» I witnessed a crime

Crimes, I've seen a few...
In a lifetime in Salford, the following crimes I've seen;
12 Schoolies stealing,
11 Drunken drivers,
10 counts of arson,
9 burning Metros,
8 pikey muggings,
7 senseless kickings,
6 lewd conducts,
Fiiive Drun-ken Brawls!
4 brutal stabbings,
3 paedo teachers,
2 battered housewives,
And my bike which was stolen from me!

Apologies for the Christmas-like song, but I needed something cheery to suppress the memories of that lost bike. *sniff*
(Thu 14th Feb 2008, 13:20, More)

» I witnessed a crime

On a more serious note.
I do have a tale of two crimes. A very bad one I missed, and an even worse one that I saw in all its horror.

Step back to the halcyon days of 2003. A just-turned-18 Mr.6 03 is celebrating in the pub (The Town Hall in Eccles, so you can all avoid it) with a group of friends, as his close companion Mr. H has decided to bite the bullet, drop out of college and pursue a career of dodging bullets in the sand - or so he thought.

Enter three of the pikey-est scum known to man, the sort of hairy knuckle-draggers that prove Darwinism works in reverse too, the kind of person who couldn't tell his head from his arse until he started shitting. In short, the sort of person that populate all the answers in this QOTW.

We think nothing of it, until the youngest one starts hanging around the pool table. He challenges one of us to a game, our best player duly dispatches him. Spitting mad he challenges me.

"Wot rules we playin' mate?"
"Swinton rules chief. That alright?(ie the rules I played every week in the Swinton pool hall)"
"Ooo da fuck's Swinton? Cunt, yoor in fuckin' Eccles now, innit?"

Fair enough, thinks I. Game played, he wins - mainly because the mad animal glint from under his neanderthal forehead put me off slightly. I drink up, and have a quick word with Mr. H about how if we stayed, it'd kick off. He assures me he'll be out after the girls have all drunk up, and satisfied I leave the pub with the most sensible of the girls.

Fast forward 3 hours. I have a phone call from a sobbing girl and hotfoot it to the local A&E.

During those three hours, the first of the crimes had been committed. True to his word, Mr. H had rounded up the other revellers and moved to safer ground. All bar one girl, who thought knew better. Persuaded to return 20 minutes later, our group agree to another game of pool. Neanderthal the younger attempts to grope one of the girls, she slaps him, and all hell breaks loose.

The girl in question is punched to the floor. Her boyfriend receives a broken arm when he stops a stool being smashed into her prone head and is duly hurled through the jukebox. Another one of our friends is beaten about the head and neck with a pool cue, leaving him with a six inch gash to the scalp and lots of bruising. Then the three pikeys make their getaway. But they stop at the door, spot Mr. H calling the police on his mobile and grind a bottle into his eyes before stealing his phone.

Back in the A&E, I've just walked in to see three of my friends bloodied and battered, and the air filled with the screams of Mr. H, who is currently having broken glass removed from his face and the insides of his eyelids - a procedure that cannot be done under sedation. That sound, and the sight of him in a wheelchair, head bandaged, will stick with me until the day I die.

Fast forward 12 months. Mr. 603 is now a student, returning home for the first time - to accompany a now fully recovered (to the point that he can see just well enough to fail the army medical) Mr. H to the trial of two of the three thugs that nearly blinded him. The trial should have taken place four months earlier, but the defendants' brief had managed to delay the hearing. Into the court we go, seats are taken, and I view the most horrific crime ever committed against one of my friends as a helpless bystander.

Those four months are important. The brief points out to the judge, that the glass-grinding thug now has a job for the first time ever, and has been working for the past three months. Sending him to prison would deprive his three-month pregnant wife the income to support his unborn daughter. The criminal in question, a fucking judge who wouldn't know justice if it picked up a WKD bottle and blinded him with it, passed his verdict.

"In light of the fact that the guilty party is now in gainful employment, and about to become a father, it would be unfair to hand down a custodial sentence. Therefore he will serve a 2 year sentence, suspended for 18 months as long as he stays out of trouble. Case closed."

