You couldn’t make it up could you? If this was a book or something you wouldn’t believe it for a minute, and I’m not talking about Clare “Gullible Gertie” Short either. I’m talking about Calvin. I fucking knew it. That Calvin’s a fucking waster, mate. A complete fucking idiot. It goes like this…

After I dropped Mary and the kids off back at home yesterday afternoon I shot over to Wapping to Smash’s mum’s place to meet up with Smash and Roller and have a look at this gear they’ve had away in that lorry they nicked off the army geezers.

And it’s fucking handsome stuff mate. Even in Cynthia’s front room you could tell that it was a bit special. The old tropical fish tank with Cynthia’s piranhas didn’t exactly set the stuff off to the best effect but all the same there’s fuck all like that gear in any other front room in Wapping mate. Two life-size statues and a bloody huge great chunk of wall about 10 feet long and four foot high with carvings and some sort of writing all over it, all the way from what these bods love to tell you is the cradle of civilisation..

Smash has been down a Waterstones and nicked a book to see what the stuff might be all about and this book’s the size of a coffee table, The Treasures of Mesopotamia and the Fertile Crescent. He opens it up and you can fucking believe this or not, I don’t give a monkey’s, but that wall is in there mate, a photo of it, and it’s about four and a half thousand years old.

Old Smash is a bit fucking sarky about it. “Fucking nice one Mikey for turning us onto this mate. Fucking great idea. Now what do you suggest? I go over to Sadie Grodzinski’s dad and ask him to fence a fucking chunk of five thousand year old wall for me? Say to him hallo Abe, I’ve got one of the finest surviving examples of a ten foot chunk of Akkadian wall out on the van along with all the Johnny Walker and snide Tacchini tops. Know anyone round Hackney who’d be interested in taking it off my hands? Or how about asking round The Bush if any of the lads are up for a right nice statue which at one time probably came from the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, mate?

I’ve got an idea in mind and tell him to just sit on the stuff for a bit while I think of the best way to go about it. The gear ain’t going anywhere and it’s not as if anyone’s ever going to see it in Cynthia’s front room, mate. She watches telly all day and never answers the doorbell. Smash is edgy as fuck about it but for the time being there’s not much he can do about it and he’s happy to think that perhaps I can shift it.

So I got back home and it gets to ten o’ clock and Calvin’s not here, then eleven o’ clock and he’s still not back and Margot’s starting to freak out and then we ring his dad Tino and he hasn’t heard a dicky bird from him either. Then about an hour later Tino rings back and he’s just had a call from him from Charing Cross nick. The idiot’s been pulled over with a couple of his mates, driving an Audi TT that he’s nicked. Tino says there’s more but doesn’t want to go into it over on the phone. He wants me to come down the nick with him and I’m saying if he’s gone and nicked Solly’s missus’s motor he won’t go to jail for it because I’ll have killed him first.

Tino says it’s worse than that, mate, a lot worse.



- posted by fatboy @ 11:48 AM

 
According to Mufti who’s researched this stuff pretty heavily on the old world wide web, every woman of bed-able age has got something about her that could make a dead man come. There are no lost causes and no exceptions mate. You just have to look and you will find it. And I’m not trying to be funny like, but Mufti has turned up round here with a few odd sorts that a lot of blokes would have ruled right out of court and afterwards you ask him if he found it and without fail he has, mate.

“She’s got this little thing she does with her face while she’s having it, mate, and you think to yourself oh you lovely sweet little darling you.”

Or

“The fucking hullabaloo she makes mate, as if she’s having a seeing too off Barry Do you know why they call me Knobby? Clark.”

Or

“The way she curls her fingers round your old boy, mate, and she’s giving it a gentle little tug with her little finger sticking out like she’s Lady Baby having a nice cup of tea at the vicar’s tea party mate.

There’s always something. Of course with a lot of them they’re spoilt for choice. Old J Lo for instance. That bird has got a lovely face. It’s beautiful. You're not going to find a much more beautiful face. But you’re never going to see it if you’re with her are you? You’re going to be holding her arse for her instead, whispering to it that you love it and will do anything for it. And when, God forbid, she passes away the telly isn’t going to say that Jennifer Lopez is brown bread. You’re going to get Hugh Edwards and Trevor MacDonald coming on in black armbands and they’re going to say “A dark day in history today. Jennifer Lopez’s arse has tragically passed away. It was beloved of millions worldwide. Books of Condolence have been opened”

**


I took Calvin to Radlett with me so he could have a look at Solly’s missus’s car for her. She’s another one who’s driving round in one of these Audi TT’s and she’s been having a bit of trouble with the locking. Calvin isn’t right up to speed on the locking on these things but he’ll sort it out. There’s no danger of him not being able to work that out for her. He says they aren’t the easiest car by any means to break into, but I’ve said to her he’ll have a look for her on a no-fix-no-fee basis, and I’ve told him that Solly’s exactly the sort of bloke who can put some work Calvin’s way if he shows him that he can do a decent job and doesn’t take the piss with the bill.

