Stolen cars and Living Rooms
At 15 my folks considered me mature enough to go on holiday by myself. This was good. I capitalised on their goodwill and went home to stay with my mate Ash. We were wandering through town and we bumped into some old friends, Steve and Laney.

Steve's folks had gone away for a bit, which meant that we had access to his house, some booze, and a credit card. We spent a lot of money on more booze and were roundly pissed by about 3pm.

About this sort of time a guy called Yorkie popped round. He was a cock, but he was bigger and older and had access to drugs so we naturally thought he was a bit cool. A plan was hatched; we wanted some weed, we were lazy, but above all we were lashed. So, having Steve's mum's car (and keys) handy we decided that it would be sensible to drive. Yorkie assured us he could drive, despite not having a license owing to some unexplained misfortune. Thus the decision was made.

Initially, we couldn't get the car reversed out of the driveway. At this point alarm bells really should have rung, but being young, pissed and excited we managed to block our concerns out.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Steve and I managed to push the car out, position it so it facing in the direction we wanted to go in and relinquished the keys to Yorkie. Then we had to show him where to put the keys. This had disaster written all over it.

The engine was started, then excessively revved, and we were off! We accelerated rapidly and seemed to be going in about 17 different directions at once. Yorkie was not an expert driver.

We approached what seemed like 7 million miles an hour on the first corner leaving Steve's house, and swung a hard right. A BMW was in our path, and suddenly everyones voice rose by several octaves. Swerving, we missed the Beemer, but careered wildly across the road and on a course guaranteed to cause destruction.

Praying the brakes worked, we braced for impact. The world slowed; I saw the rhodedendron bush shatter in front of us as the car ploughed through a garden. While the world slowed down, the car didn't. Yorkie, Grand Prix rookie that he was, hit the accelerator instead of the brake. Reaching about 40 mph we slammed through a bay window and came to a stop several feet inside a living room. The old lady living there had a stupefied expression, obviously not expecting Countdown to end in such a dramatic way.

My brain kicked into action, and I said the first sensible thing of the afternoon; "Fucking leg it!" We did.

Ash and I legged it, dodging police and fire vehicles all the way, and made it to a village some distance away before going to his mum's. Steve, less intelligently, ran to his house. Yes, the house from which we had borrowed the now compact car. Laney was bleeding and injured, and Yorkie hid behind the pipes in Steve's loft.

It was only a matter of time; the filth arrived and Steve (having slightly less sense than an apricot when pissed) thought it would be sensible to fight the law. He lost, and was dragged semi conscious from his house. Laney went willingly and Yorkie was eventually extricated from the plumbing.

Those three were fucked. Ash and I though, were home clear (bar my swollen eye). Or we thought we were. We called Steve to find out how the arrest had gone, and were told we'd been named. After seconds of interrogation Laney had broken.

We later saw his interview transcript; "My name is Andrew Lane (not a lot of people know that). The others you are looking for are Johnnyball and Ash." Wanker.

So, we all got nicked and dragged before the beak. One of the magistrats was our textile teacher. Steve and I were very unruly in school. This was not a good development. Eventually though, we blagged it and got off with a caution. Except Steve (who must have turned up at court pissed). He xswapped his caution for a fine and a 2 year driving ban. Twat.

As an aside, the most entertaining bit of this whole sorry episode was Steve's folks return. He had tidied the house and so on to soften the blow, but when his folks got back from holiday thay had bought a local paper and found that on the front page under the headline of YOB CULTURE was a picture of their car in an unexpected location. The ready boiled kettle did not cut a lot of ice with them.

To make it worse, and to keep it on-topic, I was due in court on the 11th of August, smack bang in the middle of our family summer holiday 240 miles away. I was not a popular boy for some time.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:48, Reply)