This couldn’t be happening to me.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon and I was still wearing the same clothes I’d put on the day before. All except my belt and my shoes. I was in agony having spent seven hours lying on my back on a thin rubber mattress, laid on top of a concrete shelf. I didn’t even have a blanket so I was also freezing cold. Above me on the ceiling were the stencilled words: ‘Have information about a crime or people involved in criminal activity? Speak to us in confidence and you could reduce your sentence.’ I wondered whether, if I told them that a friend of mine at secondary school had once stolen a copy of Schindler’s List from WH Smith in Dartford, they’d at least give me something to keep me warm.

As anyone who knows me will testify, there are many – many – occasions on which I should have been arrested. Occasions on which my being bundled into the back of a Black Maria would be entirely justifiable, if not on grounds of public safety, certainly those of my own. But this really wasn’t one of them.

It was totally and utterly ludicrous. I hadn’t even been drunk: it even said so on my arrest record … ‘Showed no signs of drunkenness. Pupils not dilated, speech not slurred.’ There it was in black and white. Neither drunk nor disorderly. And yet here I was, very much under arrest. Locked in a tiny concrete box, where I’d spent the previous night, the entire morning and, now, much of the afternoon.

It was all Savannah’s fault, of course. For months after launching the pilot version of Fridaycities, she had been suggesting that we organise a semi-formal ‘meet up’ for the users who had been helping us test the site. A few beers in a pub to get to know our punters and then perhaps on to a club, depending on how terrifying they turned out to be in person. Now, with Kudocities in the planning stage, time was running out before we threw the doors open to the masses, so she’d chosen a pub, put an open invitation on the events section of the site and the first Fridaycities London ‘meet up’ had been confirmed.

The evening was a huge success – the users turned out to be a pretty normal bunch, all told; even the nutcases. There was a UK Independence Party supporter called ‘devilskitchen’ (they all insisted on using their online identities as that was the only way most of them knew each other) – we’d had a heated debate about whether UKIP was a joke party with a joke of a leader who could only communicate through shouting (yes) or whether it was a legitimate force of political opposition (no). Then there was ‘BraveNewMalden’ and ‘Mamfer’ and ‘MonkeysAhoy!’ and ‘Pottytime’ and a couple of dozen others – all of them great fun, and big fans of Fridaycities.

It was a long night, and by 2.00 a.m., buoyed by the success of the evening, Savannah and I had ended up, along with a five or six of the more hardy users, partying away in a nightclub off a back-street near Oxford Circus. I was rather hoping the fun wouldn’t end but Savannah, being far more sensible than me, decided it was time to call it a night. She came over and shouted into my ear, over the deafening music, that she was going to get the night bus home.

Now, I am nothing if not a gentleman. Particularly at 2.00 a.m., after a pub crawl, and for reasons somewhere between chivalry and a faint hope that she’d be so grateful that she’d realise I was the only man for her and would immediately decide to go out with me again, I insisted that she would under no circumstances get the night bus. Instead I would pay for her to get a proper black cab home.

You hear such terrible stories, don ‘t you? As my mum would say. The only slight snag was that I didn’t actually have any cash left, just the company debit card that I’d been using to ply the users with drink, and my own credit card. No problem, I thought, and I forced the company card into Savannah’s hand along with my pin number that I had scrawled on a piece of paper. She protested that there were better uses for the card – getting the users drunk so they’d say nice things about the site for one – but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Very reluctantly, and reminding me sternly that I wasn’t responsible for her safety any more, Savannah took the card and left. I later found out she took the night bus anyway, empowered woman that she is. She’s so cute when she’s empowered.

Two hours later – the specifics are a little hazy by this point – and I’m in the back of a black cab parked outside my house, being yelled at by a cab driver. And I do mean yelled at.

13.1

‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE ANOTHER FUCKING CARD?’

I suddenly snapped sober. After walking up and down Tottenham Court Road for the best part of an hour on leaving the club, I’d managed to find a cab that accepted credit cards. It was only at the end of the thirty-minute journey home that I realised my credit card – the only one I had – had expired the previous week. And the bank hadn’t sent me a replacement.

Just my luck, I thought. This is what happens when you don’t open envelopes from the bank.

‘Look, I’m really sorry, mate, ‘ I pleaded as he opened the little plastic window separating him and me – presumably in case I’d been unable to hear how loud he was yelling with it closed. ‘I’ve got my wallet here with a business card in it – my house is here, right here. If you phone me tomorrow, mate, I’ll make sure you get paid. It was a genuine mistake, mate.’