“Tell these people it’ll cost them half more than you actually want. Let him knock you down a quarter and that way you make a quarter and he saves one and everyone’s happy. These guys don’t get rich by slinging their money away but they don’t get rich by having to have the same job done twice because the first guy did a shit job. Do a good job and he’ll put you in his book, mate, and he’ll turn his mates onto you.”

Solly and her are off in Solly’s Merc to have a look round Hendon and Golders Green for premises they can turn into nail bars for all the little princesses down there, with a sideline in syrups for the orthodox Jewish birds. His missus is a great bird, a good bit younger than him and straight out of the top drawer mate. She’s covered in gold, got a bit more make-up than I like to see on a bird, and her hair’s a bit blacker than it should be but Judy’s a laugh and she don’t look down her nose at us. She’s got all the gear and she could definitely stiffen up a corpse. She’s one of these that you can see there’s no way she’s going to have any of us shagging her but she likes to know as she’s swinging her legs into the motor that the lads are having a little look at what Solly can help himself to. The painting’s staying on the wall, but do have a little admire of it while you’re here. Art is to be admired. And anyway, it’s not every lovely painting that you’d want on your own wall but it’s nice to be able to have a look at it on somebody else’s.

She’s pussy all over but her strong point is her legs and, thank you god, she’s one of these birds who paints her toenails that lovely red and who before she goes out has to try on about six pairs of stilettos and ask everyone present what they think. So she’s stood there on the doorstep in her little denim skirt, holding it up a bit while Gunther, who’s known the pair of them long enough to get away with asking, asks what each pair is. So she goes through a pair Manolo’s, 400 quid…a pair of Gina’s, two hundred and fifty quid…a pair of flat Prada’s at 260 quid…a pair of Christian’s at 320, and she settles for a different pair of Manolo’s which have set her back four and a half and are made out of ponyskin which takes the shine off the ideas I was having about her red painted toenails.


She’s not a mug though. When she’s talking to you you’d think she’s a little bit dizzy but when her mobile goes and she takes the call in front of you and she’s telling whoever it is that if they, whoever they are, don’t want to take the price she’s offering, or pay the price she’s asking, then they can forget it, you can see that she’s got a bit of iron running straight up her middle.

Old Gunther wants to know what the idea of a syrup shop for women is and old Solly goes into one about how those orthodox birds are actually bald, mate. They cut their own hair off and wear wigs instead which seems fucking strange to me but I suppose it means that if someone can make a raise out of getting them to do that and then buying a wig then why not? Especially if you’re flogging them the scissors to cut their own hair off too. And he goes on about this eruv that half of north London’s been arguing about for the last ten years. Now it’s up and running he reckons that the religious Jews are going to want to move up here from Stamford Hill so they can push prams on a Saturday so Judy’s other little line of business, her estate agency, is in for a boost too. I don’t know whether he’s taking the piss or not but he does say one thing that pulls us up. When Gunther asks him if he wears one of those little hats that they all wear down the Brent Cross end of Golders Green, and Solly says he wears one about twice a year Gunther pulls his leg and says that he ain’t really all that Jewish then. Quick as a flash, and fucking serious mate, Solly says straight back that he’s Jewish enough for Hitler.

Getting together with Smash tomorrow to have a look at the gear him and Roller took off the two haircuts. They had to follow them halfway to Cardiff to get it but it went sweet as a nut. The guys pulled in to the Services and wandered off for a slash and some grub and Smash jumped straight up and drove the lorry away. Goodnight Irene.

So at the moment his mum's flat over Wapping has got two extremely old statues from Iraq in it and a ten foot length of wall with very ancient writings and carvings on it. Not your usual decorative fare over Wapping way.






- posted by fatboy @ 8:12 PM

 
Me and Gunther have only just got to Radlett this morning when crunching behind us up Solly’s gravel drive comes this pantechnicon with something like Major’s Removals – Whatever you want moving we’ll move it – Door to Door – Distance no object all over it. And never was a truer word spoken, mate. Here come Solly’s tiles all the way from Baghdad. Two ugly geezers who look like squaddies on account of their ugly haircuts jump down out of the cab, and they’ve got a lovely colour on them. You’d swear they’d been out in the sun somewhere hot for a few weeks.

