Monday, 10 February 2014

Tony Joy

My name is Tony Joy.

They saw us coming – and they rubbed their hands in glee. Then they promised us sex and more sex, as we provided them with cocktails, vodka, more cocktails, more vodka, cigarettes, lager, white rum, more cocktails, more cigarettes and whatever else they wanted. In the pub. In the club. Between the pub and the club. A thousand pounds spent in a matter of hours. A thousand pounds which we had stolen from foreign tourists and unsuspecting Londoners. A thousand pounds which was going to take us to Spain. And then there were the telephones and passports. More cash would have come our way. But now we had nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

All we had left was thirty-eight pence and five cigarettes. We had peaked at a thousand pounds, and now we were down to thirty-eight pence. We had no lager in our fucking awful home. We had no whisky. We had nothing which would make us feel any better. All we had were two fucking headaches.

I laughed. One had to in such circumstances. It was, I announced, God's way of punishing us. We couldn't, I added, complain. The money was stolen. It was never ours to burn in the first place. It was only right that two thieves like us had been bled dry. That, I announced, was justice. Our victims, I added, would all be laughing. They had been robbed by us, but now we had been bled dry by a couple of girls and their friends.

Tony grunted.

I said that later in the morning everything would seem much better, and after breakfast we could start all over again.

Tony grunted a second time. He was too demoralised to contemplate another day spent pickpocketing. He was, he grunted, completely worn out. He was tired. He was sick and tired. All he wanted to do was drink a can of lager, pack his bags and turn his back on this fucking awful city. He had tried to make his mark, but others were too cunning for him. He would always come out worst. All he wanted now was a can of lager and to be on his way. To where, he wasn't sure, but he was sure that he had seen enough of Catford. He had seen enough of our fucking awful home. He wanted to go and live somewhere else.


Tony Joy is in an evil mood and he's got to get out of town. To find out why and how, get your copy of "The Londoners Trilogy - Four Years In London."





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