A Cockney's Journey (34 page)

    Lovett’s Christmas party would have to go down as the best firm’s ‘do’ I’ve ever had the pleasure to attend. We all met in a boozer on Blackfriars Bridge at around 7:30 p.m. and all the drinks were on the house. Sue and I started with white wine spritzers, which I must admit, went down really well. The evening was full of colourful characters, dancers and a couple of stand-up comedians. Around eleven o’clock, our party left the pub and made our way down to the pier, where we all boarded the awaiting disco-riverboat. Our trip up and down the Thames to the sound of Diana Ross’s
Chain Reaction
was absolutely magical and will always hold a special memory for me. Even the outrageous behaviour of Mick’s brother still makes me chuckle. He got so pissed, he tripped up and toppled over the rail into the Thames. If the crew wasn’t on the ball, I doubt he would have survived. I’ve never drunk or eaten so much in one night as I did that night, my hangover lasted two days. Now that’s what I call a Christmas party! Unfortunately it’s never been matched since and probably never will be.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    1988 was a landmark year for the family, and for myself. During this year Daniel, who was 16, started to play football for a local team. Sue started work for the first time, being employed part time by Marks & Spencer, which eventually ended up full time. Stephen started secondary school and Edward started junior school. As a family, we had our first holiday abroad, spending ten days in Puerto Del Carmen in Lanzarote. Daniel was being messed about by the team he played for and wasn’t very happy. After a serious chat with Daniel, I decided to form my own football team, called Eltham United, and my team would be built around Daniel. I advertised in the local rags for players and within two weeks I had twenty guys turning up for training every week. I then went about securing a home ground and entered the team in the London and Kent Border League. Being a newly formed club, we started in the bottom division, which was Junior Three. My ambition was to take Eltham United to the Premier Division and win it. The Premier Division was ten divisions higher than Junior Three, so I had my work cut out, or was I just simply living yet another dream? Only time would tell.
    I carried on working for Mickey Lovett in Southwark; my skills in evictions, or should I say forcing entry into homes, became well-known. However, the task of being an instigator in evictions was beginning to take its toll on my conscience. During the course of my work, I was asked to forcibly enter a dwelling and change the locks as the tenant had died leaving no contactable relatives. On arriving at the house, I noticed that most of the lights were on and, straining my ear through the letterbox, I could hear a radio playing in one of the rooms. So I rang the bell and banged on the front door knocker. After a while, when I got no response, I yelled through the letterbox. Again my actions didn’t produce a response from within. I stood there contemplating my next move; should I go back to the office or open the front door and change the locks? Something deep inside told me to carry on as usual, so I forced open the door, purposely making a noise, in the hope that if someone was there they would stir. The stink that wafted out of the hallway made me heave and hold my breath. I took a few paces backwards and lit up a fag in thought. What happens if there’s a dead body in there, or even a decaying animal? That smell was like rotting flesh. The thought soon disappeared from my mind when I realised what time it was.
    
Bloody hell, it’s four o’clock. I’ve gotta change the locks and return the keys to the council offices.
    I swiftly moved towards the front door and started to fit a new Yale lock. Unfortunately, I had to stand in the hallway as the door opened inwards. The smell started to ease as the late afternoon brisk breeze filled the hallway. While kneeling down fitting the new mortice lock, I glanced towards the kitchen and my eye caught something glittering on the floor. Standing up to investigate, I noticed several pound coins lying on the floor tiles. Thinking what a touch, I started picking up the coins. After a few minutes, I’d picked up at least eighty pounds worth of coins. Putting the coins in a carrier bag and stuffing it in my tool bag, I finished fitting the lock. I was just about to leave and lock the house up, when I thought I’d have a gander in the front room. Well, I’m glad I did; scattered around the front room table were numerous brown envelopes containing money. On closer inspection, each envelope had the same amount of dosh in it: £55. On a small table, the radio was blasting out a tune from yonks ago, so I quickly pulled the plug out. My hands were shaking with excitement as I picked up all the envelopes. Thousands of pounds, just sitting there, waiting for me! What a result! I was in and out of the house like a rat out of an aqueduct; I didn’t even bother returning the keys to the council. My only thought was to get as far away from here pronto, and hide the dosh!
