Stealing is great!
My utter lack of morals concerning thievery from shops has been a boon and a bane in equal measure.

On a twilight sojourn betwixt ale house and dwelling, myself and some friends entered a paper shop. I pocketed some 3 packs of Tunes (for I knew not what I was doing). Upon capture, I was all indignant outrage - "well if they were on the fucking NHS, I wouldn't have to resort to this! I've got mouths to feed"...which turned to faux support - "listen I'm on your side, I actually heard somewhere you make a loss on Tunes, so...", which turned to sorrow - "to be honest mate, I'm tired and broken inside, here's 68p".

When I worked in J Sainsburys fantastic in-store bakery, I was a pilfering machine. Bags of donuts would be loaded for friends, the result being a quivering load of sweety goodness, danishes dribbling out the seams, all for the low low price of 5p (if holding a real gun is anywhere near the unadulterated cock throb of caressing a sleek black reduction gun, well, it goes a little way to explaining 'merkins certain fondness of high school shootings. the little rascals).

So I satisfied myself with all the sugary treats the bakery offered, post spliff shifts were a veritable Homer Simpson dream of frosted treats and caramel fillings. But I wanted more. Specifically, I wanted alcohol. But you know that inner voice that tells you when your ideas are good or, well, a bit shit? Conscience I believe the kids are calling it nowadays. Alcohol just seemed like...a big thing you know? All aspects of it - prospective repercussions if caught, the actual practicalities of it, just mainly the fact it was such a step up from what I'd stolen before - I was 15 at the time (not that I'm trying to insinuate my criminal career has spiralled ridiculously in direct correlation to my age - altho my life would certainly be interesting come 35/40 - just trying to get across my youthful dilemma!).

I had already spied my first target - a big load of Smirnoff's finest sat all virginal and effervescent at the back door. But still the inner conflict raged, engorged by the new crack security team just hired, and the state of the art cameras the team leaders used for looking at ladies in a demeaning way. So these thoughts I wrestled as I head down to the back for some job related reason. But hello! What's this!? The security guard is sloping up the corridor. He looks mighty furtive. And hang about! He's tucking something into his coat and ACTUALLY doing the double-take, shifty sideways glance as he does so. I enter the back area (easy now), and yes, my suspicions are confirmed - that once proud and erect vodka box is in tatters, a bottle shaped hole in the top, and a distinct lack of one of the advertised 6 bottles inside. The security guard!

Well life changed. What innocence I had left - TORN FROM ME AND SPAT UPON BY "THE MAN". But in a good way. Everything became free game, I was gonna be a renegade shoplifter, living off his wits and stolen twix. I jam a bottle of Smirnoff down my pants, and waddle back to the bakery. The deed was done that night, no hiccups (possibly some knowing glances from the security guard, but that might be imagined brain thoughts). From there on in it was carnage - on-offer beer (nearer the doors) swiped straight off the shop floor, a quick sprint to the front, and hope your friend has timed the getaway car - you hop into the still moving auto, legs hanging out, heart beating, face plastered with that certain sorta grin you only gain by stealing alcohol. For those 5 minutes after every shift, I was alive. Thanks Mr security guard man, my life was richer for what you gave.
(bacontrout got ska, Tue 15 Jan 2008, 21:49, Reply)