Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Stories inspired by the off-season: The night of the involuntary crack deal

A guest blog by Vicious’ non-cyclocrossing motormouth.
Photo by b+c+c+f on flickr
If you want tales of racing, you won’t find any here just yet, not until the weather improves anyway. I don’t currently own a ‘cross bike, but that’s soon to change. I reckon I’ll be good for the early season, like September, but when it gets cold...

I’m not good in the cold.

My mate Robin calls me ‘The Spaniard’.

I’m not good at getting up in the morning either. I’m not good at a lot of things, but what I am good at is getting myself into situations – some more dangerous than others – but real scenarios that provide good stories for the pub – or in this instance, for the blog! So here’s the first: The night of the involuntary crack deal.

A few years ago I was in a band. We made a record and the guy producing it was pretty famous. He was a bit of a hero of mine when I first developed a music taste beyond the hit parade. Does anyone call it hit parade these days? Does anyone buy singles? Anyway, he’s an all-round champ of champs, but I’m not sure he’d be too happy about me using his name, so let’s just call him ‘W’. After we’d recorded, W came to stay with me when I lived in Camberwell. We drank some beers, ate some pizza and he asked me if I could get him some weed.

In Camberwell around that time, that was about as easy as it is to buy a Flat White in Shoreditch.

Off we went, down Coldharbour Lane to the end of Pomfret Road.

No one there.

We carried on until we almost reached Brixton, under the bridge when there’s those skiddy patches of pigeon shit landmine the pavement. Sure enough, we were soon inundated with offers. My girlfriend approached a group of dealers, another, lone dealer approached me and not wanting to have their business taken away, one of the guys from the group put his arm around my girlfriends shoulders, moved her to one side while his ‘colleague’ whips out a pistol from his belt and suggests that the lone dealer ‘absconds’. I’m not sure if that was the word he used, but anyway, he did. Wisely.

We exchanged cash for class B and headed for home to watch Spaced.

It doesn’t end there, unfortunately. The lone dealer headed us/me off on the next corner and insisted that I take a look at what he’s got and pops a small lump of crack wrapped in clingfilm onto the palm of my hand.

I’ve always done this, I always attracted the loons.

My girlfriend and W walked off, heading for home with their loot and I descended into what I can only describe as a Larry David/Curb Your Enthusiasm-esque sketch with ‘the lone dealer’.

Me: ‘No thanks, you can have this back. I’m not even sure what it is. What is it?’
TLD: ‘It’s not weed, none of that, this is good shit manggg.’
Me: ‘It’s crack isn’t it? You’ve given me crack. I don’t even know what to do with this.’
TLD: ‘Yeah, now give me a tenner.’
Me: ‘I don’t want it, as I just said, I don’t even know what to do with it, have it back.’
TLD: ‘Nah, you give me a tenner.’

He then gets his phone out and starts to dial someone. The police! We have a smart guy on our hands here I thought.

TLD: ‘Right, I’m phoning the Police. If you don’t buy this, when they get here I’m going to tell them that you tried to sell to me.’
Me: ‘Now, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m wearing glasses. I’m a little bit middle-class and I suggest you think about this properly. Who do you think the police will believe when they get here? You, who appears to be wearing a doo rag, or me?’

I popped the crack back onto the palm of his hand and walked off to join my girlfriend and W that had left me to fend for myself. Cheers united!

We went home and W wrote this song called ‘But you know it’s true’.


This is a true story of how you should never try to impress your heroes.


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