The Guv'nor by Lenny McLean

but being five likely lads we seemed to attract other groups who wanted to take a pop. At some of the clubs we never even got in the door. Flying high or out of our brains with drink meant we weren’t ideal customers. The doorman would pull a face and ask us to go elsewhere. We’d give him a bit of verbal, out would come the bouncers, chucking their weight about, and it would all end in a right tear-up.
    For our spending money and a bit of excitement we got into a bit of ‘after-hours window shopping’. After we’d done our rounds of the clubs on a Saturday night, we’d jump in our motors (mine was a green Mini Cooper), and tour round the high-class shops in Oxford Street or Regent Street. When we found the right pitch we’d chuck a metal milk crate straight through the glass and cream the display. We had less than a minute to do the business. The alarm would be ringing and the police would be on their way, but we didn’t give afuck. Cashmere jumpers, fur jackets, suits, posh dresses, whatever we could rip off the dummies. One night, we couldn’t get this tasty suit off the dummy quick enough, so we flung the whole thing in the motor and drove off with its legs hanging out of the window. It looked like a kidnapping.
    Another time, me and a mate turned over a high-class store in the West End. We got a load of good gear out of the window, mostly suits and posh dresses. After we stashed the stuff, we arranged to meet young Barry who always got us good money without aggravation for anything we asked him to move. We cut him in on a percentage so he wasn’t doing us any favours. Barry got there first, then I turned up but my mate didn’t show. After about two hours sitting there waiting, Barry said to me, ‘That prat ain’t going to show, so why don’t I flog the stuff and we’ll cut it up between us two?’
    â€˜What did you say?’ I said.
    â€˜We’ll cut up the money and fuck him.’
    â€˜No,’ I said, ‘fuck you,’ and I belted him straight in the mouth, breaking his jaw. That’s all he got out of the job because me and my mate shared the split. What a slag, he’d rob his own.
    Nicking the stuff was the easy part, but we didn’t see any dough until it was flogged off. That Barry could piss off as far as I was concerned, so anything tasty we had was passed on to Tommy the Talker. We were quite busy and shifting a fair bit of gear, so if Tom ever got a bit loaded up we would slip round Hoxton or Roman market and do a few deals for ourselves. We were making good money and spending it like water, so come the weekend we’d start grafting all over again.
    Back in 1968, the clubs didn’t turn out until about four or half-past , so by the time we’d done some work and tucked away the night’s takings in a little lock-up we used as a slaughter, it was well into the next day.
    This particular Sunday, it seemed like I’d only just closed my eyes, when I got such a bang on the head I thought the ceiling had come in on me. It hadn’t, it was Jim Irwin and he was shouting, ‘Three o’clock, you lazy bastard, and still in your pit. This ain’t a fucking hotel,’ and he was bringing his fist up to give me some more.
    I’ve bashed up half the bouncers in the West End and this bastard’s whacking me like I’m six years old. I chucked the covers back, shot out of bed just in my Y-fronts and I’m like a fucking madman. The look on his face, in that second before I smashed it, will stay with me until the day I die. It was like traffic lights changing.Anger, surprise and, I’d like to think, fear. He fell backwards against the door and I swung another to his head but before it connected he slumped to the floor and I split the door panel instead.
    If the bedroom hadn’t been so cramped and I’d had more room to move I would definitely have seriously hurt him. As it was, Mum had heard