Hi-ho Silver!
An Acknowledgement of An Old Friend...
On a baking hot day in the summer of 1977, I found myself in a betting shop on Oxford Street. I didn’t want to be there as gambling’s about the only vice I’ve never succumbed to. I was in there as it was a hotbed for the spiv fraternity, and we wanted to see them because they were apt to punt on stolen property. Who wasn’t? That’s a fair question, but the Spiv’s big advantage was having the cash to pay for it on, for instance, a Tuesday afternoon. I’ve forgotten what we had, though in all likelihood, it was probably cutlery sets… I knocked around with a Geordie hoister called Ranger, who’d discovered these sets, that came to exactly three hundred quid. Which was a lot back then. Three hundred was easily converted into a hundred, and that was considered, by Ranger, as ‘A day’s work.’ His primary buyer was a nice lady with an Evening News pitch on Oxford Circus. Maybe she’d run out of punters for cutlery sets?
I wasn’t a hoister. I was, like practically every other young person on the planet, a part-time shoplifter. The difference was stark. As a part-time shoplifter, I might nick a scarf. A hoister would take a dozen. If that was all they had on display. I, with my dreams fulfilled, would get on the bus and head home. A hoister would go to the next shop and repeat the process. They did this for a few hours a day, a few days a week. Maybe more, depending on their professionalism and how low their funds might be running. On the topic of hoisters, we can’t go without mentioning ‘The Australians’. This was a legendary group of, I think, around half a dozen, who blitzed London and any other European city worth blitzing during the sixties. So good were these guys that their exploits were still spoken of, in almost reverent awe, by the time I came along, maybe a decade later. I just keyed in a search, and stuff came up about them.
Stevie Doing Her Thing in 77… Ranger loved Stevie.
I sold umbrellas for a living, working for a gentleman named Smiler, who I very much hope is still about, as he’s one cool dude. Why I wasn’t selling them that day is anyone’s guess, but knocking about with Ranger ensured I’d earn something. He had a strange MO that, generally speaking, worked well for him. There was little, if any, subterfuge in his method. He’d just walk in, pick up whatever he was after and confidently walk out. He was neither quick nor slow in his movement, and he at least appeared relaxed. I’m not sure what the psychology involved here is, but I suspect there is some, somewhere. I was once tailing him up on an up escalator in one of the department stores when a couple of Store Detectives on the down escalator spotted him. They’d got so excited, you’d have thought they’d seen Bob Dylan. They didn’t catch him either, by the time their moving stairs reached the bottom and they’d run up the ascending escalator, we were out on Oxford Street and lost in the crowd.
As this was in the olden days, when shoplifters were prosecuted, Ranger was often arrested. He’d get a bit of bird and come out a changed man… No, seriously, go straight back to work. Sometimes these prison stints would be longer than others, as he was far from adverse, from chinning the odd store detective. He’s reputed to have done so once, while carrying half a dozen cutlery sets and, without breaking stride. It’s not something he’d have told me as he viewed fisticuffs with a great deal of disdain. He was not, however, adverse to indulging in it on occasion. Once, we were walking up towards Marble Arch when I spotted an individual Ranger wasn’t too happy with. I’ve forgotten, if I ever knew, what the reason was; it was probably related to money.
Ranger spotted him; “Oh, there’s XXXX. I need a quick word with him.” If any words were spoken, they were very quick. I’m not sure if the guy was in the middle of a pitch, he was working the Tom, when Ranger arrived, but either way, moments later we were once again heading for Marble Arch when the guy, who was on the ground with a bloodied visage, shouted, “You’re dead, Ranger. When I tell my dad about this, you’re dead!” Ranger’s response was one of his classics: “Oh, XXXX- you can’t take a joke.”
Ranger would often write to me during his sojourns ‘in the boob’. I’ve still got those letters somewhere as they’re amusing, he was always a funny fucker and, they were written in the most beautiful calligraphy. As my penmanship is horrendous, I’ve a lot of respect for those who (literally) write well. He was a brilliant raconteur, one I could and often did listen to for hours. He was a good-looking guy with a mass of curly hair and shoulders like James Caan. On one occasion, having had no luck during the day, we found ourselves in a popular pub near Selfridges. I’ve forgotten the name of it, and on looking it up, had no joy. I suspect the name’s changed. They do that for some reason.
As we sit nursing our half pints of lager, a cat called George enters. George worked the fruit barrow somewhere on the Marble Arch end. Spotting him, Ranger springs to his feet to offer him a drink, and, despite being a tad weary, George accepts the offer…
RANGER: “Ah, yes. Could I have four bottles of Special Brew, two large Pernods and half a lager, please?”
On fulfilling the order, the barmaid states, “That’ll be three seventy-six, please.”
Ranger turns to the barrow boy, “Oh, George, have you got the odd three seventy mate?”
This guy was a West End boat; the only time he’d leave it willingly was to drink in Hampstead Village. He was in love with a girl I’d gone to school with who lived up there. They’d met independently of me, and while there may have been plenty of chicks to fill the void, Ranger’s heart belonged to this young lady. I was never sure how she felt about him; I doubt she was. Ranger was a guy who could charm the birds from the trees. He had a generous nature and, like many a thief, spent with abandon. For all that, he’d have been an absolute nightmare as a boyfriend. He was maddening enough as a mate. The most infuriating aspect was his refusal to let life get him down.
Especially for somebody as negative as myself. His name for me, incidentally, was ‘Moany Mahoney’. Ranger, though, had a good heart, and I can prove it. I’ve not seen him since the late seventies when, on getting released from one of his sabbaticals, and in some ways those relatively short stays inside, were exactly that. As on the out, his life was pretty much full-on pressure. Ranger took no state benefits, which meant he had to find and pay for a hotel room every night. Look, he wasn’t staying in a suite in The Dorchester, but if he didn’t find that room, he slept rough, and the man was not a dosser. Anyway, on release, he’d called my mum’s, she told him I’d stopped boozing and had gotten myself into college. It went silent for a second or two before Ranger responded, “Probably best I leave him alone then? My mum, who liked him, replied, “Probably Ranger.” I never saw him again, and that Playboy… is a real friend. Peace!