| So son,
you want to come on a blag? Buy me a pint and come and sit here.
Good lad, loverly pint that. Sheila keeps
a good drop, always has. Nice day innit lad? Yeah I like the
place too. What's that? Lean over boy. The old ears are a
bit dodgy, what's that you say?
Right you little cunt, I've got your sack
in my hand and I'll twist the fucking lot off if you make
a fucking noise. Don't even fucking dream about it. And fucking
wriggle one more time and you sing like Jimmy Sommerville,
got me? Good lad.
Who the fuck are you?
Who?
Yeah I knew him, he was a player.
And you're his boy? Yeah, I can see him in
your face. He was a shitter son, sorry to be the one to tell
you. I just told you no fucking wriggling boy, I am not letting
go.
No, you want to know about blagging, right?
Don't fucking yelp or I really will squeeze.
Sit still while I hold your balls, quietly
you cheeky little cunt and fucking listen. You wanted it,
you got it. Here's the fucking truth. Guess which fucking
one was your fucking Dad
Big boy's games, big boy's rules.
It’s
not easy you know.
People
think it is. That’s why the silly fuckers keep getting
caught
When you’re
really doing it, it’s not a job nor just a buzz, it’s
a life, if you want to stay free. I’ve done it more
than anyone has. It’s why I’m now knackered, burned
out and broken down. But I was there, a lot.
You’re
plotted up outside, sweating like a rapist, on the coldest
day of the year, or the hottest, it doesn’t matter.
Blokes
you would not trust with a box of matches are sitting, pressed
up against you with hair trigger, unreliable, unknown, guns
loaded with ammo nicked from fuck knows where and they’re
literally wetting themselves with the anticipation of what
is about to go down. And of the six of them only two can read
and they both move their lips when they are doing it.
Ever had a hard day at work?
You can
smell things in the back of a tranny closeted up on a job
like that that you don’t ever smell ever again in your
life. Have you ever smelt fear? Anticipation? Testosterone?
Sweat? Gun oil?
I fucking
doubt it
A couple of times I saw boys in the crew come as we sat there
waiting for the strike. Both times it was as the spotter was
giving us the go. There is nothing else in the world that
can compare to the blag. You aint got a clue what I’m
on about have you son?
I’ll try and describe it, the blag, not all of it, just
that bit.
Spotter
calls in, on the radio in the van:
“Right,
right e’s there, e’s fucking there . . . wait,
wait . . . e’s turning the fucking corner . . . his
silly fucking mate is just behind him. There’re both
carrying the bags, one in each hand. They’re helmeted
up like before. The geezer in the van is not even fucking
looking. He’s eating a fucking sandwich. Fuck, fuck
they’re nearly there”.
Cut to the inside of the tranny.
I am wet all over my body. I smell like a badger. I grip my
shooter so hard I think I might bend it. My breath, foul as
it is , chokes me beneath my 50p banaclava (bought from Millets,
blagging gear to the gentry). The large lump of psychotic
sociopath, masquerading under the name of Dave ( “Trust
me he's one of your own” ) is scaring the fuck out of
me. I thought I was wired but this fucker is popping at the
eyes, hyperventilating, licking his gun. And I don’t
know who he is. But he’s a big scary bastard which is
good, crowd control is often a problem. The others are more
or less the same as me. Working blokes, all of the old school.
Not going to shoot no one unless they try to be billy big
bollocks and even then no one wants to kill no one, just lose
them a kneecap if they insist on trying to be a hero.
Spotter calls in again:
“
Its there, it’s there, this is it, fucking do it , do
it , do it now, go, fucking go!”
Blah and Blah open the doors of the tranny, I don’t
know their names, why would I want to?
It’s
gone from sweaty slo-mo to amphetamine flying.
There
they are.
Two blokes
in acrylic jumpers and trousers with plastic official issue
shoes. Carrying the boxes that contain the money from the
bank.
The whole
world gets really, really small. Everything in it stops moving
apart from the little bit that’s you and that bit gets
ABSOLUTLEY HUGE.
“DON’T
FUCKING MOVE! JUST GIVE ME THE MONEY!”
Dave “One
of your own “ is screaming bollocks whilst running at
them pointing a sawn off at them in a way that scares the
crap out of me. He’s going to shoot them.
“Don’t
fucking do it you cunt, it’s fucking sweet, Dave, Dave
it’s fucking sweet”
He turns
to me holding the gun.
Dave is
going to shoot someone.
He’s
gonna shoot me or the Bank numpty holding the cash.
He’s
off his head and it becomes too close to call for my liking
so I do Dave before he does me.
BOOM!
BOOM!
Bye bye
Dave.
Still
want to come lad? Father like son?
In fact,
let's go outside for a bit of a chat.
Stop fucking
about or I'll do you here.
Big boy's
games, big boy's rules.
Daddy
never tell you that son?
Oooh!
Bit fucking chilly out here boy. Stop fucking crying, you
tart.
Told you
he was a shitter. Stop fucking crying.
Big boy's
games, big boy's rules.
Begging
never worked and faint heart never fucked a pig. Night night
son.
|