Apparently I thought that by calling him mate, repeatedly, I would in some way endear myself to him. To make doubly sure, I’d also adopted a fake cockney accent that was even worse than the one used by Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins .

No dice.

‘I DON’T FUCKING WANT YOUR BUSINESS CARD; WHAT FUCKING USE IS A BUSINESS CARD? I CAN’T FEED MY KIDS WITH A BUSINESS CARD …’

He was right, of course, but was also misunderstanding the subtleties of my business card plan. I wasn’t suggesting that he should take the card and attempt to feed it to his young, but rather that he should use it to contact me the following day to arrange payment. Payment that he could then use to buy a KFC Bargain Bucket or whatever it was that idiot cab drivers feed to their children. I tried again, more slowly this time, even going to the effort of showing him how the name on the business card matched the name on the credit card I’d given him moments ago. I was clearly who I said I was – we could easily resolve this if he’d just wait until the next day.

‘ARE YOU FICK OR SOMETHING, MATE? I NEED TO BE PAID, OR YOU’RE NOT GETTING OUT OF THE CAB.’

It was a stalemate, and no mistake. Getting desperate now – and wanting nothing more than to get into my house and go to bed, I made what was in hindsight quite a facile suggestion.

‘Well, if you take me back to my friends in town, I’m sure one of them will lend me the money.’

‘I’M NOT TAKING YOU ALL THE WAY BACK INTO TOWN. IF YOU WON’T PAY, THEN THE ONLY PLACE WE’RE GOING IS THE POLICE STATION.’

‘It’s not that I won’t pay … I …’

This was getting ludicrous but, actually, thinking about it, his police idea wasn’t so bad. At least I would be able to explain the situation to someone who wasn’t shouting and they could ensure I paid up the next day.

‘Okay, ‘ I said, finally, ‘let’s do that.’

‘DO WHAT?’

‘Let’s go to the police station.’

‘SUIT YOURSELF, MATE.’

And off we went.

On arrival at the police station, the desk sergeant came up with a foolproof way to verify I was who I said I was. If I could give him the number of someone who he could phone to confirm my identity and my address, then he would make a note of those details and ensure I sent the cab driver the money the next day. If I didn’t, I’d be committing fraud and would go to jail. Which I didn’t want to do.

It was a sound plan – with only one snag. Who the hell could I phone from a police station at 4.00 a.m. who:

(a) wasn’t one of my parents. That would be hideous

(b) wasn’t a friend who would immediately tell all of my other friends, thus condemning me to a lifetime of ribbing about my ‘criminal record’

(c) wouldn’t ignore a phone call from a strange police station phone number at four in the morning

… ?

There really was only one person who fitted the bill. Savannah.

‘You can phone my friend Savannah. She’ll confirm I’m me. Her number is 07 …’

The desk sergeant started to dial. The cab driver glared at me, still convinced I was pulling a fast one.

Then the sergeant put the phone down and sighed loudly. What the hell was going on?

‘That number’s no good, ‘ he said, sternly.

‘What do you mean no good?!’

‘I mean it’s not a valid number.’

‘Look, try it again, please – 07 …’

He tried again. Still nothing.

Oh God, what the hell was going on? Where was Savannah? And why wasn’t her phone working? She was my only hope. Things were suddenly not good at all.

‘I swear that’s the right number – it’s the only phone number I know off the top of my head. If I was making it up, I’d hardly be able to give you exactly the same number twice, would I?’

‘Be quiet. Sit down. I’ve tried it twice.’

‘Oh don’t be so stupid, ‘ I said, to the police officer, stupidly. ‘You’ve got my details, I’ve given you my friend’s phone number. Fuck’s sake, I haven’t even committed a proper crime. Tell you what, why don’t you call the number on the business card I’ve given you? The mobile phone in my pocket will ring. Then you’ll know that’s my business card – with my office address on it – and I can go home to bed and sort this out tomorrow.’

Given that (to the best of my knowledge) I was the only one of the three of us who had been drinking that night, it still amazes me that I was the only one who saw the crystal-clear logic in that solution.

‘You can’t verify your own identity, sir.’

‘Well, I seem to be doing a better job than you are, officer.’

Big mistake.

‘Just sit down.’

Meekly, miles from home and absolutely shattered, I sat down.

An hour – a pointless hour – passed.

5.30 a.m.

