Daylight Robbery

I've just drawn out a horse on the office Grand National sweepstake- 'It Takes Time', a nag which, to judge from its less-than-tempting odds of 100-1, is due to make the short journey to Aintree from Blackpool sands, where its normal Saturday afternoon would consist of taking candyfloss-toting holidaymakers on a sedate, if slightly wobbly, trot along the seafront.  Oh well- looks like we can't rely on that one to make our fortune- so tomorrow there will be the usual furrow-browed perusal of the Guardian racing column, followed by a trip down to William Hills to put £2 each on three horses chosen at random.  Then back home to put the kettle on and watch as the first of our chosen hopefuls unseats its rider at the waterjump, the second leads the pack briefly before fading to a respectable nineteenth, and the third fails to show after contracting rickets and being shot in the paddock.

A shame, because the way things are going in the office today I could do with a cash injection in time for the weekend.  It's one of those 'special event' Fridays where on balance it costs you more money to come into work than you are going to get back as wages at the end of the month.  In addition to the £1 for the sweepstake I've already forked out a quid each for the special Easter edition of the football card,  dress-down day, and a small plastic plate piled high with miniature sausage rolls, hula-hoops and cheesy wotsits.  I declined a chance to participate in the Easter raffle, largely because I need the remaining £1.50 in my pocket to get the train home- but I haven't been able to escape the draw, which as I speak is being held at a desk to my right, accompanied by much raucous cheering, guffawing, and probably before lunchtime is up, a minor brawl.  The Easter raffle is a big deal round here- like the Grand National, the boat race, and the Irish sweepstakes rolled into one for its devotees.  Michelle Loughton is presiding over the ceremony this year, resplendent in a casual sweatshirt and a pair of bunny rabbit's ears.  John Baltimore has just won a copy of a book called 'You Are What You Eat', and a £20 voucher for a makeover.  Perhaps the gods of the office Easter raffle (or Michelle Loughton, resplendent in a casual sweatshirt and a pair of bunny rabbit's ears) are trying to tell him something.

So- I'm £4.00 down on the day and counting.  But it could have been a lot worse- last night I narrowly avoided the ignominy of having by bike stolen by Manchester's most inept robber.  It was Charlotte who spotted him, a shadowy figure busying himself in some manner in our front yard, his stocky form just visible through the coloured window panes.  I thought it was one of the neighbours, or the postman with a late delivery (mind it would have been very late, it was six o clock at night), so opened the door in my socks, to find a grizzly-looking bloke leaning over the fence. He had the front wheel of the bike off and was working at the lock with some kind of patent metal tool.  It took me a few seconds to assimilate that he wasn't really the postman, at which point I shouted out 'hey, what the f*ck is this?' and advanced threateningly- or at least as threateningly as is possible, while in stocking feet and carrying a floral-design tea cup from Whitby market.  The desperado took one look at me and, pausing only to inform me I was a 'lucky bastard' and a 'f*cking little tw*t', fled off in the general direction of Stockport Road.

What he thought he was going to do with the front wheel of my bike I don't know.  Perhaps he was a circus entertainer who had fallen on hard times and needed to steal the requisite parts for a new unicycle- although where in M19 you would be able to nick a trained bear to ride it, I'm not so sure.  I called the Police to see if they had any ideas, and give them a breathless account of the incident.

'And then he called my a 'f*cking little tw*at' and fled off in the general direction of Stockport Road'.

'Right Sir.  We'll send an officer round to visit you later on'.

Hold on a minute, I thought (once I had thanked the woman at the police station profusely)- that's not how it's supposed to work, is it?.  Surely a squad car should be dispatched immediately along the A6 at 80mph, sending pedestrians and strategically-placed cardboard boxes scattering in its path, before screeching to a halt for two guys in leather jackets to bound out, shouting 'Roger!' and 'Shut it you slag!' into oversized walkie-talikes, then chasing the cut-throat villain down some moody backstreets and up a fire escape ladder?  Or is that just on The Professionals? Oh, I see.

