This was the night that Mick Jagger might've saved my life.

It began as an emergency call to the police control room with a message from a distressed woman that I'll never forget:

"He's got a baseball bat and he's breaking my front door down. Please help me. Quickly."

It was around 5pm on a Saturday, a warm summers evening on a housing estate on the outskirts of Portsmouth, UK. We were only about two minutes away when the call came in, meaning it would still be happening when we arrived, rather than the usual and unsatisfactory 'no trace of offender.'

Maybe it was domestic, maybe drugs-related; I don't really remember, but I can clearly remember where, how and who. You always remember your first baseball bat job (probably all of the subsequent ones too).

My crewmate Dinger was already half out the car before it stopped and I quickly joined him, running towards the front door of the house, with screaming coming from inside. The perpetrator was still there, stood outside and having retreated a few metres away from the door. Actually 'door' would be a strong word to use for the mass of splinters, glass fragments and flapping hinges occupying the space where the door once stood, just a few minutes earlier. 

The person responsible was looking at us. He was breathing heavily, his rounded face sweating and his well-built frame was cloaked in a browny-red coloured leather (plastic) 3/4 length jacket. His hands were behind his back, trying (and failing) to conceal an aluminium baseball bat, that was playing a menacing game of peek-a-boo from atop his shoulder. His eyes were darting, deciding (I think) whether to make a run for it - or to attack. 

In the exact moment that he shifted his weight from one foot to the other I felt a searing and debilitating pain in my back, just above my kidneys on my right side. Have you ever experienced this?

Faced with immediate and terrifying danger and just when I needed to be agile, responsive and alert I was physically paralysed by fear. My body started to shut down, deciding it was a great time to play statues. Great. In fact I distinctly remember making a mental picture of him raising the bat above his head in a kind of Jedi slashing move (which he didn't actually do). My mental picture made me think in that moment 'what would happen if he brought that bat down on my head.' No wonder I was scared; I'm feeling scared writing this.

In fact I'd never been so scared of immediate violence than in that split-second (although I have many times after) and I had no idea what to do. But what happened next was inexplicable.

I channelled my inner Mick Jagger to disarm him.

Yes, you did read that correctly and it was all thanks to Chlorobenzalmalononitrile and yes that is an actual word. Also known as CS gas (this was pre-tazer), it had received mixed reviews from police about its ability to deter or calm violent offenders. It operated like a disappointing water pistol and if you did manage to draw the cannister with the nozzle pointing in the desired direction, it was an absolute bonus.

The chances of hitting an assailant were already slim but in the early days of issue, more police officers than criminals ended up with a shot of CS in their chops, as the thing had a tendency (especially under duress) to squirt out at a 60 degree angle. As I drew the gas, Dinger fleetingly wondered whether today was his lucky or unlucky day, especially given my limited firearms experienced had proven that I couldn't hit a cows arse with a banjo.

I was just as worried about gassing my crewmate as I was about convincing Batguy to surrender. If he was to attack, I didn't fancy our chances much. 

Back to Mick; I needn't have worried, because just then, the Universe took over. For reasons that can only be explained by the belief that I wasn't in control of my body, I shouted my way through the adrenaline, bellowing with every fibre of my being in the direction of Batguy.

"GAS! GAS! GAS! I HAVE GAS!" The words tumbled out with an urgency I can't describe.

Later there were tears. Of laughter. Dinger sobbed with laughter as he relived the moment when I screamed a Rolling Stones chorus (Jumpin' Jack Flash) at a violent nut-job who held our lives in his hands.

Amazingly it worked. Instead of being attacked (or crowned with a spike right through my head for you musos) Batguy dropped the weapon to the floor, fell to his knees and began begging for me not to spray him. Insert Keith Richards guitar riff here. Thanks to Mick and the boys. (Also, while I'm here, what an incredible band).

I was a professional and committed police officer in those days. Why, oh why did I have to be so ridiculous in a moment that required bravery and poise? I'm even pouting while I type this out. If only I'd strutted across the pavement. 

Dinger incidentally, was heaven-sent. Although fresh out the box and as rattled as me, he was also much stronger and together we jumped on Batguy, wrapped him up neatly in handcuffs and folded him into the back seat of the car for transportation.

