Cracking Up (9 page)

I really enjoyed meeting the people at the barbecue, the company impressed me with their business savvy and the talk wasn’t guarded, as you might imagine, but open and mentoring; the kind of talk I hadn’t come across before. It turned out to be pretty educational. Here were players who supplied the base product generating vast amounts of profits at their kingpin end.

Of course, in comparison, I was their complete opposite: I was still stuck in the gutter, a fucking wannabe. But, at least now, I couldn’t help but feel a new outlook on life’s possibilities. There was an antidote to the widespread poverty and deprivation that we were trapped in, in the bowels of dreary, dismal council housing estates. This trip had given me a chance to see what life could really be like. Okay, going down this road could end in being banged up for a depressingly long sentence in a grim, claustrophobic prison cell. But, if I took the right turn at the right time, it would lead to fucking great big wads of cash and living the high-life like some fuck-off fillum star. At the very least, I could dare to dream now.

Halfway through the afternoon, a leggy latina with long, inky black hair and big brown eyes came sauntering over. She was wearing a tight miniskirt, a Playboy vest, six-inch killer heels and had a Dolce & Gabbana bag slung over her shoulder. She runway-walked over and began to give it some banter. I thought I was dreaming, she was fucking beautiful and stood out from the rest of the stunners posturing like peacocks on the terrace. She was Brazilian and spoke four languages. Fucking hell, I told her, I can’t even speak English proper. She was drop-dead gorgeous, an Angelina Jolie look-a-like, her hair hung loose and she had one of those heart-breaking faces - oval shaped, high cheekbones and pouty lips. Olive-skinned and a fucking stunner, make no bones about it.

By way of being charming, I asked her if she’d like me to get her a plate of scoff from the barbecue buffet, but she declined informing me that she only ate the finest Brazilian fillet steak and the various types of butchered mammals on offer at this event weren’t even fit for bin dippers. A class act, I thought, way out of my league. At that time I still considered spam fritters gourmet food. A drink then, I offered. She wanted a glass of champagne and, in my ignorance, I asked her if it was the Brazilian variety she was after. She laughed at me loudly, obviously tickled by my ignorance and lectured me that champagne only came from a particular region of France. I got all defensive and told her I thought it came from the bar.

What a fucking idiot! I went to the bar and while I was being served the bubbly, Rez slipped in there and struck up a conversation with her. Being the smooth operator that he was, he had her giggling like a school girl and wetting her knickers in no time at all. Ah well, I thought, I’m not going to fall out with a mate over a bird. There are plenty more fish in the sea, it’s fucking teeming with them, all waiting to get a nibble of your rod, Ow-wee lad.

It turned out that Rez had an ulterior motive for attending this gathering of British Al Pacinos. He wanted to make a bulk buy, the lads took him under their wing, pointing him in the right direction where he bought a small mountain of the Colombian nasal dust at a wholesale price.

11.

The week went too quickly. Fenguirola was a top giggle with SUN SUN SUN. For the most part, the days passed by all in the same vein. Waking up in the morning, yawning and stretching, stumbling into the front room to be greeted by the sight of Rez snorting fat, daddy lines of coke in his haste to test out the quality of the merchandise he had purchased; a decadent, degenerate start to the day if ever there was one.

Starving fucking hungry, the first port of call had to be Jock’s down the Port. A small, tourist-type cafe, serving up two hearty full English breakfasts which we shovelled down our gullets, washing them down with mugs of PG Tips. Feeling fully prepared for a top session of relaxation I’d set off down the paseo to the beach, leaving Rez to network among the coke shifting inhabitants of the town. He would be nattering into one of his multiple mobiles constantly, making career busting moves and talking business with his drug cronies. The only business I had in mind was to get as much enjoyment out of the the rest of the holiday in the sun as possible before the inevitable return to the miserable, cold weather of grim Blighty.