I tried one last time to be reasonable: ‘Look, this is stupid. It was an honest mistake. I’ve done all I can do this morning. You’ve got my card and my details. Are you going to arrest me for something or can I just go and come back tomorrow?’

The desk sergeant looked up from his forms and sighed.

‘You are currently being detained.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you’re being detained.’

He looked at me like I was a simpleton. It was a simple enough concept, and yet one I’d shown myself unable to grasp – being detained meant I was being detained. Duh.

‘So what happens if I try to leave?’

‘You can’t.’

‘So, I have been arrested then?’

‘No, you’re being detained.’

And on and on and on we went, back and forth. I literally had no idea what he was planning to do. And that’s when the horrible realisation hit me: neither did he. He was just waiting out the clock. In another hour or so the day shift would start. He’d go home to bed and I’d be someone else’s problem.

‘Well, if you’re not going to arrest me or tell me what you mean by “you’re being detained” then I’m going to leave.’ I felt a surge of rebellion. I knew my rights.((I had no idea what my rights were.)) And I was taking them home with me, to bed.

‘I wouldn’t recommend that, sir.’

‘Because I’m being detained.’

‘Because you’re being detained.’

‘But you won’t tell me what that means.’

‘It means you’re being detained.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’

I stood up, calmly, and took a step towards the door. You have never seen someone get out from behind a desk quicker. I hadn ‘t made it more than four steps before the desk sergeant was in front of me, slapping on a pair of handcuffs.
‘I’m now arresting you for making off without payment. You do not have to say anything …’

13.2

There then followed the most boring experience of my life, an experience I can relive at any time in the comfort of my own home – because from the moment they slapped on the handcuffs, I have a word-for-word transcript of everything that happened. It’s all written in neat block capitals and photocopied from a custody record, beginning with the fact that I wasn’t drunk. Which is handy because no one would believe that when I told them.

Highlights include:

- my first ride in the back of a police van, locked inside a metal cage. A useful tip if you find yourself in a similar situation: they really hate it if you mess with the handcuffs. Twirling them round and round your wrists, say. Apparently some people deliberately move their wrists around like that and then claim the resulting marks were the result of police brutality. ‘He’s messing with the handcuffs, Sarge, ‘ said one of the policemen who had come to pick me up. ‘Stop messing with the handcuffs, ‘ his colleague warned me. Or what? I thought. You’ll take them off me?

- the inside of a second police station. This one in Peckham. Another long hour passes as I sit, waiting to be checked in.

- having my photograph and fingerprints taken. I asked if I could pull a funny face for the photos. I was told I could. I did. There’s a famous mugshot from when a very young Bill Gates was arrested in New Mexico for speeding in 1977. The fact that he simply smiled for the camera always struck me as a missed opportunity; even a lack of ambition. If there was a chance you’d become rich and famous and that some journalist would dig out your old police records, then you wanted your mugshot to at least look amusing. Mine will definitely add a bit of light relief to my appearance on This Is Your Life .

- a DNA swab. This I refused. There was no way on earth I was going on a DNA database with all the rapists and murderers. For what? For an expired credit card? At this point I learned something I didn’t know before: you’re not allowed to refuse to give DNA. Fingerprints you can refuse, but not DNA. And even if you’re acquitted or released without charge, they got to keep the DNA. For ever. Even worse, I was told by the very stern custody sergeant that if I refused to give a mouth swab voluntarily they’d have to put on special gloves and it would be more difficult and uncomfortable for me. And they’d assume I had something to hide. Just for shits and giggles I made them put on the special gloves before reluctantly allowing them to take the swab. They looked just like ordinary gloves to me

- just before being bundled off to my cell, I noticed a sign that said one of the cells was closed due to ‘ligature points’. I asked whether I could have that cell as it provided the only possible escape from the tedium of the arrest process.

Before going to the cell, I was asked, like in the films, if I’d like to make my one phone call. Yes, I bloody well would. I dialled Savannah. She had some ’splainin’ to do.

It was at that exact moment – as I dialled the number and heard the ‘number not in service’ tone – that I realised what had happened and why they’d thought I’d given a fake number for Savannah. You see, Savannah – the only person who could have prevented me from being arrested – had had her phone stolen from outside a restaurant two nights earlier. This fact I had known. I’d know it because it was me who had called up the phone company on her behalf to have it cancelled. This fact I’d forgotten.

‘This number is not in service. Beep-beep-beeb.’

Until that exact moment.