One detained.

I have no idea where the gas thing came from. In moments of terror our in-built survival mechanism reveals itself and knows what to do better than we do consciously. We should trust this more (even if we do sound stupid). 

Ironically, ten years later I was singing this very song as frontman of band in a large wedding marquee in a field that I don't remember, around the same time as I had begun suffering from post-traumatic stress (not from Batguy incident - something else - tell you about this another time).

Later in life, as soon as I realised that fear can't hurt me - it's just my thinking - then the fears and anxieties fell away faster than Jumpin' Jack Flash himself. Fear is MUCH scarier than reality. Fear doesn't exist, our thoughts created it and our imagination is infinite. Just ask my ex about spiders. The fear of the spider is significantly greater than anything a tiny eight-legged web shooter minding its own business could do.

Reality - this moment - (especially when we show up) is a much better place to hang out. You can deal with anything there.  

So I now know this to be true:

It's alright now, in fact it's a gas.

I don’t do rollercoasters. There’s no point because they don’t excite me. Is it because I’m boring? Well, maybe. But there is a reason.

​In 1992, the Chief Flying Instructor at Cornwall Flying Club was a former RAF test pilot called Dick Smerdon. He was a walking caricature of a pilot, complete with handlebar moustache sprouting from the burst blood vessels in his cheeks, caused by decades of G-force. Friendly and razor sharp he pottered around the club dressed in a khaki flying suit, making jokes and generally causing mischief.

Flying single-prop Cessnas from a field somewhere near Bodmin in South West England was clearly not as exciting as flying at Mach 2 in a metal box, so his kicks had to come from something else. What better way than by scaring the bejaysus out of unsuspecting student pilots for shits and giggles.

He did this to me twice.

On my second flight with him, wide-eyed and eager I sat in the hot seat of a Cessna 152, call-sign G-WACG ready for take-off. I was perfecting my best pilot voice (copied from my childhood holidays to Zante):

“Golf whiskey alpha charlie golf, radio check 122 decimal seven and taxi runway three, two,” I crackled, pretending to be Maverick from Top Gun.

As the propeller span and the little plane bounced along the grass, the vibrations bounced around my chest. Five thousand feet and a few sharp turns later I was smug-factor seven. I'd figured out how the thing worked and I even knew what the dials meant. Then this happened: 

“ENGINE FIRE!” Dick was bellowing at me, his body jerking with excitement and his rounded face glowed crimson red. I remember staring at him:

“Pardon?”

“ENGINE FIRE!” Then he grabbed the ignition key and turned off the engine. I had no idea what to do. The propeller gradually came to a complete and eerie stop. I looked at him suddenly aware of the sound of the wind rushing around the outside of the cockpit.

“Pick a field then! Emergency landing!” He said, obviously amused.
"Brilliant. My flying instructor is a fucking lunatic," I said under my breath (which incidentally is a skill that later became hugely useful as a parent).

What kind of mad man switches off aeroplane engines mid-flight? There was no fire. It was a perfectly serviceable engine. We began to lose altitude quickly and I chose the field furthest from the power lines, cows and buildings.

We were going to land in a field. Worse, it was me that was going to land it. 
​
To be continued.

“Sorry mate?” I said.
“Do you want some pills mate?” Despite telling him to fuck off, there must've been something about my demeanour that inspired his persistence. “Are you sure? I’ve got loads!” He reached inside his jacket and produced a plastic Tesco shopping bag gathered at the neck, full of ecstasy pills and about the size of a bowling ball. I looked at the bag then looked at him, his face radiating with and adventure.

I looked at the bag again.

That was a lot of fucking pills - 600-700 - maybe more. I felt sorry for him; not because I wasn't buying but because at the time I was a serving police officer assigned to a special project team developing tactics on the prevention and arrest of dealers at large scale music events. I was literally his worst nightmare.

Or was I? My ego likes to think so but I wasn't really. No, his worst nightmare was the twelve undercover members of the Strathclyde Drug Squad who had just bought me a beer as their shift on the covert drugs operation finished. 

Friendly bunch.

The Tesco bag and the person holding it disappeared under a pile of unwashed law enforcement. He'd had better Saturdays.