Sit doon oan the couch, hen, I tell her. She don’t move. – Sit hur doon oan her erse, Bobby, I say to Bal. Her gets her onto the couch, with his arm around her like he was her bleedin fellah or something.
I put the tea down in front of her. – Dinnae even think of flingin yon tea in anybody’s face, hen, I tell her, – or see they weans up the stair? Thair fuckin wormfood!
– I wasn’t … she stammered. Poor bleedin Doris. Sitting at home watching the telly and this happens. Don’t bear thinking about really.
Bal ain’t best pleased. – Drink youah fuckan tea, woman. My friend Hursty here, he make you nice tea. Drink Hursty’s tea. You think we you fuckan slave? White bitch!
– Hey, hey, c’moan you. The lassie disnae wahnt nae tea, the lassie disnae huv tae have ony tea, I told Bal, or Bobby as I called him.
When we went on jobs like this, it was always Hursty, Bobby and Martin we called ourselves. This was after Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters: the Hammers who won the World Cup for us in 1966. Barry was Bobby, the general; I was Hursty, the up-front striker. Shorthand – well, he saw himself as Martin Peters, the schemer: ten years ahead of his time and all that bollocks.
Of course, there wasn’t much bleedin cash around: we only got about two hundred. There’s never a fucking farthing in these bleedin places. We only really do it cause it’s easy and it gives us a bit of buzz. It also keeps your hand in with planning and all that. You can’t allow yourself to get all rusty. That’s why we’re the country’s number one firm: it’s the planning, innit. Any silly cunt can steam in; it’s the planning and organisation that sorts out the real professionals from the bleedin mob. Anyhow, Shorthand, he gets the card numbers from the husband geezer then tours around a few cashpoints and comes back with six hundred quid. These fucking machines and their bastard limits. It’s best to wait until midnight, then at 11.56 or whatever, you draw out two hundred, then another two hundred at 12.01. It’s only 11.25 now, which is too long to hang about. You always have to leave a bit of extra time in case of struggle. This one though, it was too fucking easy.
We got em trussed up and Bal slashed the phone wires. Shorthand put his hand on the geezer’s shoulder. – Now. Don’t you people be goin and talkin to di officers of di law now, you hear me? Sure, you’ve two lovely children upstairs there who go by the names of Andy and Jessica now, don’t they just?
They nod at him in shock.
– You wouldn’t want us to be comin back here for dem, now would you? Now.
They stared at him in fear, the crapping cunts. I said: – We know yon school yir weans go tae, the scout troop, the fuckin guide pack; we know everything. But youse forget us and we forget youse, right? Yis goat oaf lucky!
– So no plaice in-volv-mant, Bal says softly, touching the gel’s face with the flat end of his knife.
The side of the skirt’s face had swollen right up an all. That made me feel funny. I don’t hold with hitting a Doris: not like my old man. He don’t hit my mum now though, not since I told the cunt he better hadn’t. That’s one thing I’d never do is to hit a Doris. Tonight, well, that don’t count cause that’s business, that’s all there is to it. You’re in the striker’s role and you can’t let the side down. First cunt who opens that fucking door gets it, Doris or no fucking Doris, as hard as you can fucking well give it. And I can give it fucking hard all right. It’s like the whole job depends on it and you can’t let the side down. Gotta be professional, innit. Like I said it’s business, and what’s good for business is good for Britain and I like to do my bit for the Union Jack. You gotta just put all them personal likes and dislikes aside, they don’t come into it. But punching a Doris ain’t something I go for: not in a personal way like. I ain’t saying it’s really wrong
I put the tea down in front of her. – Dinnae even think of flingin yon tea in anybody’s face, hen, I tell her, – or see they weans up the stair? Thair fuckin wormfood!
– I wasn’t … she stammered. Poor bleedin Doris. Sitting at home watching the telly and this happens. Don’t bear thinking about really.
Bal ain’t best pleased. – Drink youah fuckan tea, woman. My friend Hursty here, he make you nice tea. Drink Hursty’s tea. You think we you fuckan slave? White bitch!
– Hey, hey, c’moan you. The lassie disnae wahnt nae tea, the lassie disnae huv tae have ony tea, I told Bal, or Bobby as I called him.
When we went on jobs like this, it was always Hursty, Bobby and Martin we called ourselves. This was after Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters: the Hammers who won the World Cup for us in 1966. Barry was Bobby, the general; I was Hursty, the up-front striker. Shorthand – well, he saw himself as Martin Peters, the schemer: ten years ahead of his time and all that bollocks.
Of course, there wasn’t much bleedin cash around: we only got about two hundred. There’s never a fucking farthing in these bleedin places. We only really do it cause it’s easy and it gives us a bit of buzz. It also keeps your hand in with planning and all that. You can’t allow yourself to get all rusty. That’s why we’re the country’s number one firm: it’s the planning, innit. Any silly cunt can steam in; it’s the planning and organisation that sorts out the real professionals from the bleedin mob. Anyhow, Shorthand, he gets the card numbers from the husband geezer then tours around a few cashpoints and comes back with six hundred quid. These fucking machines and their bastard limits. It’s best to wait until midnight, then at 11.56 or whatever, you draw out two hundred, then another two hundred at 12.01. It’s only 11.25 now, which is too long to hang about. You always have to leave a bit of extra time in case of struggle. This one though, it was too fucking easy.
We got em trussed up and Bal slashed the phone wires. Shorthand put his hand on the geezer’s shoulder. – Now. Don’t you people be goin and talkin to di officers of di law now, you hear me? Sure, you’ve two lovely children upstairs there who go by the names of Andy and Jessica now, don’t they just?
They nod at him in shock.
– You wouldn’t want us to be comin back here for dem, now would you? Now.
They stared at him in fear, the crapping cunts. I said: – We know yon school yir weans go tae, the scout troop, the fuckin guide pack; we know everything. But youse forget us and we forget youse, right? Yis goat oaf lucky!
– So no plaice in-volv-mant, Bal says softly, touching the gel’s face with the flat end of his knife.
The side of the skirt’s face had swollen right up an all. That made me feel funny. I don’t hold with hitting a Doris: not like my old man. He don’t hit my mum now though, not since I told the cunt he better hadn’t. That’s one thing I’d never do is to hit a Doris. Tonight, well, that don’t count cause that’s business, that’s all there is to it. You’re in the striker’s role and you can’t let the side down. First cunt who opens that fucking door gets it, Doris or no fucking Doris, as hard as you can fucking well give it. And I can give it fucking hard all right. It’s like the whole job depends on it and you can’t let the side down. Gotta be professional, innit. Like I said it’s business, and what’s good for business is good for Britain and I like to do my bit for the Union Jack. You gotta just put all them personal likes and dislikes aside, they don’t come into it. But punching a Doris ain’t something I go for: not in a personal way like. I ain’t saying it’s really wrong
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