You're nicked

It was a dirty night on the east side of Brighton. I’d been hanging in a bar with some Swedish chick and her pooch – a scraggy canine with a shot jaw. I’d not eaten so my gut was growling and something about the bar that night was fraying my nerves. Maybe it was the weird Asian guy in a duffel coat who kept pacing up and down in front of our table, eyeballing me, the dog and the Swede in a way that spelled trouble. At any minute I felt he was gonna dive in and start stroking one of us. Anyways, I was ready to cut the joint when Miss Sweden asked me back to her place for a cup of joe and a go on her Wii. The joe cleared my head but the Wii gave me the jitters so I split. Once outside, I straddled my sit up and beg, pulled my beret over my eyes and headed  down St James Street into the driving sleet. I knew I was acting crazy, cycling the wrong way down a one way street but I just had to get home and I didn’t wanna freeze running the gamut of the seafront with its sleazy gay bars and chip shops. Damn my stupidness. I barely saw the arm thrust out of the car window ahead of me. Sure, I saw it wave up and down insistently and through the sleet, I saw the car had markings but thinking it was a cab with an angry driver, I ignored it, cycled around its rear and sped up a side street. ‘Stoppppppp’ The guttural cry pierced the ice cold night air, followed by the urgent pat, pat, pat of rubber on tarmac. Someone was chasing me and they were wearing sensible shoes. Suddenly, she was there in front of me – a small police woman with a podgy nose and cheap streaks. Did I know that failing to stop for the police was a criminal offence? Did I know I was cycling the wrong way down the road? No and no I answered, choking back the urge to laugh. I pleaded ignorance and threw in my mistaking them for a taxi line of defence, at which point they wanted to know ‘had I been drinking?’ By now, a motley crowd of assorted winos and crack heads had gathered around us (who else in St James St?). ‘It’s a fair cop guv’ I shrugged or words to that effect at which point big nose said she wasn’t going to breathalise me but would be issuing me with a £30 fine for irresponsible bicycle riding. What a drama. Mea culpa. Lock me up and smack my bottom with a large hairbrush.