When I joined the police in 1982, we were issued a truncheon – a lump of wood so archaic it felt like a relic from the Crimean War. As a tool of personal protection, it was about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle. The version handed to my female colleagues was even more of a farce: shaped like a marital aid and roughly the same length, it was less a deterrent and more a prop from a Carry On film. As crime-fighting kit, it ranked somewhere between a white flag and a strongly worded letter of complaint.
Fast forward a few years and the gods of operational practicality finally smiled upon us. Enter the extendable baton – aircraft-grade aluminium, sleek, black, and vaguely menacing. I returned to Slough from a sabbatical at training school, strapped this newfangled sidearm to my hip, and promptly forgot it was there. Consequently, while exiting a house to conduct a search, via the patio doors, I nearly smashed the glass with my shiny new appendage. It was like trying to navigate a tightrope with a selfie stick.
Training was intense, but no amount of drills could erase the image I had of myself as Charlie Chaplin every time I drew the thing. The momentum required to rack it into full length was theatrical – less “tactical deployment” and more “silent movie slapstick.” Still, I loved it. I drew it so often the black patina faded to a dull grey, bleached by the sunlight and my enthusiasm.
I always used it within the bounds of Section 3 of the Criminal Law Act 1967 – reasonable force and all that – but the baton did have its moments of unintended comedy. Passing through Slough railway station recently, decades after I’d hung up my trusty sidearm, I was reminded of one such moment. Laurie Rush and I had nicked a bloke and ended up placing him on the floor, my baton wedged under his arm and across his shoulders like some kind of DIY restraint system. It was a move of such finesse I still surprise myself when I recall it. As we struggled to contain the urchin, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to hear the immortal line: “Which platform do I need for the Paddington-bound train?”
That memory opened the floodgates.
There was the time on the Britwell estate when a choppy teenager refused to be handcuffed by my colleague, Paul Brown. He started kicking off in the lounge of a semi-detached house, complete with a pseudo-chandelier that looked like Liberace’s leftovers. Just as I was about to intervene, the lad’s dad burst in from the kitchen with the urgency of a man who’d seen this pantomime before. I had a split second to decide who to strike first, but as my brain whirred the old man bellowed, “Hit him!” In the end I didn’t connect with either, but the moment hung in the air like a punchline waiting for a laugh track.
Then there was the time I arrested a bloke built like a brick shithouse, off his face on drugs, and apparently auditioning for a role as my executioner as he calmly stated that he wanted to shoot me. Just another day in Slough. I swung the baton at his legs with the force of a man who’d had enough – but it bounced off him like a rubber hose on a trampoline. He barely flinched. I emptied an entire can of CS gas into his mush and he blinked like I’d offered him a refreshing drink. Somewhere in the chaos, the words of my baton trainer floated into my mind: “These options will have little impact on individuals who have a fixed mindset of causing you mortal harm.” Brilliant. Just the sort of bastards I wanted it to work on.
I bellowed into the radio with a 10-9 shout – officer in distress – and within moments, eight of my rampant colleagues arrived like a human avalanche and bulldozed him to the ground. It was like watching a rugby scrum meet a demolition crew.
The next day, during interview – once the cocktail of pharmaceuticals had been flushed from his body – he looked at me with a grin and said, “Fair play, mate. You got me right in the face with that spray.” Compliment or critique? Hard to tell, but I’ll take it.
I invited colleagues to share their own baton bloopers, but only a couple had the cojones to fess up – even with the promise of anonymity. One tale involved a disturbance in Allow Hollow, a patch of waste ground that sounded like something from a Hardy novel:
“My colleague and I arrived in a panda car which was promptly peppered with what we thought were bullets. We dived for cover, hearts pounding, until Charlie (ex-Protection Group) realised they were air gun pellets. Undeterred, we hatched a plan. With PR24 batons held aloft like firearms, we charged into the Hollow shouting, “Armed police! Get on the fucking ground!” To our astonishment, six teenage boys dropped like extras in a war film, their arsenal of air pistols and rifles strewn around them.
Another caper unfolded at Chequers, the country house of the prime minister:
“I was dog handler minder, unarmed, and chasing down what we thought were two rogue reporters. Out of options, I drew my baton, shouted “Armed police!” and watched as both suspects froze. They turned out to be from 22 SAS. I detained them under the Terrorism Act, unarmed and undeterred. HQ had a meltdown. The duty Superintendent suggested I “adjust” my arrest statement to avoid the word terrorism. I politely declined. Bureaucracy be damned – I’d earned that baton moment.”
So yes, The Baton of Dishonour may have started life as a comedy prop, but over the years it became a symbol of improvisation, absurdity, and the occasional flash of brilliance. It wasn’t just a tool – it was a character in the farce, a co-star in the drama, and sometimes, just sometimes, the punchline itself.
© Ian Kirke 2025
@ iankirke.bsky.social
Title photograph Andy Thornley.
Licensed and reproduced under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
Main body photograph: sorsoup (talk)
Licensed and reproduced under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