I explained everything to the custody sergeant – the stolen phone, the fact that I’d totally forgotten about it but that it was easy to solve: if he would just give me my mobile back and let me make another call, I could swallow my pride and call a different friend.

But he refused. I’d had my chance to make a phone call and I’d blown it. And with that it was off to the cells, where, after sleeping through breakfast and lunch, I’d woken up, starving hungry and freezing cold, several hours later.

13.3

Lying on that thin rubber mattress, staring at the ceiling, I ‘d had plenty of time to think. With no interruptions, no ringing mobile, no choice but just to lie and think – about what I’d achieved, and about where my life was heading. And what I saw made me depressed. Three years earlier I’d been bringing in a few hundred pounds a month, if I was lucky; I had little or no prospect of striking it rich or ending up on the front pages of the papers (unless it was because I’d written the article) – but I was happier than I’d ever been. I was getting paid for something I loved doing; I was picking my hours and I didn’t have to answer to anyone.

A year later, at The Friday Project, I was earning a lot more money, and my name was appearing semi-regularly somewhere towards the back of the papers and there was a moderate chance that I could end up striking it moderately rich. But I was actually less happy; I’d had to force myself into an office routine, I had to answer to shareholders and I was getting paid to edit other people’s words, rather than write my own.

And now what was I doing – apart from languishing in a police station cell? I was trying to make myself ludicrously rich and ridiculously famous; the next Steve Chen or Chad Hurley. And to achieve that I was whoring myself to venture capitalists and the only things I was writing were PowerPoint presentations and business plans. The further up the ladder of ’success’ I’d tried to climb, the less happy and content I’d become. In fact, it occurred to me that, were it not for the fact that I got to sit opposite Savannah every day, I’d actually be pretty fucking depressed.

I got up from my freezing ‘bed’ and pressed the buzzer on the wall. It didn’t make a sound. I pressed it again. And again. Nothing. Just silence. I pressed it again, keeping my finger on it for a good thirty seconds.

Nothing. I started banging on the door.

‘Hey! Is anyone there? I’ve been in here for hours!’

Footsteps. Clump, clump, clump. A little metal window in the door was pulled open.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a gruff sounding pair of eyes on the other side of the door.

‘Yes, I hope so. I’ve been locked in this concrete box for hours.

When are you going to let me out?’

‘There’s a solicitor on the way to see you. She’ll be here soon.’ The window snapped shut.

‘But no one knows I’m here, ‘ I protested through the door. ‘People will be worried.’

But that was the problem. No one would be worried. It was the weekend. Anyone trying to get hold of me would just assume I was lying in bed at home, hung-over and ignoring my phone. Hell, they’d be hung-over, too – they probably wouldn’t even phone. I could be rotting here until Monday afternoon before anyone even got curious, and even then Savannah would just assume I’d gone round to Karen’s house and refuse to call me on principle. I was going to die in this concrete box; a miserable failure, with only a stencilled entreaty to grass up my mates for company. I lay back on my shelf, consigned to my fate.

An hour or so later (I had no way of knowing), the footsteps returned. But this time they were accompanied by a second sound: the clip of high heels. The little metal window opened again.

‘Mr Carr?’ said a soft sounding, faintly condescending female voice. ‘I’m Jacqui – and I’m a legal representative. Would you like to talk to me?’ At that point she could have been Jacqui the Jehovah’s Witness and I’d still have invited her in for a chat.

13.4

Jacqui’s first victory was to convince the custody sergeant to allow me to get my phone back so that I could find the number for the office. I knew that Savannah had planned to head into work that afternoon to post a report about the party on the site. I prayed to God that she would be there when I rang. I dialled the number and it rang. And then it rang some more. And rang. Until, just as tears had started to well up in my eyes …

* Click *

‘Hello?’

‘Oh thank God you’re there, ‘ I said, trying not to sound too

pathetic. It was all I could do not to sob with relief on hearing her voice. After ten hours in a cell. I was pathetic.

‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

I told her everything and, to her credit, she gave me all the sympathy I deserved.

‘It’s not bloody funny, ‘ I said.

But it was, really.

‘I’ll be right there, ‘ she said. ‘Just try not to get yourself into any more trouble before I get there.’

I was finally interviewed at four o’clock by two women police officers. It was exactly like it happens on TV with the big tape machine on the table and people announcing themselves when they enter and leave the room. There was even a good cop and a bad cop, although the bad cop clearly hadn’t been doing the job very long as her badness was limited to laughing at what an idiot I’d been to get myself arrested for something so bloody stupid.