Now that is, without a doubt, the worst crime I've ever seen. Aiding and abetting a thug in robbing my friend of his dream.
(Thu 14th Feb 2008, 15:28, More)

» Shoplifting

Oh, for a life of (petty) crime...
Well personally, my history as a criminal mastermind extends as far as a few toilet rolls from the University toilets, the odd stolen drink/cigarette from a club and one packet of Scampi Fries that I still feel quite bad about, but I've met a few people that have made shoplifting into an art form.

For some unfathomable reason, our craphole High School decided that to mark the Millennium they'd take a group of 40 or so Salford kids to the pristine, trusting nation of Canada. Bad plan. We hadn't left Manchester Airport's departure lounge before two enterprising young fellows had appropriated a couple of cartons of duty free cigarettes. The nine hour flight sped by as my light-fingered friends emptied the duty-free trolley, and then Canada stretched out in front of us like a kleptomaniac's wet dream. In little over a week, five lads in particular stole over £1,000 worth of souvenir keychains, hockey paraphernalia, electrical goods and, in one memorable escapade, a full-sized faux moose head. How they managed it, I'll never know.

But even this valiant attempt pales in comparison to what I witnessed in a minibus at a service station. As I sat there, waiting to get back on the road, three pikeys who were travelling to London with us appeared holding plates. Three full English breakfasts were placed on an upturned lager box, followed by three knives, three forks, three cups, three saucers, three teaspoons, a pot of tea, a handful of milk cartons, a box of napkins and six rounds of toast. How anyone has the sheer brass bollocks to walk into a Road Chef, order three breakfasts with extras, pocket it all and carry it to a waiting getaway vehicle without being caught or spilling any is absolutely beyond me, but hats off to them.
(Thu 10th Jan 2008, 13:36, More)

» What's the hardest you've tried to get dumped?

Well, not really a dumping...
We lay there, in the bed. The sunlight was just creeping through the curtains, and she lay there, staring at me.

"I'm sorry for everything that happened, I really am. I never meant to say the things I did, and I'd really like to make it up to you. I've been thinking things over all night, and I think I've come to a decision. I just really want to know what you're thinking. Please, just tell me."

I stared back at her, the one woman I knew who was foolish enough to let me sleep with her, but one who'd tried to ruin my life afterwards. Here it was, the carrot of reconciliation being hung in front of my nose, and all I had to do to get a bolt-on shag was to say something romantic.

I cleared my throat, breathed in, and said those words that every woman longs to hear.

"I'm just wondering if Matteo will be fit enough to start today. Our defence has been pretty shaky without him."

I had to fish my jeans out of a bush, and I never did get the shoe that she threw at my face back.
(Thu 5th Jun 2008, 15:29, More)

» Pet Peeves

A certain popular author.
One thing, the one thing that's guaranteed to make my blood boil is a certain hack children's author by the name of JK Rowling.

Is it because she's richer than Midas, yet wants to sue someone for putting together a database?

Is it because she tries to play the "plucky single mother" card, when she's the most middle class person on the planet?

Could it be that I dislike her because the current Education Authorities have put her first book on the A-Level syllabus?

Maybe it's because she made millions by ripping off better authors?

Boarding School? Enid Blyton. Ancient ethereal evil searching for rebirth? Tolkien. Wise old wizard who finally sacrifices himself to save the young hero? Obi Wan Kenobi. Plucky yet neglected young orphan? Big book of easily-identifiable characters. Ginger loser and bossy pre-teen female? Aforementioned big book.

Is it her cringeworthy puns? Diagon Alley?

Is it her eye for endless fucking merchandising opportunities that would put Krusty the Klown to shame?

Is it the "Adult Covers" so that fuckwits can look intelligent on the train as they desperately try to hide the fact they're reading a book for ten year olds?

No. It's because she looks like a cross between negligent MILF Kate McCann, and a cracked leather sandal.

(Edited due to improper spelling. Damn me)
(Fri 2nd May 2008, 13:49, More)