    For weeks after, I kept expecting to get pulled, but I never did. So, three and a half grand went straight into my bank account, lovely jubbly. I used most of the money financing my dream; Eltham United. The team was taking shape and we were ready for our first friendly. Daniel played in the back four and my late acquisitions of Antonio Gomez and Paul Cook played up front. Well what can I say? These three were outstanding in every department. I had the best strike force in the whole league. My God, their goal scoring was phenomenal. With Daniel’s aerial presence as well, I couldn’t go wrong. So my dream was up and running. Our first friendly was against a team four divisions higher than us and what happened that afternoon defies belief; ten bloody nil. Gomez hit four, Cookie hit four and Daniel bagged a brace. We played another five friendly games before the start of the season and never conceded a goal, winning every game by wide margins. Watching Daniel at sixteen, mugging up guys in their late twenties, filled me with so much pride I could have burst. The season got under way and, after ten games, Eltham United were unbeaten, strolling along at the top of Junior Three, where we stayed all season.
    My employment with Lovett’s continued until the day I was sent to do this particular job, renewing some guy’s front door. I will never forget that day for as long as I live. The appointment was made for nine o’clock in the morning, but on arriving I discovered the bloody lift had broken down. So, as usual, I had to carry a fire-check door up ten flights of stairs and then come down and back up again with my tools. By the time I rang this guy’s front door bell, I was half an hour late and bloody knackered. While I stood catching my breath, my chest thumping like a drum, the front door creaked open. The smell of dog shit spanked my nostrils so hard I had to turn my head away. As I backed away, I turned my gaze towards the front door. Lurking in the dark hallway stood this, how should I put it, six-foot-six demented weirdo in filthy, pinstriped pyjamas, his face obscured by the darkness. Stacked along the walls were mounds and mounds of cardboard boxes. I took a few paces forward and shoved my order sheet in his direction.
    “I’ve come to renew your front door, mate. Sorry I’m a bit late, the bloody lift doesn’t work,” I said apologetically.
    Not a word was said; he just stood there peering at me from the darkness.
    “Do you speak English?” I asked, trying to get some sort of communication going.
    “Yeah, I do,” came his muffled reply.
    “Good, so you understand why I’m here?” I said, feeling uneasy.
    “Yeah, I do,” he said.
    Bloody hell, I thought. I’ve got a right nutter here.
    “OK, I’ll get cracking then. Can you switch the light on for me, mate? So I can see what I’m doing,” I asked quietly.
    “Can’t, no bulbs,” he muttered.
    “Well, take one from another room for a while, otherwise I can’t fit your door, mate,” I said, peering into the darkness, trying to get a glimpse of his mush. He turned round and slowly trudged upstairs. His body movements reminded me of a bloody zombie. I quickly whipped the door off while he was upstairs, thinking that he could be some kind of psycho.
    Suddenly, the hallway was flooded in light and glancing around the floor, I noticed piles of dried-up shit and what looked like pools of dried blood. Even though I thought it was dog shit, there were no indications that a dog actually lived in the flat; no barking or scampering in the other rooms. I took a quick measurement and started to plane the door to size. As I hung the new front door, my mind started to wonder why there were pools of blood on the floor. Maybe it wasn’t blood; maybe it was just simply some sort of stain. Maybe my imagination had started to run away with me. I mean, he was definitely a bit dodgy and appeared weird; his mumbling answers and Lurch-like actions put my senses on full alert. I had no option but to stand in the hallway to fit the Yale lock, kicking lumps of shit out of my way. I closed the front door to, making sure the lock worked properly, opening and shutting the door, using the key to double-lock the door. I was satisfied everything worked correctly. I then proceeded to drill out for the mortice lock. While I was kneeling down chiselling out the remainder of the mortice, I was aware of a presence behind me. I swivelled around on my right knee. To my horror, he stood there in bloodstained pyjamas and in his right hand he held a blood-soaked Stanley knife, his feet and fingers dripping with blood. I watched the colour drain from his face, turning white as a sheet, his eyes glaring, wild with manic rage. I was rooted to the spot; hammer in one hand, chisel in the other. Part of me did actually feel sorry for him; however, he looked more dangerous than pitiful.
    “It’s the only way I can stop the headaches,” he sighed, as he stuck the edge of the knife into his left palm; the blood spurted over the cardboard boxes. In my shock, I backed up against the front door, slamming it shut.
    “Take it easy, pal, no one wants to hurt you. Your door’s done and I’m finished for the day,” I informed him, trying not to raise my voice.
    He stood there with tears running down his cheeks, looking totally distraught. “The pain is unbearable. Tablets they give me, no good. This only works,” he mumbled. I watched in horror as he bent down and sliced the top of his right toe.
    “Fuck me, you’re having a laugh, mate!” I yelled. “Do you want me to call someone, or what?” I asked in a shaky voice.
    “No! Call nobody. They don’t understand. The pain is horrendous; all they want to do is lock me up. I’m not having it anymore,” he shouted in an aggressive manner.
