The Dirty South (3 page)

History was an OK lesson. Mr Fletcher was the teacher, a long white guy who came from Poole in Dorset. I think our school was his first posting. In his own words he wanted to see ‘integration in action'. He had been on anti-Nazi marches and read the autobiography of Malcolm X. He liked Gil Scott Heron and Curtis Mayfield and he said he admired Eldridge Cleaver… What a motherfucking fool! He didn't have a clue about black people. Brothers would say to him, ‘Hey, Fletch. I wanna give your mum a wok.' And Fletcher would reply, ‘That is very thoughtful of you but my mother has all the large frying pans she needs.'

At first Fletch tried to teach us all the normal shit. Like William the Conqueror, the War of the Roses, Queen Elizabeth I, Walter Raleigh and his fucking potatoes, Henry the Eighth and his six hos, crop rotations, Agincourt, Waterloo and all that fuckery. We all took the piss and no-one did any work. Not surprising as only four kids in our class were white and one of them's paps was rumoured to be in the IRA. Burn all that white history shit. Fletch panicked and, quickly realizing that hardly anyone in his class was GCSE material, he decided to ask us what issues of history we wanted to learn. It was uproar.

The few Hindus in our class wanted to write about how the Hindus kicked the Muslims' asses in India just after the Second World War. The Muslims wanted to write about how they kicked the asses of the ‘Imperial West' during the Crusades, a couple of Eritreans wanted to write about their issues with Ethiopia, three South Africans wanted to learn about Shaka Zulu and his
fuck you
stance to the English, the Irish boy wanted to write his shit about the Irish potato famine and one third-generation Jamaican, me, was well happy to write about the Maroon wars in Jamaica and slave uprisings; it was so embarrassing that none of my fellow Jamaicans in my class knew my shit. Anyway, everyone got writing on their own particular projects, peace was restored to the classroom and
Fletch was going on like Hollywood might make a film of his ‘new teaching' shit. Even the mentors sighed their relief and were happy to take longer cigarette breaks in the playground. The only losers were the Kosovans and one Vietnamese kid who didn't know a fuck what was going on 'cos they didn't know English.

The only problem was that in one lesson the Hindus and the Muslims kicked off big time and parents were called in but that only made things worse. It was proper funny to see those Asian parents fighting in the headteacher's study… Shortly after that, Fletch resigned and it was back to Kings and Queens of England and how they kept their power or lost it. The only thing that remotely interested me was the alleged assassination of Edward II, a chi chi King by way of a red hot poker up his bottom hole. To salute the memory of Fletch, me and Noel Gordon ceremoniously burnt our shared textbook which met with the approval of everybody in class, save our new teacher, Miss Irene Manning. She quit within a term but none of the brothers really cared 'cos she was ugly.

N
oel Gordon had been my best friend since primary school. He used to live in Tulse Hill estate in one of the blocks on the third floor. His next door neighbours were this Somalian family with a look of war, grime and shit about them. Put a smile on! I used to say to myself when I passed any of the Somalis on the balcony on my way to Noel's gates. You're in England now where we have running water and men wear socks, you sad bastards.

Dirt poor was Noel, always coming to school in beat-up Gola trainers, Nine Elms market trousers and Bricky market shirts. He had three younger brothers and his mum worked as a check-out lady at the supermarket. Fuck knows where his paps was. Never saw him. But his mum had her share of men. None of them lasted though, what with her Brixtonian-fish-wife cussing and nagging.

Noel's flat was just proper basic. There was this tiny kitchen and the cooker was kinda stained brown like bad, fucked up teeth. All the woodwork was peeling and the walls inside the flat had nuff bruises and marks on it. You could always tell when the family was struggling for money when Noel's mum cooked only bully beef or pilchards and rice for a week before she got her monthly pay. During weeks like that they had the same shit for breakfast.