As I strolled down the promenade in Habaneros flip flops with a bottle of factor 2 and a newly acquired pair of snide Ray Bans from the LUCKY MEN, I felt fucking great and couldn’t get enough of it. The day was full of glorious sunshine, even though it was only the middle of January and I was looking forward to burning to a crisp in the baking hot scorch. I rented a sunbed on the beach, made myself comfortable and enjoyed the stunning views of the tasty bikini-clad birds topping up their tans, striking tantalising poses. I even tried to bust a move, chat up a few babes but received the knock back due to a combination of their sober state and, no doubt, the injuries I’d sustained during recent combat. I’d copped for the cauliflower ear, swollen jaw and, most recent, the nasty stitched-up gashes on my head courtesy of the Spanish kid wielding a bat. The physical injuries would quickly heal and cause no lasting damage, but the point I’m making is that my pulling power had suffered a major setback as a direct result of looking like a frigging Frankenstein monster.

I’d have to curb my urges and wait until after dark when the ladies would have their party goggles on, after a night of binge drinking and coke sniffing in the toilet cubicles of the many bars and nightclubs on the strip. After necking shots and filling their nasal passages with the horny dust, these sexy bitches would easily mistake me for Brad Pitt.

At night I had a fucking ball in the bars and clubs with neon signs above their doors, trawling them in the company of Rez. We were buzzing our tits off on booze and cheap coke, trying our luck for copping a bit of skirt. There were loose women everywhere, accosting men in every watering hole. Being in possession of an unlimited supply of dancing dust, suddenly, made us very popular with the ladies in the bars; all the fanny wanted to be our friends and line their nostrils with a shit load of coke. Pair of fucking pimps, or what? The birds were feeling double sexy after inhaling the magical dust, that’s all I can say. They were mad for it and would be frantic for a shag at the end of the night. We’d stagger back into Rez’s flat and have an full-on orgy. The birds were snorting for England, randy as fuck and banging like shithouse doors.

The week long break was going over too quickly. The day before I was due to fly home I went down to the nudie end of the beach to work on an all over suntan and busted a move on a gorgeous German bird before she was taken by some slick Spanish cunt. Being in possession of first rate coke, I had become a veritable babe magnet. Copping was easy; all I had to do was suggest a crafty sniff, if she was into that, but not here, some place a little less crowded, as the Spanish authorities tended to frown upon public coke snorting. It was what she’d come away for and she invited me to go back to her hotel room with her. After a few cheeky bumps of the wicked lady up our nasal passages, we were at it like porn stars in a lustful, protracted fuck. Afterwards I let her know that I’d be heading off home the next day, we exchanged Facebook details and made tentative arrangements to meet up in Liverpool that summer for the Beatles Festival.

Later that night, I was out on the town and took a shine to an anorexic-looking bird in a club, she only looked about fifteen and I felt like a nookie-loving criminal. She had an eyebrow piercing and a little devil tattoo on the side of her neck. I dragged her into the ladies bogs and whacked a line of gear up her nose. This bitch was gagging for it and we were soon doing the dirty deed in a cubicle. She was size zero with shoulder blades and hip bones that would make Victoria Beckham look obese. She had pointy little tits like knuckles and a tight, tiny arse that my one hand almost covered. We were snogging the faces off each other and having a serious knee-trembler when the bouncers burst in. Her boob tube was pulled down over her tiny tits and skinny legs wide apart, a micro-mini dangling around one ankle and cheese string around the other.

The bouncers were big, fuck-off steroid freaks and tossed me all around the show, bouncing me off walls and doors. Slapping me around the head, calling me a dirty cunt as they attempted to dragged me outside the bar to do me in. Rez had my back and launched a beer bottle at one of the heavy-handed bastards who copped a gash in the head. Other members of the security team got involved and it was turning nasty. It was getting on top and it was time to do one. Some of the other punters were coming to our aid and arguing the toss with the bouncers, shouting at them to leave it out. They created enough of a diversion for us to escape and vanish into the night by the skin of our teeth. Looking back: It was a close shave and we were fucking dead lucky. A short while later I wasn’t feeling so lucky when I found out that the skinny bird had given me an unhealthy dose of some sort or another.

Next day it was time to get off back home. I was gutted at the prospect because it had been a fucking belter of a holiday and I didn’t want it to end. Unfortunately, Rez informed me, Dog Sick had requested I perform him another service. “What’s he want now?” I asked.

“He wants you to sneak some coke back,” he said, matter of fact.

