Sunday, 19 August 2012

Phone Jack Be Nimble

London, a city where everyone can simply be absorbed by a huge, historical, mammoth throng of sights, sounds and shapes. From Marylebone to King’s Cross to Islington, I cycled happily through the exhaust fumes and heat, weaving through double decker buses and taxis, happy to be back in a place which can remind you of your own insignificance. The song talked about being in a desert on a horse with no name. I prefer eating dessert in a cafĂ© on a street with a reassuringly familiar name.

I cycled over to Decathlon in Canada Water this afternoon to get some cheap bike accessories. Decathlon are a wonderful store, with very few in the country and one only 6 miles from my mate’s house. After a happy hour selecting stuff I got the pannier rack bolted on by the French mechanic in the on store workshop and set off for home, whistling merrily as I buzzed along the streets, enjoying the views of London and happy to have spent my Sunday doing something more than checking Facebook and looking at porn.

Then it went tits up when I approached Bermondsey Tube station.

I was snapped out of my euphoric trance by a woman screaming “STOP! STOP HIM! STOP HIM!”

I looked ahead and a black guy was running away from her down the street.

“STOP HIM HE’S GOT MY PHONE!”

A friend of mine was mugged last week in a similar fashion. Using his I-phone and someone slapped the back of his head and as he reeled in shock someone else grabbed the phone. He stood there amazed as 2 guys in hoodies on mountain bikes cycled off up the street, mugging accomplished.

A couple of people were starting to run after the guy and I saw red. Burring through the red light I went after him but as he nipped over the road at a sprint I was able to keep up but made the mistake of staying on the right side of the street. Fucking central reservation meant I couldn’t just cut across without flying over the handlebars as I hit the kerb.

Deciding to improvise I kept pace with the thieving little cunt and yelled “stop or I’ll call the POLICE, STOP RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

He snaps a look at me, debates the issue and decides to keep running.

“I AM REALLY GOING TO HURT YOU YOU LITTLE CUNT. Stop or I’ll call the POLICE! STOP RIGHT NOW YOU FUCKING LITTLE PRICK!”

He darts into a particularly chavvy looking estate and I have to bite the bullet, stop and lift the bike up onto the annoying concrete bit and then chase him again. Predictably, like in the best chase movies, soon as I make it into the estate proper, the little turd is long gone. A group of women and kids are sitting near one of the ground floor flats and look at me quizzically.

“Little bastard stole some woman’s phone!”

They look shocked and the fattest one points past the crappy looking pub opposite and goes “he went down there, you can cut him off if you go that way!”

I cycle down a bit, Jeremy Kyle fans staring at me as I yell “I CATCH YOU YOU LITTLE CUNT YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD. BEST COME OUT NOW!!!”

Predictably it’s just silence and as I go back a fat tattooed guy comes out onto a communal lawn containing an old sofa and a rusty washing machine.

“What’s up?”

I tell him.

“Probably went over the wall, little bastard!”

The woman whose phone was nicked has now caught up with me. I call the Old Bill and knowing this will be a priority 4 (PCSO sent an hour later, if lucky) I add “guy shouted ‘fuck off I’ve got a knife’ “.

I ask her her name and she tells me then adds that the phone had all her details and contacts on it. Predictably it was an I-phone, which to thieving shit bags in Chavland is like shit to flies.

While the operator is talking to me I hear the sirens in the distance and two guys in shorts and Hawaiin shirts and a woman in jeans and a t-shirt come towards us at a fast trot. Initially worried this is Estate Justice I then see the handcuffs on their belts. As one of two squad cars pulls up with a screech the undercover guys show us their warrant cards. I give my details and ask for the crime reference number. They ask me to stick around while they take the victim in their car for a drive around to see if they can spot the thieving little cunt. I give the woman my phone number, asking her to let me know the end result.

20 minutes later I’m cycling over London Bridge and one of the female undercover cops rings me.

“We couldn’t find him but thanks for what you did.”

“If you catch the little shit, please call me back.”

“Yeah, we’ll try. We’re going to look at CCTV but….”

“How many of these do you get a day now?”

“About  5 or 6 reported, it’s getting worse.”

“I know, just let me know if you catch the little shit ok?”

I cycle home. Good deed done for the day but feeling slightly less elated than when I set off.

8 comments:

  1. Cruel things said of your value as a policeman and skill as a writer, are the result of failures to see the bright side, Lance. Infinitesimal as your standards may be, they prevail to form an auric ratio of 1.62.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Melvin - have you been at the ward brandy again? I struggle to think of a more cognitively disordered personality than the one you present via your keyboard. You really are are nutty as a fruitcake.

    ReplyDelete

  3. Damn. Ward brandy, you say? That rubbing alcohol label has previously denied my normally discerning palate.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Answer your bleedin texts young man!

    ReplyDelete
  5. ^^ PCBO Lightyear (aka merde de cochon.)

    ReplyDelete
  6. ^^

    me no speako foreign....

    so bollocks

    ReplyDelete
  7. Melvin - have you been at the ward brandy again? I struggle to think of a more cognitively disordered personality than the one you present via your keyboard. You really are are nutty as a fruitcake.

    ReplyDelete
  8. http://www.purchaselevitranorx.com/#6lance-wandering.blogspot.com - buy viagra [url=http://www.purchaselevitranorx.com/#4lance-wandering.blogspot.com]levitra[/url] levitra
    levitra

    ReplyDelete

Your turn to speak...
Feel free to disagree but insults and insinuations
will get your comment deleted.