‘So, you gave one of your cards to your friend without checking that the other was valid?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then you tried to phone her even though she’d had her phone stolen.’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though it was you who’d reported it stolen?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she’s on her way now to verify that?’

‘Yes. Actually, she’s probably been sitting outside for the last hour.’ ‘Is she a blonde lady? Funny accent. Dutch or something?’ ‘Yes. That’s her.’

‘She’s very pretty. Your girlfriend is she?’

‘Look, is this going to take long?’

In the end, the three of us – me, the good cop and the bad cop – came to an agreement. Assuming Savannah would verify who I was and lend me the thirty quid for the cab, which the police would then forward to the driver, the matter would be closed. No charge, no record, just an innocent mistake and a night in a cell to remind me to be more careful next time.

‘ In vino stupitas, ‘(( Literally: ‘ I’m a snotty nosed little prick who did Latin at school. Please lock me back in my cell officer, but not before you’ve given me the hiding I so richly deserve.’)) I said.

‘What?’ asked the good cop.

‘Nothing. I just want to go home and get some sleep.’

As I sat waiting in the interview room, the good and bad cops went outside to explain to the custody sergeant what we’d agreed, and that they were going to recommend ‘NFA’- no further action.

But he had other ideas.

‘I dunno, ‘ he said, sucking air in through his teeth. ‘He seems like a good candidate for a caution. I think I should ask the CPS whether they want to press charges.’

‘What?’ said Jacqui.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Sorry, ‘ said the good cop. Apparently no matter what we’d agreed, what the custody sergeant says, goes. And with that I was marched back to my cell. Another hour passed, all the time with Savannah still – presumably – sitting outside, waiting, prettily. And then footsteps again.

‘Please tell me it’s good news. They’re letting me go, right?’

By this stage I’d been locked up for fourteen – maybe fifteen – hours. I had no idea of time. I didn’t even know what day it was any more.

Jacqui frowned. ‘They’re – I can’t believe this – they’re going to charge you under Section 2 of the Fraud Act.’
‘You’re fucking kidding me.’

Fraud?! I was in the middle of trying to raise money for a new company – money I’d have to be credit- and police-checked before I could get – and now I was being charged with fraud!
Section 2 of the Fraud Act (‘fraud by false representation’) reads:

‘ (1) A person is in breach of this section if he -

(a) dishonestly makes a false representation, and

(b) intends, by making the representation -
(i) to make a gain for himself or another, or

(ii) to cause loss to another or to expose another to a risk of loss.

(2) A representation is false if -

(a) it is untrue or misleading, and

(b) the person making it knows that it is, or might be, untrue or misleading.

(3) “Representation” means any representation as to fact or law, including a representation as to the state of mind of – (a) the person making the representation, or

(b) any other person.
(4) A representation may be express or implied.’

Or, to put it another way, if you get into a cab and you know that you don’t have the money to pay, then you’re committing fraud. The fact that I didn’t know I didn’t have the money and that it was a total accident was something I’d now have to prove in court, in front of a magistrate – or, if I preferred, a jury of my peers. And if I was found guilty, the Fraud Act allowed me to be sent to jail for anything up to ten years.

‘ What the hell is going on?’ I asked Jacqui. ‘Why did the custody sergeant ignore what the other two suggested?’

‘I have no idea. Did you do anything to annoy him?’

‘Well, I did make a joke about hanging myself. And I pulled a funny face in my mugshots. Oh, and I told them they’d have to pry my DNA out of my cold dead cheeks.’

‘Yeah, that would probably have been it.’

And with that I was charged, bailed and released to appear in court a month later. I was given back my shoes, my belt, my phone and my wallet and led out of the custody suite. Savannah was sitting outside the station on the front steps, reading a magazine. She looked radiant. I looked like I’d been raped by a hedge.

‘Hey, ‘ I said, quietly.

‘Hey, ‘ she replied. ‘You okay?’

‘Not really. I haven’t eaten for God knows how long, I slept in a concrete cage last night and most of today – oh, and instead of allowing me to pay them the £30, they’re sending me to court on fraud charges. But, God … It’s good to see you.’

‘I wish I could say the same but you look like crap, ‘ she smiled. ‘But come on, let’s use some of that £30 to go buy you a Happy Meal.’

‘Thank you.’

What I really wanted to say was ‘I love you’.

Chapter Fourteen: ‘Running on fumes’…