“I can’t chance carrying coke through Customs,” I said.

He nodded thoughtfully: “Well, what about swallowing them.”

“Fuck’s sake?”

“Yeh, why not? Even if they x-ray you, the coke won’t show up. It’s the same density as shit.”

“What if they burst inside me?”

“They won’t! They’re sealed in rubber latex. Just don’t eat or drink anything on the plane. You’ll be sound.”

“One thing I’ve never done with drugs: Swallow them and take them through Customs. It’s fucking risky!” I said.

He sat down on his couch, saying sweet FA, just staring at me. “Alls that I’m saying is: This is Dog Sick’s coke, lad. If you don’t take it back, he’s going be fucked off.”

I thought for a moment. “Would you do it?”

“If I was potless I would.”

I won’t deny that I was a bit worried about Dog Sick’s reaction if I refused, but it all boiled down to a question of finances, or lack of them. I had that skint feeling again, digging around for loose change in empty pockets. Maybe it was time to give in to criminal tendencies and do a bit of grafting because it was fucking bollocks being brassic. I was confident of being able to blag it through Customs. “How much?”

“A monkey.”

“Fucking hell! Getting raped here, innit?.”

“Come on, Ow-wee lad. Fuck all to it, mate. Easy money, lad.”

“Fuck it! I’ll fucking do it.”

We were in his front room and he emptied a plastic carrier bag out onto the coffee table. It contained twenty-five thumb-sized pellets. Well, I thought, if Paul Newman could swallow all those hardboiled eggs in Cool Hand Luke, I should be able to neck these little buggers. After I had downed about half of them, the rest started to look as big as footballs and Rez had to pass us another bottle of water.

It had taken over an hour to consume the contraband. I hastily packed my bag, stuffing it with dirty, unwashed holiday gear. I almost missed the flight home trying to sort my shit out and I shot up to the airport just in time, leaving the taxi driver outside departures, counting all the euro shrapnel I’d heaped on him along with coke dust that I’d found stuck to the lining of my pocket.

There was no question in my mind, once the budget flight was finally airborne out of Malaga, that I could pull this stunt off. I just had to keep a cool head, ease up and be confident but not cocky.

I got off the flight like a greyhound out the starter trap, heading straight for Customs while most of the other passengers were retrieving their suitcases from the baggage carousel. One of the nice men at the Customs clocked me and gave me a tug. The bastard was rifling through the stale, sweaty contents of my bag as if he had a proper stiffie and it was a dead cert that he would come up trumps with the contraband he was looking for.

Airport paranoia was setting in double bad. I thought I was going to get led off to a seperate room, subjected to a full body search with a snub-nosed rectal torch and eventually x-rayed. This is it, I thought, the fucking shit is going to hit the fan. It’s about to come on top for you here, Ow-wee lad.

But I went through Customs without any more hitches, walked into the terminal thank fuck, sweating like a bastard rapist. There was a reception party waiting for me: Dog Sick. He had a big grin on his kipper and was happy to see me. I’d made it back with the contents of my guts intact, ensuring a top profit for him. Well, you can’t go on holiday and not bring back prezzies, can you?

12.

Dog Sick was in top spirits about the way things were developing. I followed him outside to the car park. He stopped dead besides a brand spanking new, gleaming black beamer, a fine specimen of wheels. He was only about twenty two at the time, decked out in top quality designer gear and driving a swanky motor that most lads that age usually only get to wank about in their wet dreams. Flash bastard! “Top motor, man.”

“730, Ow-wee. It’s a workhorse. Got it off someone that owed me dough.”

We got in and screeched off out of the car park, tunes blaring, Wiley’s Can You Hear Me?, on a mission to find a toilet discreet enough to excrete the contraband out of my bloated bowel. Dog Sick began explaining how he was entering into a joint venture with Rez in Spain. They were going to well and truly smash it, off-loading huge amounts of devil dust on the market. They had managed to make contacts and secure a plentiful supply of chisel from a bulk shifter in the Paella place. There were massive returns to be made in this game and they intended to take the corner of this market by storm. We were going to have to fight out possession of the markets with the other local drug crews but, at the end of the day, we would all be delivered from poverty and deprivation.