Solly gets me and Gunther over so these herberts can hand us down the boxes. The lorry is packed to the roof with them. Each box is marked with a different letter and number and one of the ugly haircut geezers hands Solly a chart which shows which boxes go next to which to make the pattern that these tiles should be in. Solly’s already showed us a photo of the pool the tiles came from in Baghdad. The bod who’s had the tiles nicked from that pool sent Solly the picture over a satellite from out there and the picture was impressive but when Solly breaks open a box and shows us a few of the real deal I’ve got to say they are top notch, mate. You can see why he was keen to have them. This pool is going to be the dog's bollocks when it's finished.

Solly reckons the tiles were made five or six hundred years ago and the colours on them are like they were made yesterday. But these are colours you don’t get on the gash down Homebase mate. The blues and the creams and the turquoise and the gold on these are unbelievable. Makes you wonder what he's going to say though when they’re all on his pool and he has his mates over.

Old Solly’s obviously never been over the wall (yet) because if he had he’d know better than talking out of the side of his mouth, asif I wasn’t likely to hear him, to one of these guys about some extra special stuff they’ve got on the lorry and which the geezer is trying to flog him. He’d know that down our way earwigging is a skill that’s developed from childhood to levels that would be envied by lip readers, mate. While we’re unloading the boxes I can hear enough to know that the ugly haircuts have got two statues and a big chunk of an inscribed wall on board that they’ll let him have for 45 grand cash. He’s telling Solly that any European museum would give half a million for that little lot when all the stuff missing from Baghdad has cooled off a bit in a year or two.

Old Solly didn’t get where he is today by flinging his money at the first herbert who asked for it though and he’s trying to talk the guy down to 25 kay but fair play to the bloke, he knows what he’s got and he’s banging on that 45 is a snip. Solly jumps on board and he’s looking at the gear and holding his chin and umming and aahing and trying not to let on how much he wants the stuff, and he’s telling the geezer that he’ll give him twenty seven and a half kay cash now, this very minute, but the geezer’s not going to budge. Anyway it's obvious these two divs are only junior partners in this. Some bod with fancy pips on his shoulder is probably laying down the price and though he’s gutted Solly lets it go. He don’t get the gear but on the bright side he won’t do time for it some time in the future either.

I know someone who’d like to take the stuff off these lads’ hands though and when the boxes are off the lorry and Solly’s sorting out the lads with some cash for the tiles I wander off to the bogs in the house and give Smash a bell.

First I make it clear to him that I want a fucking good drink out of what I’m about to tell him, and then I give him the reg of the lorry, the crap on the side of it, what it’s got on board, and the snippet that the haircuts have said they’re heading down to Pembroke with it after leaving here. One thing you can say about Smash, if there’s a pound to be made he’ll go after it. Even as he’s speaking he’s turning the van round on the South Circular and heading over towards the M4 where at some point, with a bit of luck, him and Roller who’s with him will see the ugly twins come trundling past.

At some point the haircuts will stop off at a services and Smash’ll be off in their lorry with the gear before they’ve even reached the bogs for a piss. Roller’ll be behind in the van, and they’ll switch the gear to the van as soon as they can get off the motorway and into a layby. A bit different to the usual fare of nicking off-licence delivery lorries but fewer things to sell too. And no-one’s likely to go and see Old Bill to moan about how they’ve had a bit of looting nicked off them. Sweet.

A quarter of an hour later the boxes are all stacked up, Solly’s sorted the money out for the tiles, and the haircut twins are off with a wave and a cheery “Be lucky” from us. I make a mental note to sling my mobile away and get a new pay-as-you-go as soon as we get back to London. I don’t want any comeback about the call to Smash’s phone from mine if it all goes pear-shaped. You aren’t catching me with that old one, mate.



- posted by fatboy @ 11:07 PM

 
After we dropped the floppy disks in to Geno yesterday afternoon I thought it’d be a good idea to give Margot a couple of hours rest and for me and Calvin to take the baby off her hands for a bit.

I had it in mind to have a bit of a man-to-man chat with Calvin. It’s got to the stage where me and him should have a talk about this and that, so Margot got some milk made up for Louisa and we got the Moses basket strapped onto the back seat with Calvin sat next to her and me and him and the baby shot round the North Circular and up the M11 to a beer garden I know near Stansted.