    I started to pick up my tools and put them in my bag. My only thought was to get out without any confrontations with this lunatic. I calmly opened the front door, half expecting him to stop me, but he never did, which I was totally relieved at. Once in the landing area, I felt more at ease, knowing I had several options to defend myself or escape if he completely lost the plot. He stood in the doorway with his arms outstretched, his fingers and toes seeping blood onto the floor.
    “See, I told you, the pain has gone,” he mumbled.
    “Good, I’m pleased to hear it, pal.” I said, while hastily making my way down the stairs.
    I reported the incident to the local social services department and jacked my job in. I’d had enough of working for council tenants. You just don’t know who’s behind the front doors you knock on. Believe me, there are council tenants and there are council tenants! Some good and some completely off their trolley, that’s a fact. I’ll give you an example; not so long ago, I nearly had the misfortune to fit a new sink, top and base unit in a flat in Southwark. The family were Vietnamese, which wasn’t unusual for Southwark. Every household received literature on the hazards of storing sacks and sacks of rice in their flats. Unfortunately, no one took any notice, or a more realistic reason was the fact that most of the tenants couldn’t
speak
English, let alone
read
it! Anyway, this little boy answered the door and invited me into the hallway. He took my sheet and disappeared into the front room and returned a few minutes later, gesturing me to come with him to the front room, which I did. Standing in the doorway, it came as no surprise to me the amount of people living in the flat. I tried my hardest to communicate with them, but it was useless. I made so many hand gestures; I felt like I was playing charades.
    While trying to explain the contents of my worksheet, I felt the carpet move underneath my feet. I stopped talking and started, looking around the floor. It’s funny really, even though no one understands what the hell you’re saying, you still keep blabbering on. Weird, don’t you think? The carpet, in my opinion was alive; the rippled movement convinced me that something was underneath it. Suddenly I saw one, and then two, three, four, five, shitloads of cockroaches started pouring from a cupboard in the front room and out the sofa, running over the unconcerned tenants as if they were their pets. I cringed and shook my head in disbelief; the occupants looked at me like I was slightly unhinged. I’ve never seen so many and so large. God, how I fucking hated cockroaches; they made my skin crawl. In the cupboard, stacked three high were ten 25-kilo bags of opened rice, right next to the hot-water cylinder and the central heating duct, which led to all the flats in the block - paradise if you’re a cockroach!
    Southwark was renowned for its cockroach infestation in quite a few blocks of flats in the borough, mostly occupied by other nationalities. They just wouldn’t listen; rice to a cockroach was like a bar of chocolate to someone on a starvation diet. I refused to do the job until the flat was fumigated. Even though the council spent loads of dosh fumigating flats, it was to no avail. The cockroaches would move from one flat to another via the heating ducts in the blocks.
    After leaving Lovett’s I decided to give my own business yet another bash. My ambition to improve the family kept me driving forward. So I advertised in the local rags and the
Yellow Pages
. This time I had some success, getting loads of work all over South London and Kent. My relationship with Sue started to steadily improve; all the arguments and bickering had finally stopped. My sons were the apples of my eyes and I think this period in my life was, without doubt, my happiest ever and that’s saying something. Sadly, it didn’t last that long. Mind you, nothing ever did.
    Eltham United went from strength to strength. Antonio, Cookie and Daniel were the main driving force during our first season. All three scored more goals than any other player in the whole league, which was some feat. Daniel’s goal scoring was all the more sensational, considering he was a centre half. It wouldn’t be long before Danny boy transformed into the best striker ever to grace the LKB league. Being voted player of the year, his power in the air was phenomenal, scoring goals like I smoked fags; sensational. The most frustrating player that joined us halfway through the season was Ian Austin, or Roots as he was known. Six-foot-four, built like a brick shithouse. Score goals, yes. Missed sitters, all the bloody time. Ian would score some seriously unbelievable goals and when it really mattered, he would miss from two yards or so. Nonetheless, Ian gave us quite a few years of loyal service.
    At the end of our first season we won our division, reached the quarter final of both cups and ended up losing only three games; not bad, if I say so myself. The following year we were promoted to the inter-section and we also changed our ground, playing our home games at Badgers Private Sports Club, in Eltham. My building business was ticking over slowly, earning me just enough dosh to keep the family afloat and finance the football team. During this year I was forced to buy another van, after some pissed dickhead drove into the side of my parked Granada, totally writing it off. Sue, in her infinite wisdom, decided to buy a Rottweiler, naming it Sammy. The dog was a complete nutcase and took over the house like it owned it, especially the sofa. Sammy attacked everything that came anywhere near the front garden gate, including the postman and neighbours who strolled past; the dog was more aggravation than it was worth. However, Sue and the kids adored him, so that was that, really.