Alan Aldridge - Pipe Dreams

Id known Tony the Greek Lazarus since I was a kid. He was three years older than me and always in trouble with the police. We went to the same school as each other, on the Roman Road.

Funnily enough, we both shared the dubious distinction of having been expelled at the age of thirteen, me for absenteeism (I preferred the billiard hall) and Tony for something much more spectacular. During a maths exam, Basil Baines a much-feared cane-wielding teacher had accused Tony of cheating.

Not one of Basils best ideas.

Tony attacked him with a fury. Every finger on his huge hands was heavily ringed, each ring honed with razor-sharp edges. He used them to pound and chop into the meat of Basils face, to the delight and cheers of the other pupils.

When it was over, Basils eyes, ears, nose and teeth had been rearranged to resemble some ghastly Francis Bacon painting; as for Tony, he got hauled away by the police to be detained at Her Majestys Pleasure for a six-month stretch in Borstal, a detention centre for young offenders.

Borstals the best school I ever went to, Tony said, boasting upon his return to Bethnal Green. Learned more about villainy in five minutes there than what I did in all the rest of my life, he added, ungrammatically.

Back on the streets Tony formed a gang of young thugs. At the age of fourteen he was wearing Teddy Boy drapes and brothel creepers as he sauntered along on his way towards living a life of crime and ever-escalating violence.

For starters I got into petty theft, nicking cheap jewellery from department stores. Necklaces, earrings, they sell real quick down Petticoat Lane. Plus, give a bird a cheap bit of cut glass and call it a brooch, shell do anyfin if you know what I mean.

I was sitting with Tony and the boys at a marble-topped table in G. Kellys Eel Pie Shop on Roman Road. Tony was giving us his daily dose of verbal diarrhoea. He made curious animal mating noises mixed with a lot of nudge-nudges and wink-winks to make sure that wed know what he meant.

My next career move was robbin old ladies, he went on. See, the old man, e works ard all week down the docks and, on Friday night, comes home and hands over is pay packet to the missus. Sure enough, every Saturday morning, youll find these little ol mums waddling around the market, buying food for the week and flashing their fat little purses full of pound notes.

I mean, they were asking to be robbed. And I obliged. Next I moved in on cars, easy to rob and they dont yell and scream like the old gals. Amazing what people leave in their cars. Ive nicked radios; portable gramophones; wallets; sets of golf clubs; telescopes; TVs You name it. One time, we nicked a earse parked on City Road.

He paused.

Actually, he began, thinking back, it werent too clever. We sees this earse parked with no driver, hes probably gone for a cuppa tea. So Terry says earses could be worth a few bob, so lets nick it. Well, we all thought without finking itd be a giggle, so I pulls up the Zephyr, out jumps Nobby, hot-wires the funeral vehicle and off we go.

We eads straight to The Wheatsheaf pub on Bethnal Green Road. The landlord, Charlie Copsey, is one of the biggest fences in the East End. Hell buy just about anyoldfin. We pulls the two motors up in the pubs car park and mosey inside to find Charlie. Well, he aint there gone down the bank to deposit his weeks earnings And Im thinkin, I wish Id known that, I wouldve come earlier and mugged im myself, made a quick bundle.

Anyway, we all have a quick alf-pint and head back to the motors to wait. Well, when we gets outside did we do a bloody double-take? Dont we just. The earse is gone. Thats the trouble with the bleedin East End: cant turn your back on nuffin for five minutes, not without some thievin rascal stealin it. Nobodys got any effics anymore

Well, guess what? I sees a neat little ol man sitting calmly in the back seat of my Zephyr. Bleedin cheek, I think. Hey you, I yells. What dyou fink youre up to? Geezer dont move a muscle. So, Im really pissed off. I goes and yanks him out and I notices something.

Hes dead. Dead as a bleedin doornail.

I cant believe the stroke some cheeky bastard has pulled: not only nickin the earse but avin ad the fuckin liberty to take the coffin and leave us with the corpse. Then Nobby, whos always quick on the uptake, says, Maybe the old gent needs a stiff drink. Get it? Stiff drink... For a stiff.

So, Jimmy puts his shades on the old man and me and Nobby lift him up by the arms hes as light as a feather and, giggling our eads off, carries him straight into The Wheatsheaf and props him up between us right at the bar.

Tony leaned forward now, drawing us further into the story.

So now the barman asks us, Whatll it be? and I orders four alves of bitter for me and the boys and a pint of wallop for the old man, cos hes dead thirsty. And we all crack up laughing.

Nobby chimes in again, And dont stiff us on the change! and so we all fall about, fit to bust. The barman tells us to quiet it down, so Im thinking about whether I should knuckle-sandwich im, when an old girl gets up out of her chair, all annoyed-like, and comes over and confronts the stiff.

She says, Herbert? Is that you? and I mean, blimey she knew im! Herbert, she goes on, Elsie said you were dead, you passed away yesterday. Im goin to your funeral tomorrow, so what you doin ere, drinking this early, anging about with this rough lot?

She tut-tuts her disapproval of me and Nobby. Really Herbert, she adds, and wearing those stupid sunglasses.

Knock me down with a feather, if the first time in my life Im at a loss for words and Im wondering how much time inside Id get for abducting a dead stiff. But Ive always had the gift of the gab and so my mind comes to the rescue. This aint Herbert, darlin, I says. Its Percy Herberts twin brother. Hes deaf, dumb and blind, love. Es down ere from Newcastle to attend his brothers funeral.