The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium closing down sale.

So after  so many hits by the Police. The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium has closed down. A huge victory for law enforcement. The house is now occupied by a lovely old man called Mick and his motability Scooter.  Maybe the window will get fixed now after a rival gang had put a brick through it.
No more Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. Wait a minute, who's moving into that house across the road. Damn it to hell and back The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium is up and running again across the road. I call my man over who I see walking down the road with a can of Breakfast.
"Am I reading this right? The Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium has moved?"
"Yep the fuckers have crossed the road."
"They're hardly staying under the Police RADAR just moving across the road."
"Yeah well y'see the cops aint ever gonna find anything in the new premises."
"Why have they stopped dealing?"
"Have they hell. No bigger and better. But they've got a new system."
"Oooooh how exciting! how does it work?"
"well matey boy has all his customers on a one hit speed dial. He knows how much he neeeds.  So when he has reached his target, he brings the stuff in quickly splits it into the lots and hit's the button. The whole deal is gone in an hour. It's never in his house. Not  now. he just sends a one word text to everyone."
"What's the word?"
"Online. He goes out and meets everyone in prearrangeed locations. A quick spin round the city and the job is done...... ahhh look check out that one."  a girl is walking quickly down the road, she'd just turned out a side road and was walking away from us... "She's a smack head addict, look at the state of her, she needs a fix, look how she's shaking."
"I can't really tell from this distance."
"Trust me she's got them bad. She's looking for a hit. or the money for a hit.  I know her very well. You know she once boasted that she banged her uncle for twenty quid. What sort of sick fuck bangs his niece? Hold up she's turning into my road. I'd better go after her."
"You're not? Surely not."
"Not what?"
"Going after her."
"Hell yeah I'm not her Uncle."

Batting for Britain

I hadn't seen my man in a while, then, like a bad penny, he pops in. "Where have you been?" I ask
"I've just been let out."
"Of where?"
"The nick of course."
"What have you done this time?"
"Hit a guy round the head with a cricket bat."
"That's a bit extreme...."
"Not as extreme as what he intended to do to me. He's a psycho. Blasted on drugs and came round mine. He was hammering on the door screaming he was going to kill me. I quickly opened the door and before he could do anything, I thwacked him round the head with the cricket bat. He was out for the count."
"Then what happened?"
"A neighbour called the police. They turned up and took one look at him and pronounced him an evil fucker."
"I'm sure they didn't say exactly that."
"Well they said he was very well known  to them and was violent."
"So you were arrested."
"Of course what else were they gonna do? They had to arrest me, take me in for questioning you know  the  routine. Keep me in for  a while for good measure,  then kick me out. It was self defence. I had witnesses."
"Did they charge you?"
"Did they fuck. I did them a favour. I'm their golden boy."
"How did you do them a favour?"
"Well he was in no condition to resist arrest after I'd seen to him. So they got him easy."
"So they've been looking for him?"
"Oh yeah. They have a whole list of crimes they want to talk to him about."
"So they wanted him and arrested you?"
"They took him as well. Look they had to arrest me. I twatted the guy. They did their job. I expected it. So I just sat on the wall and waited for them to come get me. I held my hand up Yep I hit him with a  cricket bat."
"So why did he want to kill you in the first place?"
"That m'boy is a very long story that goes back years. Put it this way I may have been responsible for no one seeing him for the last five years. While he was on holiday at her Madges request."
"ahhhh."
"Druggie scum. Got what he deserved."

Crack open the beers it's going to be a long night

Last night I went to Stamford. I wasn't enthusiastic. I stayed at home drinking coffee and looking at my newspaper. Zed looked up "Hadn't you better get going?"

"Yes in a minute." But really I didn't want to go. I didn't want these musicians telling me my songs were rubbish and they don't know why I bothered.

So I took my guitar and drove to the Directors house, there was only one musician there. Mark.  He had his expensive electric guitar with all the pedals and amplifier. Nooooooo.

Eventually the Director tells me to play one of my songs. I take out my guitar and play it. Mark immediately starts playing as well watching my fingers. When I finished he said "That's great. We can work with that song. Play another."

So I play another song, explaining what I was thinking and why I was doing this or that. He listened for a few seconds then blasted in with his electric guitar. He learns very quickly.

Then the Director says something about a fight scene and she wants music for it. Dirty music. I tell Mark I have been thinking of Death metal music but using their chords on my acoustic. I play a barred F#m and dropping the F# to E. Immediately Mark says "I know where you're going" and joins in. We have great fun blasting away at death metal. It works with my acoustic. I forget that Mark is the professional. I forget  all about him judging me and my songs. He loves my work. he asks if it would be OK if he can be part of the production team. He is very enthusiastic. He loves the concept. He loves my songs. He wants the challenge of doing something new and making something happen.