Good job Davey M wasn’t with us. You pull into this place and there’s a MuckBurger’s and a BurgerPonce in the same complex, but the boozer’s all right. We put the Moses basket in the shade in this little garden, got a shandy each and I started on this spiel that Mary’s dad had given me years ago when Mary had fallen pregnant with Margot.

He gave me such a blinding talking to all those years ago did Mary’s old man that I think I’ve been practising it in my head ever since, through the time Margot was first put into my arms after she was born, and all through her growing up, so I could pass it on to whoever she ended up with.

Mary’s old man was a decent bloke. He was always all right with me, always fair, even though I must have disappointed him and even though he must have hoped for better than me for Mary, especially in those first few years we were together when I was a real deadheaded dick.

Old Henry was old school, mate. He was into old school politics, not the old school tie sort but old skool…health service, nationalised industries, trade unions, don’t make a raise off essential utilities, contribute what you can and get given what you need. He was a little geezer, short like Mary and Margot. I’m a good foot bigger than he was and half his weight again but he put me right on that too. “It ain’t how big a man is, mate. It’s how big the fight in him is.”

The first time I upset Mary and he got to hear about it and fronted me up over it I’d just come out of DC. I’d had a couple of months in there for taking and driving away and I’d used all my spare time in there lifting weights. When I came out I was full of it, mate, fit as fuck, but it didn’t cut any ice with Henry. He backed me up against a wall and he goes “Do you know what I like about big hard fuckers like you Mikey?”

And I goes “No, Henry.”

And he goes “I like the sound you fuckers make when you hit the floor after I’ve smacked you and knocked you out, mate. Do you want me to do that to you, Mikey?”

And I goes “No, Henry.”

And he goes “Look at me Mikey. I’ve got scars on my fists and none on my face. I notice you’ve only got them on your face, mate. Do you want me to give you some more?”

And I goes “No thanks, Henry.”

And he goes “Then fucking shape up, mate.”

But I can’t pull any of this on Calvin because fair play to him, he’s nothing like the arsehole I was.

So I give him all about how I’ve known his dad for 25 years and more, and what a great fella his dad is, a grafter, another old school geezer who knows how to behave. And I give him all about how Mary and me think he’s OK and how him and Margot seem well suited, and how proud we are of the pair of them, and of how well they’ve taken to being parents, and how proud we are to be grandma and granddad at our ages to little Louisa. And what I don’t tell him, because I don’t want to embarrass either of us, is that I like the way he can be soft with Louisa, the way he can love her without struggling to and without trying to look tough about it, or being awkward about it the way I was at his age with Margot.

I go on to give him the second bit of what Henry gave me the best part of twenty years ago. I tell him that I’ve been his age and I remember it like it was yesterday. But I’ve also been my age too so I’ve got one up on him and I can tell him that what I’ve learnt is that not only are guys his age fucking dickheads but so are guys my age, that we don’t grow up, mate, not really, so the art of being a decent family man is being as careful as you can to keep that dickheadedness out of your family business. Leave it at the door, keep it separate.

And I bung in a couple of major bits of wisdom that Henry laid on me. Life’s not a popularity contest, mate. If you’re going to try and impress anybody, make it your family. It don’t matter a fuck if your mates think you’re a top geezer, especially if your kids think you’re a shit. Most of what we have in life we don’t need, mate. And most of what we need we don’t have. Worry more about what your kids need than what you want.

By this time poor old Calvin is starting to glaze over. He’s a good lad but you can see a lot of this talk is flying over his bonce. He’s a doer rather than a listener so I finish up by telling him that he’s a good lad and that I’m trusting him to look after my firstborn daughter and my first grandkid and that if he upsets Margot I’ll give him a smacking to end all smackings.

He says he knows.

On the way back down the M11 I’m about to put some old Upsetters stuff on the tape player and he fishes a cassette out of his pocket and asks if I fancy a listen. Top stuff too, mate; foreign and very mellow. I haven’t got a fucking clue what the words mean but the sound is top notch.

It turns out that the oldest couple in Margot’s antenatal classes took a shine to her and Calvin and have given them the music as a present to mellow out to. A bird and a bloke from Brazil and this tape’s from Brazil too, called Domingo, by a bloke called Caetano Veloso and some bird called Gal somethingorother. And me and Calvin and little Louisa float back down the M11 and onto the 406 listening to this stuff, with the sun setting in front of us like a huge red burning ball and these two are singing away and it’s so fucking beautiful mate, listening to that and little Louisa and Calvin snoring away on the back seat, that I didn’t know anything about the drive home until we’re pulling up in the parking space outside the flats and Margot comes out to see what took us so long.

- posted by fatboy @ 2:15 AM