I went round Al’s when me head stopped banging around half past two and we went looking for the lads, Big Norman thought it was fucking hilarious but he agreed to come round Desmond’s to sort the ponce out so we piled in the van and went round there.
I knocked on the door, Desmond appeared, “That was quick,” he said expecting someone else,
“Oh I thought!” he said.
“Thought wrong, where’s our kit!” I demanded.
“Is that the Police!” Lionel demanded.
“No the fucking Angel of Death if I don’t get me kit back,” I says.
“You and who’s army?” Lionel says like we was kids again or something.
“Mine!” Big Norman announces, “Any arguments?”
“Front room,” Desmond says, “In the Harrods bag,” so I pushed past and there was me jacket and stuff all mixed up with Al’s yuck, his shitty skid marked pants with my shirt.
I checked me wallet, it seemed ok, and handed Al his jacket to check, “You want them taught a lesson Johnno?” Big Norman asks.
“No, plods on its way,” I said, “Best fuck off.”
Al gunned the motor and we swerved past Desmond’s BMW missing it by inches, “Shit that was close,” I said.
“Yeah!” Al agreed and hit the brakes, he smashed it into reverse and tried again, wallop! he clouted the side of the BMW with the front of the van, “Better?” he grinned.
“You dented the fucking van!” I exclaimed.
“Getting another,” he said, “Failed the MOT,” he said, “Months ago, rust and dodgy brakes.”
“Fuck!” I said wishing I had walked.
“Still she been a good old girl,” he said, “Reliable.”
“Fucking rely on it to break down,” I said.
“What you getting Al?” Norman asked.
“Another Tranny,” Al said, “Long wheelbase so I can get a decent mattress in.” he added.
“Fucks sake Al,” I said, “Don’t mention Trannies after this morning!”
We had a fucking good laugh about that and went down the Flying Horse for a few bevvies.
Word had got round, “What’s this about a new Tranny Al?” Tasha the barmaid asked.
“I’m getting a new van,” he said.
“Really?” Tasha said as she brought our drinks over and bent down to show her 38 DD cleavage, “Sandra said she wanted you to give her one in that red miniskirt but you wouldn’t!”
“Behave!” Al insisted.
“I would have,” I says, Tasha was a real knockout, not film star material, but Pippa Middleton’s ass, Katie Price’s knockers and Ann Widdicomb’s face, and you don’t look at the face do you?
“Would you Johnno,” she says, “Well you come in here with a red miniskirt on and nothing else and you can screw me on the pool table.”
“No ta,” I said, “It’s rough enough already, slopes one way as it is.”
“He’s gone queer,” she confided and she wandered away which pissed me off as I hated bints playing hard to get.
We had a bit of a think, “Fucking queers need straightening out,” ‘Chalky’ Blackburn announced suddenly.
“What’s that Chalky?” I asked.
“Fucking tarts on the NHS for queers,” Chalky said, “You ought to say about that at Council Johnno.”
“What?” I asked.
“Make them screw tarts till they’re cured,” Al translated from complete bollocks to Al speak, “Sounds like a plan.”
“On the NHS?” I asked.
“No get Sandra to do it,” Al explained, “She complains she gets cold waiting for punters outside Timothy Whites and that.”
Old Sinbad comes over, I never knew his proper name, his lot had the corner shop up Hebden Road, “How you going to do that?” he asks, “There are not enough prostitutes for everyone anyway.”
“Put some of your lot on the game?” Chalky said.
“All right behave,” I said before Sinbad could smack him, “How about it Al, how about a bit of forced fucking?”
“You can’t make them fuck women?” Al said, “Can you?”
“Up the ass with a strap on for a kick off,” I suggested.
“Fucking right,” Al said, “Here Sandra ordered this huge fucking strap on from Amsterdam, got her inches and meters fucked up, fucking huge it is!”
“Tonight?” I asked.
“Fucking Band’s playing at St Giles,” Al apologised, “Sorry.”
“Tomorrow then?” I asked.
“Footie on the box,” we settled on Thursday.
Thursday came and we met up after Band practice around ten, Me, Al, Sandra, Harley Charlie and Big Norman, Chalky and Sinbad bottled it but we had enough.
Al brought the van round, christ you should have seen it, like something out of the eighties, wide arches on a van? a Ford Transit, V6 engine, petrol, two gallons to the mile and four to a pint of oil.
“Where did you get this crap heap from?” I asked.
“Ebay,” he said, “It’s a classic, look I got a king size mattress inside.”
He had but it was bent up at the sides but there was a seat in the back, one if them wood ones from a garden centre screwed down with wood screws.
We piled in, Norman in front on account of his size, the rest of us in the back, but at least the seat faced backwards, so we wasn’t going to fly off when we crashed.
“You got the tools?” I asked.
“Sledge hammer, and you got the drill?” Al replied.
“Strap on?” I asked and Sandra pointed to the oversize handbag she was carrying and giggled.
“Right wagins roll!” I shouted and they looked at me like I was an idiot.
Al set off carefully till we was past the speedbumps and then nailed it we must have been hitting twenty nine miles an hour at times with that stupid V6 engine howling like a boiled Chihuahua we only got fifty yards before the plod gave us a tug.
“Oh,” Pc Tony Mulholland said, “It’s you.”
“Yeah, got a new one,” Al said, “Classic V6 petrol, goes like a bomb!”
“Boom,” we all said together.
“Tax,” he asked, “Insurance.”
“In the post, and can’t afford it,” Al admits.
“License,” Tony asks.
“He hasn’t got a dog!” I added.
“Rumour has it you’re straightening out queers now,” Tony says.
“Yep, that’s where we’re off now,” I says.
“Go compare,” says Tony, “they does some good deals on classic insurance, or Lancaster Insurance,” he says, “Anyway were keeping an eye on you all right?”
“Right,” we agrees, and Al does a racing start like Lewis Hamilton except we got four wheels on not three and he only nearly stalls it, “Yee Ha!” Al laughs and he keeps the throttle floored and winds the old wreck up through the gears, actually it didn’t go too badly if I’m honest, but maybe hammering along at seventy in a thirty limit with a Police car following behind wasn’t the best way to look for a house in the dark but we found Desmond’s place eventually after a few false starts, the mangled BMW sort of gave it away so we parked up and I banged on the door.
“Oi Desmond,” I shouted, “Get your bent ass down here!”
The window above the doorway opened, “Go away!” he hissed, “I have company.”
“You got bloke up there?” I asked.
“Yes, go away,” he whispered in a stage whisper.
“Well too fucking bad!” I replied, “You opening the door or are we fucking kicking it in?”
“No, go away!” he hissed, “You’ll wake the neighbours.”
Some hopes, most of them was looking out their windows and doors already to see what the row was.
“Ugh, what is it,” a sleepy male voice groaned, “Desmond?”
“BNP anti gay squad Lionel,” Desmond chuckled, “Nothing to worry about.”
I gave the cordless drill a bit of a rev up, “You coming down or we coming up?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” he sneered.
“You’re fucking ridiculous!” I told him, “Give the door a tap Al!”