Oh well. I consoled myself with the thought of describing my have-a-go feat of derring-do to this constable they were sending round ('yes, I would say he was about six feet three, officer- no, make that six feet five.   He was wearing a grey sports jacket, had a scar down the right hand side of his face and was accompanied by a trained circus bear, about five foot nine and a half.  I would have kept chasing them but unfortunately I only had my socks on...').   The officers (because they probably send two or three around to investigate a shocking case like this) would listen intently, before offering their congratulations on my timely intervention, and rising to shake my hand.  I would get my picture in the local paper, and the grateful townsfolk would get up a petition for me to be given a citizen's award for bravery.  A tasteful statue, depicting me atop a rampant stallion, warding off a half-man half-bear figure with only the aid of a bicycle pump, would be erected in the European-style piazza in front of the taxi-rank.  Long after my death fathers would tell their sons of the 'Lion of Levenshulme' and his courageous deeds....

... well. that's what was supposed to happen.  Only the police never turned up, so I never got the chance to tell my story.  Oh well, the satisfaction of knowing that I have done my bit for law-abiding citizens everywhere is quite enough, thank you very much.  Although if any of you do want to nominate me for the George Cross, please do feel free to go ahead.  He really was quite a grizzly-looking character, you know- even if he did turn out to be hopelessly inept at his chosen profession.  Any self-respecting bicycle thief would have had the thing off its railing and been half way to Heaton Mersey by the time I got my shoes on. I don't know what the world is coming to, I really don't.   

Comments

[looby]

That must be the first time I've heard of a floral design tea cup being used to stop a robbery.

Even when he was caught red-handed he said that you were lucky, and a twat - it's as though they've lost face but have to keep up the bravado.

Never mind - next time I hear any strange sounds downstairs at night, I know the attire which strikes terror into robbers all over the north.

[Ben]

Brilliant, brilliant post. JonnyB better watch his back - you're coming up on the rails...

[Martin Q]

Yes, there is a bit of the JonnyB about this post - still most excellent though!

[Jamie]

Haha - forgive me for laughing at your being robbed. Very funny post and one that I can identify with. Down here in that London, I have had five (count 'em) bikes nicked. The last time, I hot-footed it round to Stoke Newington nick, where I had to fill out a form. The guy behind the desk was close to laughter when he assured me that 'someone would look into it'.

[jonathan]

Oh that's OK Jamie, laughing at my misfortunes is perfectly acceptable round here, in fact it is positively encouraged. And anyway if you've had five bikes nicked I'd say you have earned the right to laugh at exactly who you want...

In a further development, a policeman did turn up in the end- not in a Ford Granada but on a pushbike, which, showing what might be considered a cavalier disregard for recent neighbourhood crime patterns, he left casually leaning on the garden fence while he came inside for a cup of tea. Do they not know there's all sorts of dangerous criminals about? Anyway he's going to come back soon with a gallery of snapshots of local desperadoes loosely fitting my description of the hapless would-be bike-thief..

Oh, and the Grand National. By the simple expedient of doing exactly what the bloke in the Guardian said, I won £60. £60 yer bugger! Now I just have to decide what to do with this sudden windfall- I am teetering between really sensible options (a new pair of shoes for work; paying the £60 fine I'm going to get for driving through a red light the other week), and really frivolous ones (an almost-random selection of Spanish indiepop records bought off the internet, and a cool badge with a picture of an elephant on). Of course this process of deliberation is a mere charade, we all know exactly which way the decision will go...

[John]

....'being shot in the paddock' OUCH!!

I know how you feel about the cost of being in work these days. I'm sure 'The Charity Committee' is the name of an Eastend Crime syndicate run by two violent psycopathic brothers who know doubt love their mum.

[Clare]

Haha, brilliant.

And at least you didn't report your bike stolen to the police, only to find you'd left it locked up in the local precinct after absent-mindedly walking home from the shop.

Not that I'd ever do anything like that. Oh no. Not me.