The Vulcan Hotel was then nearest public house to Blackburn College, though mainstream students used to go to the Jubilee 50 yards further up the road. If you wanted to buy or sell drugs, eat cheap greasy food or watch dogs fight to a punk rock soundtrack; you could have done worse than gone to the Vulcan. The college's official line was "stay away" as it had a notorious reputation and was frequently raided by the police.

In the afternoon there was usually a handful of students playing the juke box and various members of the underclass, moast of whom unfortunately brought their pets. I spent many free periods in the Vulcan, usually nursing a 20 pence mug of tea.

On this particular Friday afternoon I was in the Vulcan accompanying my friend Mark who was wanted to buy some hashish. He was conversing with a man called Wolfie, while I was standing idly. He was trying to persuade this dubious Wolfie character to sell him 1/32 of an ounce of resin, rather than the normally elementary 1/16 ounce unit. Wolfie reluctantly agreed when Mark told him, "I've only got four quid on me."

Just as Mark was about to exchange all his money for a small amount of poor quality cannabis, a policeman barged through the door and proudly announced through his megaphone, "Nobody move, this is a raid". A man who had been sat next to me, who I'd written off as a drunken loser, flashed some ID at me and told me to take my shoes and socks off. Suddenly, undercover police officers were everywhere.

I was impressed the quality of their cover. My previous experience of undercover police had been at a Blackburn College christmas party at, what was then, Peppermint Place nightclub. Everyone was aged between 16 and 20 apart from members of CID who were over 40 and had beards. Perhaps recruitment was such a problem that the police had resorted to recruiting actual degenerates.

Supercop was examining the contents of my pockets and appeared confused. I quickly realised why. My NUS card, as well as making me two years older, gave me an entire new identity. According to the card, which contained my photograph, I was David Ross of 3, The Crescent. It was also issued at Runshaw College, an institution I never attended, whose student union stamped its NUS cards blank; which you were left to fill in at your leisure.

Though such identification was sneered at by doormen throughout the North West, Supercop did not doubt I was Ross and therefore items bearing my real name, but sadly not photographs, had been stolen. Before I could offer any explanation, I was being handcuffed and arrested for possession of stolen goods.

I was dragged out of the Vulcan, photographed and thrown in the back of a police van with some proper criminals. Though I spoke as little as possible, there was a good sense of camaraderie in the van. Everyone spoke jovially about their crimes and their hatred of the police. I felt surprisingly at ease.

As I entered the police station I was immediately escorted to a cell. The graffiti provided about 5 minutes of entertainment and then I became extremely bored. There was a bed, but the sheets were stained; the accompanying rug was made of some unknown and highly itchy material. There was a toilet, but no way to flush it and no toilet paper. I stared expectantly through the peep hole, but nobody came... for over four hours. I eventually risked disease and lay on the bed.

I had long since entered a confused trace-like state when the door was finally unlocked. I was led to an interview room and told the usual details about having the right to silence and that the interview was being recorded. It was all very genial and actually more pleasant than a job interview. I was asked if I smoked cannabis and was I aware that almost everyone else who went to the Vulcan did. I said no, and no again.

My answers were met with incredulity. "Look, we don't mind if you've been smoking," said the detective. I explained that as I didn't smoke regular cigarettes I would not be able to tell the difference between a marijuana joint and a standard roll-up. Judging by their reaction, they found this explanation farcical. "Hey, space, man! What are you on?", said the other officer; indicating that I was unusually relaxed. The detective seemed to find this funny.

They persisted in their efforts to get me to admit that I was a user of illegal narcotics, but eventually turned to the matter of my alleged crime. I told them the NUS card was fake and stated categorically that I was not David Ross; and had not therefore stolen anything.

They believed me, but seemed unsatisfied. They did not understand why I had used a false name, if not to obtain credit or for some similar purpose. The actual reason was that I thought the name Dave Ross sounded similar to Davros, leader of the Daleks, which appealed to my sense of homour. I judged it wise not to share my joke with the police and merely said I thought it was funny to have a made up name.

"But, why Dave Ross?", asked the detective; a question he was to repeat many times, in between asking me if I was sure I wasn't stoned. I shrugged meekly, an action I was similarly going to repeat. The conversation went round in circles until the police, realising I was harmless, gave up.

My fingerprints were taken, the NUS card was put in the incinerator and my Father was sent for. Some angry middle ranking official showed me to the door, who told my Father I was a "wanker" and had wasted their time. Incidentally my father was not annoyed, because he had always encouraged me to drink and it was to this end that I had obtained the false ID.

The raid proved to be successful, resulting in close to 20 convictions. Speed was found behind the bar, resulting in the landlord losing his licence. The council gave up trying to clean up the Vulcan and pub was eventually demolished a few months later, providing Waves leisure centre with vital extra car parking spaces.