevated my social standing in our community, where I am now looked on as something of a Clint Eastwood figure.

“Well done,” trilled Widow Trickett. “We know who to call next time there’s trouble.”

Unfortunately, they did.

“Mike,” bellowed Colin down the blower, “get your coat – there’s a bunch of Pikies with dogs doing hare-coursing on Farmer Smith’s land.”

I went white and mumbled: “Start without me – my tea’s on the table.”