In an instant you are in an entirely different world from that of the police station - from the intestines of the divisional van into a poor home. Front door is swinging open now. Mum comes out, carrying a baby in her arms. Her cardie is all undone and she's bare-breasted. Her drunken husband sinks the slipper into her back while she's clutching the baby and falling. This is right in front of you, in East Preston, like. I threw him in the back of the van straightaway. I virtually couldn't understand it myself. I said to him: "You're a brave sort of a gentleman. Do you want to have a go at me?"
There once was this fellow, he sat on some railway lines intending to commit suicide and a truck ran over him. It's hard to believe but it's true. The truck hit him and carted him 85 metres up to the road; nothing left of him. A constable at the scene was getting most upset. I said: "It just goes to show you. How stiff can you get? Here he was just waitin' for a train to come and a bloody truck cleans him up."
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