I WAS driving sedately through Wark the other day when a police Land Rover pulled out in front of me and after driving some quarter of a mile at 18mph, the blue lights suddenly burst into life, and a red sign appeared in the back window commanding me to stop.

There had been nothing improper about my driving, so I concluded I was to become a statistic in the Northumbria Police festive random breath test strategy, which included catching people still with alcohol sloshing around their systems from the night before.

I was delighted, for I knew the only alcohol I had consumed in the previous 36 hours was a generous bowlful of sherry trifle, two days earlier, so I figured I was unlikely to turn the crystals red.

To my chagrin, the policewoman did not invite me to blow into the bag, but said she had only stopped us to warn us there had been a diesel spillage, and to take extra care ...

I have long had a love-hate relationship with the police since my days as a paperboy, when every winter meant a game of cat and mouse with the local constables.

The lights on my bike were erratic at best, and unlike now, when the police turn a blind eye to the most outrageous breaches of the law by two-wheeled tyrants, riding a bike without lights, riding on the pavement or riding a bicycle furiously were all dealt with with the utmost severity.

Nothing ever got to court, but I often returned home with my ears ringing after a smart rap round the lug by a vengeful constable.

All the local children were terrified of the long arm of the law, and I can still remember the shock reverberating round the house when my sister answered a knock on the door, and returned to the living room saucer eyed and ashen faced to announce in delicious terror “T’bobby’s come!”

The constable in question had seized my 15-year-old brother for riding his bike whilst carrying his .177 air rifle strapped to his back on a piece of washing line.

The spring on the tiny weapon was so weak that the pellet would barely dribble out the barrel, but the bobby acted as though he was draped in bandoliers of .303 tracer bullets.

The episode cost my brother a 30 shilling fine at Macclesfield Borough Juvenile Court, and cost the police the undying hatred of my brother, a state of affairs which persists to this day.

My paper round batterings also coloured my view of the rozzers until I cycled to a motorcycle race meeting at Oulton Park in Cheshire with my father. We returned to the bikes to find that some twisted soul had not only let down both my tyres, but unscrewed the valves and thrown them away.

In the days before universal phone ownership, we had no way of letting the family know of our predicament, so we pushed the bikes a mile or so to the nearest village, where a blue lamp glowed over the police station.

My father thought the bogeys might send someone round to let my mother know we would be late, but instead, the kindly constable led us through to the yard at the back of the station, where his own stately sit up and beg bicycle was propped against the wall

With a wink he not only unscrewed the valves from his own bike and put them in mine, but also blew the tyres up for us before sending us on our way with a wave.

I got to know many police officers during my working life, from the detective sergeant who introduced himself as : “You’ve heard of Dirty Harry – well I’m Mucky Malcolm” to the traffic cops who played speeding snooker, by stopping 15 red cars, followed by all the colours.

The vast majority have been true gents, although I was worried one night when the exhaust tail pipe dropped off my elderly car in Hexham Market Place, creating a shower of sparks while the engine roared like a jumbo jet.

My heart sank when I saw a police officer striding across from the Shambles to flag me down – but only to get down on his hands and knees and snap off the trailing pipe with his truncheon, and load it into the car boot, with the instruction to get it fixed the next day,

He said:” Can’t have you getting your suit dirty sir – mind how you go.”