Tippett Jr Jimmy - Born Gangster

M any people helped me fulfil my dream of writing this book. I would like to thank my agent Andrew Lownie and everyone at Blake for their hard work. I would also like to thank my ghostwriter Nicola Stow for putting up with my erratic behaviour I know I was a nightmare.

Thanks also to Jacquie, who has supported me throughout, even when I was in prison. Youve been a rock to me and my family, Jacquie.

To all my friends and family who have backed me (you know who you are).

And finally, love and thanks to my dad, my ultimate hero.

W orking for a living has never appealed to me. Not honest work, anyway. I couldnt think of anything worse than sweating my bollocks off in a cheap suit, doing the old Dolly Parton shift and getting shoved around on smelly commuter trains. Fuck that! Im a gangsters son.

Over the years, however, theres been a few fucking jobsworths whove tried to put me on the straight and narrow. I was having none of it. No one was going to tell Jimmy Tippett Junior what he should or shouldnt do with his life, as the careers adviser at my secondary school, Hayes Comprehensive, discovered when she endeavoured to help me. What a bloody waste of time that was!

I was only 16 but I remember that day as though it were yesterday traipsing across the playing field to the flimsy portable building that housed the careers office. I felt so smug in my cashmere-blend blazer, Farrahs and Gucci loafers, while the other lads wore cheap, shiny nylon and big ugly shoes from Clarks resembling bumper cars. I always was a cut above the rest a real dapper little cunt.

The so-called magic room that was supposed to hold the key to my future was a horrible drab box with chewing- gum-encrusted carpet tiles, grey plastic chairs and grotty old wooden desks covered in compass-etched graffiti. Plastered over the yellowing walls were various posters emblazoned with alarming messages about the dangers of drinking, drug abuse and smoking. I found this highly amusing, for hidden in my schoolbag were 40 bootleg fags that I would flog in the playground for 20p each when the bell rang. Even at that age I was a little entrepreneur in the making never missed a trick.

The careers adviser was a pitiful excuse for a woman. I took one look at her and immediately felt my sausage- and-mash lunch coming up. There she was, sitting behind her rickety desk a scrawny, eczema-ridden, twitchy thing with wonky teeth and huge red-rimmed glasses, her jingly-jangly bracelets rattling about as she fumbled with paperwork. She was wearing one of those gypsy-style multicoloured rainbow skirts and Jesus-creeper sandals and she reeked of joss sticks and BO. What a fucking state.

The meeting was futile. She began lecturing me on the importance of a good career, her scraggy little head bobbing from side to side. So youre not staying on for your A-levels, Jimmy? she said, narrowing her eyes behind her comedy glasses.

Nah, fuck that, I replied. Im going to earn some proper wedge.

So youre going to get a job, then?

I laughed. Yeah, something like that.

Then, one after another, she trotted out potential vocations while I sat there sniggering and rolling my eyes. Office jobs, shop jobs, public-sector jobs, bank jobs. According to her I could expect to earn up to five thousand pounds a year working in a bank. Well, I thought, she can shove that one up her arse for a start the only bank job I was interested in involved putting a pair of tights over my head, brandishing a gun and shouting, Wheres the safe? and Give me the fucking money! Still, I let her go on, her words floating over my head. Maybe you could work in a library. Or be an estate agent. The possibilities are endless, Jimmy.

I looked at my watch and sighed. Look, are you going to be long? I said. Only Ive got to push off in a minute.

She paused, scratched her scabby cheek. And then, with a frown, asked the crunch question: What exactly is your ideal job, Jimmy?

I want to be a businessman like my dad, I said.

Really? Thats interesting. And what business is your dad involved in?

Well, he gets up at about eleven oclock, has breakfast in bed, reads the papers, maybe has a cigar or two. Then hell get in his Rolls-Royce and drive around, catch up with friends, have a nice lunch somewhere, maybe play a few games of pool or cards. You know, do a bit of business and have a few drinks

She fell silent for a moment while I peered out of the window there were some girls in PE skirts walking across the playing field, looking fit as fuck all bouncy boobs and pert arses.

Im sorry Jimmy, she continued, as I craned my head to get a better view of the totty outside. Real life just isnt like that Jimmy Mr Tippett?

What? I said, returning my gaze to the careers adviser.

Real life isnt like that. Thats not business, Jimmy, its not work or

I couldnt believe what I was hearing. How dare she slag off my dad. She didnt stand a fucking chance now. I gave it to her straight. I jumped off the plastic chair, sending it crashing across the room. Look here, I said, towering over her as she fumbled with her feather earrings. Ill give you real life aint like that. Ive watched my fucking dad live like that all my life. You want me to go and work in a bank for five fucking grand? My dad earns that in a day. So dont you fucking tell me what I can or cant do. Look at you, sat there in yer fucking ugly hippy-dippy shit what do you know? I stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the whole building shook. I had the right hump I was so angry I didnt even hang about to sell my bootleg fags. I stomped back across the playing field, through the playground and out the gates, muttering, Fucking ugly bitch.

On the bus home, as I listened to George Michaels Faith album on my Walkman, I thought about my future. And, as my anger subsided, it suddenly occurred to me how that frumpy slag, with her eczema and her sandals and her glasses and her bullshit, had actually done me a huge favour. Never before had I felt more determined about my career. I was going to be a huge success by following in the footsteps of my dad.

I was born in Lewisham Hospital on 9 September 1971. Mum says she remembers hearing the Tams Hey Girl Dont Bother Me playing on the radio as she panted and pushed and yelped. Jimmy, my dad, was right by her side, squeezing her hand, mopping her brow and softly saying, Thats it, Carol, keep it going, girl. Youre doing a fine job. Then out I popped, their little bundle of joy, safe and well with all my little fingers and toes. Dad says it was a first-class delivery. He even admits he shed a few. There couldnt have been a more perfect moment till armed officers from the Flying Squad stormed the ward and stole my fucking thunder.

They were looking for my uncle, Fat Freddie Sewell, whod been at large for three weeks after killing top cop Gerry Richardson and severely injuring his colleague. Sewell who earned his nickname for being a greedy fat fucker had led a gang of men from south London to Blackpool to raid Preston jewellers shop. They were tooled up proper with shotguns and crowbars, hoping to clean up. But the dozy buggers fucked it up by failing to check a backroom where the shop manager sat. Hed seen Sewell and his mob coming and pressed a silent alarm connected directly to Blackpool cop shop.

The robbers were forced to make a run for it, but the Old Bill arrived in a flash, chasing them through the busy seaside resort. Sewell started going nuts with his gun, spraying the street with bullets, running as fast as his lardy legs could carry him till he reached a dead end. He carried on firing his weapon, blasting Inspector Carl Walker through the leg. Then he turned the gun on Superintendent Richardson, who warned Sewell, Dont be silly, lad, put the gun down. And, with that, Sewell grabbed him by the throat and, bang, shot him right through his gut at point-blank range. Sewell did one and immediately became Britains most wanted man.