Unlike my yard, where my parents had shelves of books all over the place, there wasn't a single book in Noel's flat. He and his younger brothers would get home from nursery and school and just watch TV. Before I reached ten years of age, most times my paps would turn off the TV and take out a game for all the family to play. Monopoly or Ludo, with Mum's home-made board and Davinia played it like it was life and death. Noel had no shit like that. His mum had that constant ‘how am I gonna survive through the week' look on her face. Her expression only changed when she was watching her soaps and if anyone made any noise while she was watching that shit she would cuss bad-word through her cigarette smoke and lick her younger kids… Now and again, Cara, Noel's mum, would arrive at my gates and ask Mum for money for her gas card or electric key. She would come inside my yard, look around and feel like shit, not wanting to stay too long. When Mum made her coffee she always sipped it too quick, scorching her lips. She'd always ask for fifteen pounds, ten for her meter and five for a packet of Benson and Hedges. Ever since I've always wondered why is it that the dirt poor smoke the most?

It was while we was both still at primary school that I first witnessed Noel shoplifting… I have to say most of it was my fault. Mum would always give me pocket money to go to school with that I was meant to spend on the way home. But I spent it on sweets before registration specifically to wind up the ghetto kids who didn't have shit. Noel took this kind of thing to heart and most times chased me around the playground saying he was gonna jack me. One morning I teased Noel with an extra long Mars Bar and a packet of extra-cheesy Doritos. He ignored me. Back in class I made as much noise as I could with my Doritos bag but Noel still ignored me. This really fucked me off. On the trod home Noel was all quiet and shit. Then all of a sudden he ran into the sweet shop in Elm Park, grabbed three packets of barbecue-flavoured Golden Wonder crisps and ran like Linford Christie with a firework up his black ass. I was proper shocked…

The theft was kinda stupid though. Noel and me had been in that shop nuff times and the Asian people behind the counter
knew our parents. Bastards. It was where Cara bought her cigarettes. While Paps lectured me about the importance of paying for what you own, Cara was licking Noel with a Dutch Pot and a steel ladle. I said to my paps at the time, ‘Why you lecturing me? I didn't t'ief nutten.'

Two days after the sweet shop robbery, Noel came back to school with a cheap plaster on his forehead and for the first time I saw a bit of coolness in him. The lickings from his mother didn't put him off and we made plans to ‘hit' other sweet shops that were further away.

By the time we were at secondary school, nicking sweets from local shops had got a bit boring. The buzz wasn't the same. So we started to go up west after school in the hunt for clothes. Before we hit the shops I would lend some of my garms to Noel because I didn't want him to walk into any clothes shop looking like the ghetto sufferer he was. We would try on a top or a pair of trainers and then we would simply leg it from the shop, jumping on the nearest bus. The security guards were mostly African and one or two of them would chase us for a while to look the part but give up. Once we got home, Noel had to hide his new garms and trainers under his bed 'cos if his mum found out it would have been Dutch Pot time. As for me, 'cos the inside of my wardrobe was looking sweet already, Mum didn't notice my new garms. Davinia did though and I had to threaten her on a few occasions to keep her beak quiet. If Paps found out he would have lectured me 'til doomsday.

On weekends, Noel would take his stolen garms out from under his bed, put them in a bag and come over to my place to put them on. Then we'd head out on road, looking buff in our garms and chirpsing chicks. We were only twelve or thirteen but it's amazing the confidence new clothes can give you. We would hang out at Stockwell and New Park Road Youth Clubs, posing like we was in a hip hop video and tormenting those ghetto kids who were still wearing beat up trainers and cheap market clothes.

‘Where you going with your cheap under-a-fiver jeans?' Noel would tease. ‘They should make a law banning brothers wearing
that shit on road and confining your cheap black ass to your flat where your shit-poor mum can't afford the motherfucking rent! You fucking pussy!'

But we wanted more.

As far back as I could remember, Noel's mum smoked weed and so did my paps. Growing up I never thought nothing of it and it was normal to me as drinking a cup of tea or seeing a Kosovan kid get jacked. I didn't even know it was an offence 'til I was fourteen. When I questioned Paps about his weed smoking he would say it was to ease the pains in his legs. I knew that was fuckery. Anyway, Noel and me, we wanted to try it. At school there were some older kids who smoked weed and they used to wrap their fat-heads in the toilets at dinner break. We thought they looked so cool with their red eyes and that Snoop Dogg ‘don't give a fuck' look. Anyway, these cool kids would leave their fat-head butts on the toilet floor and we would pick them up and roll a skinny-head in a single cigarette paper. First time we did it I took one inhale, it didn't affect me. I took a second and my head started to feel warm, kinda like how a suit feels when its dry-cleaned with all that steam and shit. Then I had this kinda rushing sensation in my head. With a messed-up grin on my face I told Noel, ‘This is good serious shit.' Noel, in response, offered me a fucked up nod.

