» Well, that taught 'em

Been caught stealing
cmpod's story reminded me of one of my own.
So back in the day I'm managing the Our Price in Clapham and we're having a lot of trouble with shoplifters. Now these are no ordinary shoplifters, these are crack-addicted, drink-soused, South London council estate shoplifters. We had one of those barrier things but all that did was beep noisily to tell you someone had just nicked something. The toerags generally picked saturday afternoon for their most audacious crimes (50+ dvds at a time) so we used to post a member of staff on the door to dissuade them, but given that most of my staff were shortarses and/or girls they didn't dissuade anyone. Then on particular saturday we snapped. We'd actually caught one and handed him over to the coppers in the morning and he was back (on Police bail) less than 2 hours later sporting a huge grin that said he'd just had a little toke on the crack pipe.
The blatant little sod tried it again, legging it out of the door with a dozen cds and dvds. Three of us gave chase, and after about ten minutes of hot footing it through the backstreets of Clapham we caught him. We called the cops and settled down to wait, knowing they would take at least twenty minutes to turn up. Cigarettes were smoked and we wondered how long until he got out again and started nicking. No More we thought, let's draw a line in the sand now. So the three of us kicked seven bells out of the shite, and broke a few of his fingers for good measure. Then we explained things to him very carefully:
"Steal from Superdrug in Future, the little old ladies won't chase you, won't catch you, and wont beat the crap out of you. Get it."

He did, we never saw him again. Result.
(Wed 2nd May 2007, 13:19, More)

» Rock and Roll Stories

Where to start...
With many years of Rock and Roll behind me, I can tell a few, but I'll start small, since this is the most 'Tap'.

Sometime in the early 80's, and my band 'Psi-Storm' are playing a big charity gig in Kent. There are four of us in the band: Clarkie on guitar, a genius who makes all his own gear, Jim on Bass, a solid if uninspired player, Paul 'The Gob' on drums, his mouth being the only thing louder than his kit, and meself on shouting. We're kicking off our act with a new number in our shouty-industrial-punk set, so amidst the gathering gloom we take the stage before the hundreds of adoring and/or indifferent fans.
Jim kicks things off with a rumbling bass line of the type made popular by The Cure on their Faith album. A few bars in Paul takes up the rhythm, and for once manages to play what he's supposed to. (Paul rates himself as a 'jazz artiste' so the rhythm machine pattern he's supposed to be playing seems to offend him. Clarkie waits for the momentum of the rhythm section to build until he starts laying a few noises over the top. This intro session relies on atmospheric sounds over the rhythm, so I pitch in with some curious farty noises on Clarkie's home made synth. So far so good.
Up to the mic then, and I shout out the first line.
Silence.
I shout the second line.
Silence.
A roady dashes on in that half crouch they do that they think makes them invisible. He changes the mic.
I shout out the third line and it works!
Signalling the band to go 'round again', we restart the intro.
More wibbly and farty noises.
Clarkie's amp starts to speak.
He's picking up the local mini-cab company somehow. (His guitar leads are made out of cb cable.)
Much waving and shouting and fiddling with amps.
I try and pick up the guitar riff on the synth, but it's monophonic, so not a chance.
Paul starts inserting 'jazz improviations' into the rhthym.
Jim loses the beat as a result.
Suddenly there is a flash and a bang from the backline, and the audience applauds the 'pyro'.

Clarkie's home made amp has just exploded!

Somehow we carried on and finished the gig. During the encore I was struck on the head by a thrown hippo. (Plush luckily.)

The band split up after that, though Clarkie and I kept on going, and there may be more tales from some of those gigs.
(Sat 1st Jul 2006, 14:35, More)

» We have to talk

V. V. Bad.
This is a grim one. Long term relationship with cracking girl who I was way besotted with. We lived on the opposite sides of London, so only met at weekends, though usually for the whole weekend. (Spent alternately in the sack or the pub.) Anyway, on the relevant weekend I go a-calling and get the 'we need to talk' thing almost immediately.
Turns out my honey had been raped by a co-worker the previous weekend, and had somewhat gone off men. So what am I to do? Dumped because of some other fucker? She spent the rest of the weekend persuading me not to kill the cnut.

Perhaps not as bad as some peoples experiences since there was no 'personal sleight' element, but certainly one of the worst times of my life.

And for what it's worth I did even the score thanks to the advice of an older wiser mate. Framed the rapist for a different crime, shopped him to the filth, and then laughed all the way through the ten years of hard time he got as a 'nonce'.

Still miss that girl every day (20+ years now), and wish things had turned out differently. She was special, and he was a cnut, but he got what was coming to him in the shower block.
(Wed 25th Apr 2007, 0:08, More)

» Putting the Fun in Funeral

Trendy Vicar?
Well there was the time when I was mistaken for the vicar. It was my Grandfather's interment, being held up North. I dutifuly trucked up to Skem (Skelmersdale) and stayed with a mate. On the day my chum gave me a lift to the church, but I was an hour or so early. What to do? I spy a hostelry and soon esconce myself within the 'snug' and proceed to get outside several large brandies. After a spell I slink over to the church, but still early, I take a stroll around the cemetary. Being a rather irreligious chap and somewhat the worse for the brandy I think nothing of skinning up a 'jazz cigarette' whilst I'm killing time. Finally I can put it off no longer and enter the church, only to find I'm the first and still early. The local vicar descends on me and starts quizzing me up about the ceremony. Now I have no idea what the chap is on about and why he's asking me, but it wasn't until he asked if I'd like to use his vestry to change in that I twigged. Apparently he thought I was some trendy London vicar. An easy mistake to make, since I'm wearing a shiny black suit jacket, stretch black jeans, sport a peroxide crop, and stink of Brandy and Puff!

Oh how we all laughed about it later at the graveside.
(Sun 14th May 2006, 16:07, More)

» DIY fashion

Hair Horror?
In the early 80s I moved from the quiet Kent suburb of Orpington to swinging Lunnen Town. On the first day in town I walked through Greenwich park to the town hall to sign on. Immediately I attracted cries of derision and 'Neil' impressions for my long hippy hair. (Acceptable in Hippy Kent, not so in trendy Lunnen apparently!)
The very next day I went to the local hair place for something radical with my new boss.
"Give him the same as me." Say the boss guy.

twenty minutes later I emerge with.....

.... A mullet.

Grim? I got married a few months later, and the artist formerly known as Mrs Steve never forgave me for the mullet in the wedding pictures. She got her revenge though... she became as fat as a whale after that.
(Mon 28th Aug 2006, 12:23, More)