I don't know  why I was worried about meeting him. Lack of  confidence maybe?  I was amazed that someone actually thought the songs I wrote  were good? I have renewed faith.
"I like your style." says Mark, "you're old school."
"I'm just old, there's no school with me I'm completely self taught."
"No there's an openness about your style. it's wide and expansive, I've got room to move and do what I do."
"Really?"
"Yes I can work with you. I'm fed up with those musicians who are so intense in their playing they don't leave you anywhere to go, they're  greedy, possessive."
"How about this?" I play a little jazz number I've been working on based on Amaj7. I never intended to use it in the Opera, but Mark loves it. He's pleading with the director that we've got to shoe horn it into the production somehow. What the fuck? It's nothing. It's a bit of fluff, a bit of fun, laid back and relaxed Roll me a joint and we'll play this sucker all night type  of fun.
Mark plays  it again and starts mucking about he throws in a Cminor and suddenly I have a song. I do a  run Ebm Cm Bbm resolve to A major 7.  We have something. Abm7, Gm7, F#m7 It's cooking. Crack open the beers it's going to be a long night....

Let me die now

So tonight the director of my Opera has arranged for me to meet the musicians she has found. They are "awesome", "Professional","Highly accomplished". Help. She wants me to meet with these guys and teach them my songs. Well that's not going to be very intimidating and daunting. Much.
I used to be a professional musician playing my chunky chunk crappy cover songs. I got paid good money too. But that was then. I have never been what anyone would call accomplished or virtuoso. I just had fun playing songs people wanted to hear and not very well.
So I have to teach these guys my songs.... why did I ever  start this? let me die now

Everything costs a tenner

It looks like the Police are getting serious about drugs in Peterborough, yet another dealer has been raided and arrested for possession and dealing in Class A drugs. I weep for them. I weep for myself because soon I will have nothing left to write about. The streets will be clean. The druggies will turn from their life of squalor and debauchery and instead don smart new clothes and get jobs and become incredibly boring.
Not that it's going to happen. It's an eternal war. They might slow it down. They might win occasionally, but ultimately where there's a market there's gonna be a dealer.
Really these people have almost zero impact on my day to day life other than provide entertainment. It's like they all live in this parallel universe, going about  their business, fighting each other and getting off their heads. They walk past my gaff like ghosts. Totally unaware, or oblivious, of my existence. I don't bother them they don't bother me.
I knew a debt collector once. He went door to door collecting five pounds here, ten pounds there, from people who didn't have five pounds or ten pounds to spare. His favourite month was January. His "customers" had overspent at Christmas giving their kids the "Best Christmas ever" to make up for all the shit the rest of the year. Of course January comes and there's no money for food rent gas electricity. So Mr Debt Collector would roll up on their doorstep demanding his £10 and walk away with their kids' brand new X-Box or something, which he would then sell in the pub, thus supplementing his wages. Throughout the year he had successive sexual opportunities offered in lieu of this months payment. I asked him how he felt about that. He was of the opinion that there was no crime no victims, indeed he thought of it as a friend helping out a friend. Everyone came out smiling.  I have often wondered about that. If she wasn't in debt would she have offered herself to him anyway as a friend? If she wasn't up to her eyeballs in debt would she really go to bed with him for a tenner.
I was stopped on the corner of Burghley Road and Park by a girl in a  fur coat. It was raining and she had her collar up "Looking for business mister?" she says.
I glance down to my guitar case and say "I'm going to a gig."
" I just need ten quid for the electricity meter. What ever you want. The banks don't  open until 9 tomorrow and my leccy has gone off."
"I really am in a hurry. I'm late already."
"It'll be worth being late for me, you'll see.I'll make sure of it."
"You are kind but I must go."
"Alright. Well have a nice night anyway. I'll see you around maybe."
I walk off down the road swinging my guitar case. I turn around in time to see her get into a car that had just stopped and wound down the window. I no longer existed.
You can get all sorts for a tenner round here.

Screaming like fishwives

Lurch, the drug cartels financial advisor is temporarily out of work.  The recent police raids have taken their toll. I spot him coming down the road. He is six foot seven and riding a childs bicycle. He looks like a clown. It's hard to imagine him "putting the squeeze" on anyone while he's riding a childs bike. He passes me riding one handed, he's using the other hand to hold his fag, he's coughing his lungs up.  I hope the people he is trying to intimidate into paying up money don't see him because his reputation will be in tatters.
You can tell the lack of drugs on the street is beginning to take effect. A husband and wife combo come to blows outside my gaff. She is screaming like a fishwife at him, her friend is trying to hold her back while hubby, one of the most noxious detestable people you'd ever have the misfortune to meet is threatening to "punch her lights out." His theory being if a girl can give a punch she can take it. Well she's giving alright, he's holding his arms up and so far resisting the urge to hit back, resorting to some sort of twisted logic to sway her opinion. Eventually she lands one punch too many and he gives her a slap. She starts screaming that she's a girl and he's hit her. Somehow it doesn't seem fair, she has the punch of Rocky Bilbao on a good day and now she's crying like a little girl. Her friend wades in shouting that he's just hit a girl "what sort of man does that?" and she throws a few herself.
Our man is now hopelessly out classed, he's punching well above his weight and doesn't stand a chance. He is being hindered by years of  social conditioning, you don't hit girls. meanwhile the two girls have no such qualms, they continue to try to beat the living shite out of him. It's tough out there on the street. Be safe guys.

