NorfolkNWeigh wrote: ↑Fri Jul 05, 2019 8:29 pm
Two tales of runners stand out for me;
The best and worst.
Early 1995 and a mate on te door of a massive local Rave Club ( The Sanctuary in Milton Keynes for anybody that remembers it) calls me to say a Brummie dealer was trying to get home and nobody would take him because he was too scary.
The obvious answer would be fuck off! But, I did a bit of door work there on big events and didn't want to look like a pussy...
Anyway, what could possibly go wrong, the worst trouble you ever got off ravers was them wanting to hug you.
My mate assured me he'd go e through the metal detector so unless he was all James Bond and got a ceramic blade or composite gun, it was all good.
We leave for Birmingham, at least I had the foresight to tell him I needed petrol ( that long ago) and ghia dnt got any money so he stumped up £30s worth up front.
We get to Birmingham and he's been chatty all the way and seems sound enough, pull up at a Tower Block and he says he just needs to go in and grab some cash- his mates left with the takings, apparently.
Anyway after 15 minutes I go looking for him, left my Granada ( F plate 2.0i Ghia) amongst the heaps of shit sitting on bricks with smashed windows etc and went in. I headed for the only flat that had lights on and music playing and banged on the door.
Any normal person would have run away when a Jamaican bloke the size of a Portaloo , wearing a leather vest with 2 machetes strapped to his chest answers the door. Any normal person.
I ask for Star or Gary, Portaloo steps aside and let's me in, thinking I'm a mate or something, as he shuts the door, that's when the penny drops that I just might be biting off more than I can chew and certainly not worth the £50 I'm owed.
Seems My mate Gary is the guvnor, he introduces to me to his friends and offers me some crack, I politely decline and wonder if he'd found his cash- he just shakes his head and says" But we're mates, you wouldn't charge me would you?"
I'm pretty sure my resolve and courage were starting to run down my leg by this point, I just nod and turn around wondering if I can blind Portaloo machete boy with a Tibbe key, whilst casually heading for the door. Once out of the flat, I ran like fuck, jumped in the Granny and screeched out of the carpark, I'd barely got 1/4 of a mile when I was pulled by a Wet Midlands Plod Maestro.
The knew where I'd been and had been watching my car, complete with MK Council taxi plate on the back wondering what I was doing. One of the coppers said "Wewere waiting for a couple of riot vans before we came in looking for you!"
Turns out my new mate was suspected of being involved with the shooting of 2 undercover Policemen in the street, a couple of months earlier. They advised me to" Fuck off and don't come back to this part of Birmingham, again"
On the bright side he'd paid for the fuel. Oh and I wasn't chopped up into little pieces.
The best was on a Saturday night and the last train from Euston to New Street stopped at Bletchley and the Stationmaster called cabs in for the passengers. These were nice little touches, you got a chit with the passengers names and destination.
You came back to the ticket office the next day and they gave you the cash, anything extra could be negotiated with the passengers. Ie dropping them off at home etc.
This particular night there'd been a Villa game in London and there were hundreds of pissed up Brummies, I grabbed 4, got my chit and left. Got on the M1 in my G reg 2.0 GLi Carlton and they were asleep within 5 minutes, after about 15 minutes there was some whispering in the back and they asked to stop for a piss , I pulled into Rothersthorpe ( as it still was then ) and parked.
All 4 of them jumped out of the car and starbursted, doing a runner!?! 60 miles from home in a cab that was paid for by British Rail . Absolute fucking Nimrods !
I closed the doors, turned around and got back to the station for another load, these ones unfortunately didn't do a runner.
Next day collected £200 from BR- noice!