How NOT to avoid getting a Defect sticker in the '80s

In my youth, it was normal for almost all petrol heads to customise their pride and joy in some way.

For some, slapping the fattest tyres on the car was enough. For others, high-performance engines with 'letterbox' scoops sticking out of the bonnet and bicycle sized front tyres were the only thing that gave you street cred.

The Jacks (Police) were always to be avoided, as they took great delight in slapping a canary on your pride and joy. I'm sure they also used the canary as a 'get even' tactic to shut down hoons. 

My most memorable canary was some three decades ago involving a fast car, an open highway, and an irate cop. Thinking back, I can chuckle about it now but that wasn't the case that day.

The dreaded defect sticker - known colloquially as a "canary", due to its yellow colour.

Circa-1987, on a warm summer's evening and I'm driving along the freeway at a 'spirited' pace in my first car: a Falcon XA GS V8. The driver's window is down, I'm only wearing footy shorts and my 'black as coal' mullet is flowing freely in the wind. Jimmy Barnes' 'Working Class Man' is blasting through the recently installed Pioneer stereo and I'm feeling pretty awesome because the next day is the start of the summer holidays with my mates, we've planned to go down to the coast in my car.

Out of the corner of my eye I spy this Toyota Cressida gaining on me. "What the hell?" I mumble to myself and touch the accelerator to keep him from passing as I sit in the left lane at a speed of a Boeing 747 take-off. This continues for at least half an hour at a speed well over the limit.

Now the driver of the Cressida has slightly edged up closer in the right hand lane. It's dusk now, and I notice the interior light of the Cressida is on and see a silhouette waving something at me, and now he's tooting his horn.

"What the hell is wrong with this clown? I'm in the left lane, so if you want to pass just do it…if you can" I think to myself with a smirk. The clown in the Cressida is now blaring his horn, gesticulating with his hands and flashing his lights. Fed up, I nail the accelerator so he can eat my dust. The XA's nose kicks up and easily pulls away from the Cressida, leaving a half kilometre gap between us before I back off to resume a cruising altitude a few clicks past the limit. 

Suddenly, the Cressida is back and the driver, is carrying on as before. Exhaling with frustration, I hit the accelerator again. This time I leave the Cressida miles behind. It is now just a speck in the rear view mirror and I'm now singing to Cold Chisel's 'Bow River'. 

Turning off the freeway close to home, I stop at a set of traffic lights, check the mirror to ensure the mullet survived the drive and just as the light turns green, the clown in the Cressida swerves in front of me, skidding to a stop. I look in disbelief as I process the situation. The first thing I see is this giant, middle-aged guy with red hair (whom we'll call 'Big Red') jump out of his car and stride towards me… and he's not happy. Yikes! 

He pulled out a Police badge and screamed at me to get out of the car.

Before I can back-up, 'Big Red' pulls out a Police badge and screams at me to get out of the car. About now, the penny drops and I realise I'm up shit creek without a paddle. Sheepishly I turn off the ignition, unbuckle the seat belt and get out of the car. Barely out, 'Big Red' is screaming at me shoving his badge in my face. He seemed a little pissed… and because I wasn't wearing a shirt he grabbed me by the throat and lifted me level with his face. All I remember seeing was his beetroot red face with veins about to pop, screaming at me about speeding. Spittle was flying from his mouth, as he said a few harsh words.

'Big Red' finally lets go of my throat, and just as I'm catching my breath I crash back down to earth. "What-ya do that for?" I asked rubbing my neck. Apparently I had broken the speed limit – and 'Big Red' had a front row seat as he was on his way to work. He kept asking how fast I was going? To which I kept replying, "I dunno, as fast as you I guess". This aggravated 'Big Red' as I wouldn't admit to the speeding. He told me to follow him to the Police station and not get any ideas about fleeing. As we approached the cop shop I'm thinking, "I'm doomed. The tyres are too wide, the car is too loud and too low," and with this in mind I decide to park the XA about 30 metres short as I knew what he'd do if he got the chance to go over the car properly.  

I knew what the police officer would do if he got the chance to go over the car properly.

Inside the Police station, a burly desk sergeant looks up and says, "What?" but before I could answer 'Big Red' burst through the door followed by three other officers all built like brick shithouses. One was holding a clipboard.

'Big Red' points his finger, and yells "That's the little prick I was telling you about!" Suddenly, I'm surrounded by three angry giants staring down at me. "How fast were you going son?" the one with the clipboard asks. "I don't know sir, as fast as he was going" I said pointing at 'Big Red'. Knowing I wasn't going to admit to speeding, 'Big Red' says, "follow me" to the cop with the clipboard.  "Where's your car pal?!" he asks and I point to where I parked which is some ways down the road. Rightly pissed off by now, 'Big Red' commands the others, "Right, follow me lads," as they all march towards my Falcon. 

Once they reach the XA, without even looking at it, the officer with the clipboard scribbles on a bright yellow sheet of paper… and scribbles…and scribbles a list longer than my arm.

The officer scribbled a defect list longer than my arm.

He then tears the canary from his clipboard, wets the back of it with his tongue and sticks it smack bang on the inside of my windscreen. "Cop that you little smart arse!" says 'Big Red' "on ya bike and if I ever catch you again I won't be so nice!" He turns to the other officers, winks and they all walk away laughing.

I know my mates aren't going to be happy when I tell them we can't take my wheels on holidays tomorrow. Suddenly, a moment of brilliance hits me. "I wonder…" I say to myself. Checking to make sure the coast is clear and my new friends in blue are back inside the cop shop, I pick at the corner of the canary and carefully begin to peel it off completely. It's still wet and comes off easily with no visible marks, perfect. I carefully lay it flat on the console facing up, and a smirk becomes a broad smile on my face. 

Starting the XA, I reverse and then drive away as quietly as I can. Once home, I park the car in the garage and close the roller door. "Phew! Made it." I say satisfied with myself. The phone rings not long after, I tell the boys about what happened and my plans to stick the canary back on, and get a roadworthy certificate when we get back from holidays. I was pretty sure I'd gotten away with it, but to be sure I obeyed every road rule and kept to the speed limit from then on. 

What's your worst run-in with the police? Tell us in the comments.

Source: www.SurvivorCarAustralia.com.au