It meant our afternoon lessons were kinda compromised. We would turn up at IT and giggle at everything. We just couldn't stop. Especially when this new Vietnamese kid turned up in the lesson wearing grey shorts, sandals and a refugee haircut. We laughed so hard that suddenly the kid burst into tears and ran out of the school. Noel and myself got detention for that shit but we still hadn't shrugged off the effect of the weed. This was all clear when the Vietnamese parents turned up, obviously stressed out at their missing son, with a stush-looking interpreter. Shouting in their language they were, hands going everywhere. The interpreter tried her best to relate what they were saying to the teachers. While all this was going on, Noel and myself collapsed in giggles yet again. That evening Paps gave me another lecture but he really got annoyed at my fixed grin. ‘Don't smile at me while me trying to
tell you some truths and rights!' he barked. I just couldn't help it. Noel got the Dutch Pot treatment and afterwards he was thinking about reporting Cara to the social services, but gave it up when he realized what his mother would do to him if she found out he'd reported her… It was at this point Mum warned me about walking with bad breed boys and about their unhealthy influence on me. Kinda hypocritical 'cos when Cara turned up at our gates Mum was all polite and shit.

I
t was after Noel and myself had just turned fourteen that we decided to go into business… We had a hundred and ten notes between us, saved from our jackings at various corner shops and clothes stores. One of Cara's ex-boyfriends, Lester ‘Red Eye' Davis, was shotting out of a flat in Myatts Fields North. The estate Lester lived in is like a maze and he never liked the hordes of Africans who had moved in there. ‘How can they get a flat so easy while I was on the housing list for thirteen years?' he whinged. He was a tall, smartly dressed guy, never without his old school black Stetson on his head. He wore square glasses and had this skinny moustache and a fucked up goatee. Needless to say, Lester's eyes were always red. He was forty-three and stuck in the old ways, this was all clear 'cos he didn't own a single CD and he played his ancient reggae on a turntable and homemade speakers. I guess Cara linked up with him 'cos he had a ready supply of skunk, mersh and high grade weed… Red Eyes also done a line in rocks but even if we wanted to, me and Noel didn't have the budget for that shit.

Red Eyes' front room had a heavy plasma TV and a pile of pirate DVD copies laying around everywhere. Lester had films that were not even released to the cinemas… My guess was that he got them from those Chinee brothers who always hang out in bookies and
the local markets with their rucksacks full of illegal shit. Looking at these Chinee hustlers I guess they needed the P's so they could buy a decent meal. Skinny as spliffs they were.

Lester also had various pictures of his twelve kids about the place. Five different baby-mothers Red Eyes had. You would think after the baggage of three, the fourth or fifth one would have said, ‘Wait a minute, this constant breeder ain't gonna wok me without protection.' Dumb-ass bitches.

‘So you wanna buy an ounce of weed,' smiled Red Eyes to Noel and me, his two gold teeth glinting. He was sitting in this cream-coloured armchair with a fat-head in one hand and a Bacardi Breezer in the other. He was wearing his hat indoors. Maybe this old school shotta was bald as that black brother in
The Matrix
, I thought.

‘Yeah, man,' replied an excited Noel. ‘But we call it an oz. And if we sell that, we'll be back for more.'

‘What do you want?' asked Red Eyes. ‘Skunk, mersh or high grade?'

We had reasoned before the meeting that we'd go for skunk 'cos you get more for your pound. Also, it's mostly old school people like my paps who smoked high grade. Kids at school all smoked skunk; it hit the spot quicker.

‘We'll go for the skunk,' answered Noel. ‘But I don't want no contaminated skunk. I hear some shottas are lacing the shit with crack just to get us addicted so we'll come back begging for stones fatting up your wallet…'