Black Perla of the Caribbean.

My man turns up, he has brought his "breakfast" with him, four cans of Black Perla 7.8% "Only £1 a can." he announces for the hundredth time.
"It's been a bit quiet over the Emporium recently." I say casually.
He takes a swig of his Black Perla, only £1 a can "You know why that is dontcha?"
"No. Summer holidays?" I venture.
"No ya plonka, they've all bin nicked aint they. They wuz raided the other night. The bastards."
"Oh I never knew."
"Yeah and guess who has bin sent down as well?"
"I don't know."
"Shed man. That fucker who was living in my shed. he's just bin handed a four year stretch."
"What for? Living in your shed? That's a bit harsh."
"No aggravated burglary and other stuff. This is good stuff this..." he hold up his can, "only £1 a can. It hits the spot an does the job." he throws the empty into my bin and cracks open another "Black Perla." He puts on a pirates voice "Black perla of the Caribbean"
"Nice, except it's Polish, hardly Caribbean."
"Yeah but at £1 a can? .... oh look there's old Henry." he points to a guy in a motability scooter coming our way.
"What's his story?"
"He's the longest surviving addict in Peterborough. he's been doing heroin for forty years."
"And he's not dead?"
"No he does a tenner a day now, not much but enough to take the edge off. It doesn't do anything for him. Just enough to stop him getting the shakes." he pauses, looking up the road "And that m'boy is the brother of the girls who fell out the ugly tree hitting every branch on the way down." He says pointing to a young man staggering down the road. "He's nasty little shit, on his way to the chemist for his methadone. The fucker can hardly walk."
"I didn't know they had a brother."
"Oh yes, they have a brother alright and that's him." He cracks open another Black Perla and takes a long drink. "Almost there." he says
"Almost where?"
"Almost finished breakfast. Right. I'm going up the road to have it out with someone." by now my man is not so steady on his feet three cans of Black Perla 7.8%, £1 a can, in quick succession will do that to you.
"Have it out? Who with? Why?"
"Don't you worry about it. He's got it coming."
"You worry me sometimes. Why do you have to have it out with anyone?"
"Because he pissed me off alright? And no one crosses me."
"Be safe."
"Ha it's the other guy you want to worry about. Second thoughts don't worry about him, he's not worth it."
My man staggers off into the  night clutching his last can of Black Perla, Except it's broad daylight and ten o'clock on the morning.

Catching Boomslangs for fun

I get a call from a buddy, "I need drugs."
"Jeez mate you've already got enough drugs with all that Chemo you're going through."
"I don't know who else to ask. You know loads of people who can supply."
"Errrrr I know of them. I don't exactly know them."
"What about all those dudes you write about?"
"They're not exactly the people I want to be dealing with. leave it with me I'll ask around."
I make a few phone calls and I'm directed to a dealer. Turns out I know him. I know him very well. Or I thought I did. He used to work at the cathedral. Now he's a suit. I tell Z I'm taking her to meet a big city drug dealer. She is not impressed. We drive across town to parts that are particularly dodgy. Places where workmen work in pairs one to do the job the other to guard the van.
I stop the car get out and walk up the drive. I knock on the door the dealers very nice wife answers, "Peter will be home in a minute he's just gone to collect George from Nursery". Sure enough Peter strolls up the road carrying George who is very excited about his painting. It's an abstract in mostly Primary colours in the da da ist style. His name "George" is written in biro in the bottom right hand corner  to prove it's provenance.
George is chivvied into the kitchen to choose what he'd like for dinner, but he's far too excited about showing me his swords. Deals are not done in front of the children. So Peter tips a nod  to his wife who scoops George up and whisks him away.
"Now what can I do for you?" asks Peter.
"I need an eighth."
"Ha Ha you haven't bought any for years have you?"
"Nope."
"We went metric it's in 10 gram lots now. So an eighth is approx 35grammes."
I look around his front room Certificates of Accredited Accountants are hanging up in frames around the room. "This is a nice house." I say to break the silence while he's doing some weighing.
"Yes not many people know this cul de sac, it's  not obvious. We're out of the way here. It's nice. In the middle of a ghetto but nice."
"Do you get any trouble here?"
"NEVER" I felt I should not have asked that question.
The deal is done and we go to see my Buddy with  the goods.
"Howzit my ol' china?" he says. He's from Zimbabwe via South Africa, as a child  he and his mates used to catch Boomslangs for fun. He's now completely bald, the chemo has taken it's toll. I tell him the Yul Brynner look suits him, I can find him easily in the dark. His brilliant white bald head is like a beacon. He laughs. "Deed ya get it china?"
"Of course.  I wouldn't let you down." I hand over the packet. He turns round and gives it to his brother. "There you go, I told you he'd come through."
"Cheers mate." His brother is from Australia.
"Hold up. I thought it was for you."
"No China, it fer me brudder. 'is nerves are shot looking after me. Ee needs tuh chill. It's de stress."
"Well I'm gonna spark one up right now, anyone want to join me?" announces his brother, but no one did.