Possession with intent to supply

A many years ago (38), Grandad was
● Fingered by a Copper's Nark
● Busted in a raid by armed Police
● Chucked in the Slammer
● Charged with Possession with Intent to Supply
● Sprung from Jail by der Man.
Now this may seem highly unlikely for a Chartered Engineer of limited height but it's all true - it just the way you tell 'em.
Libya, 1975. Grandad has always enjoyed a glass of his favourite tipple, as have we all. But Libya was an Allah-fearing nation where the demon drink was illegal. Thus he brewed his own. This is not unusual, and saved having to speak to a man about a dog in a climate of uncertain legality. He brewed "Washing-up liquid" in a variety of Islamic countries.
The desert nation-state had its own police force: but there was a seamy underside of paid informers who, having run out of Grandmothers to sell, would inform on any criminal in return for Dirhams, Dinars or Denarii. The one that got Grandad simply saw the empty bottles at the back of the house and assumed he was dealing with a narcotics case.
Having been tipped off, the Police took away the evidence and due to the sheer number of bottles, felt that they were looking at a drug dealer rather than just a user, and charged him forthwith under the "Chief of Police needs a really big Bribe" rule.
We contacted the British Consulate and the nice Embassy diamond geezer came and had a word in the Law's shell-like and Grandad was released with only a stinging sensation in the wallet and repressed memories of a Libyan prison cell. I bet all the PuddleDaddies are quivering in their Demi-johns, just waiting for the local stoolpigeon to sniff out their empty beer bottle collections.
He's cut right down to only one glass a day, now.
Anyway, today was a nice day. We put down mouse poison, made our own pizzas and talked about acting in the shower. From the original 'Round and round and round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows' (from the fairground spinning-wheel game) to my lead role in the 3 Billy Goats Gruff production at my infant school, we improved my acting talent until I could fluently say "Crip crap, crip, crap, Who's that Cwip-cwapping across my Fwidge" which of course made us both dissolve into paroxysms of giggles until it was time for me to get my finger- and toe-nails cut. Cue extreme tragic death-of-swan event. Nothing like variety. Next I may play a Klingon warrior, today is a good day to et tu Brute.