This tale is set during the depth of the second “dark age” where I hovered close to the abyss. The darkness spanned maybe seven years and, looking back, I don’t know how I survived it. Having kids put paid to the old easy route out. In all, I lived in six places in five years and this, the Banksy Heist, occurred at around the mid-point, whilst living in a Mansion Flat, on Rosebery Avenue. Probably the worst time in my adult life. I’m terrible with years but I watched Arsenal lose the European Cup Final there. Despite having two season tickets, the club blanked my allocation. Cheers Arsenal.
I’d wound up in Clerkenwell by swapping a seemingly superior dwelling, in South Hampstead. Maybe two minutes from Finchley Road Tube Station. It was a stunning one-bed with French Windows onto a balcony, overlooking Canfield Gardens. There were, though, a couple of issues. Firstly, it was part of a Housing Co-op and, as lovely as the old hippies running it were, I found the whole thing claustrophobic. Being a Co-op, one was expected to help out with stuff and, naturally, I’d promised to do so. The trouble was I was a psychological, spiritual, emotional, mental and financial, fucking wreck. I was having great difficulty helping myself, so the concept of helping anyone else felt like an obscene imposition. I tried, I did some gardening but my heart wasn’t in it. My heart was in smithereens and, even if I could find the pieces, I’d have been incapable of sticking them together. One afternoon doing the gardening there was a cat nearby and I said “Oh, we’ve got a-” before realising there was no ‘we’. There was only me and the term flotsam and jetsom sprang to mind. That’s what I felt like, a random middle-aged guy who’d floated up. Jesus Christ that moment was painful. I couldn’t make it through a day without sobbing my heart out. Aside from the Co-Op issues, South Hampstead was too close to West Hampstead. I’d be going to the same supermarkets, same cinema, same fucking everything and each was heavily weighted with memories. Mind you, it was even worse initially as I’d had to go back to the very dwelling we’d lived in as a family and the one my kids had grown up in. The nursery they’d attended, was just beyond the garden wall and in the depths of my despair, I’d hear the children playing… Tell you what, forget waterboarding, try that for a laugh.
I stated in earlier posts, I’d often imagine myself in a film. Well, that went up a notch at this point, as I began seeing everything, through a book… As in “He opened the draw to discover some long-lost family photos.” This meant that not only would I open a draw to discover some long-lost family photos, but the process was then replayed in my head, via the novel… It was a weird and painful, process. However, on the upside, if you consider that we’d been trying to get a transfer out of there for a decade, it was nothing short of a miracle, when I was out in a couple of months. Our problem had been that the flat came under “Short Life Housing” and, while the rent was cheap, we had no rights and didn’t exist to the council, so getting onto their list was impossible. Anyway, by the grace of God and a former lady friend, I was out and onto this housing Co-op.
Despite the stunning nature of my new abode, it was no good to, or for, me. Here’s an insight into my mindset at the time. Remember on those old Nokia phones, you could create a message for when you turned it on? My message read “Keep Breathing”. Not only had my world fallen apart but I was back in a vicinity of London I hated. I had managed to escape it and return to Tufnell Park, where we’d bought a place. Well, let’s have it right, my ex-wife bought it. I was potless and would have struggled to buy a packet of fags – had I smoked. I didn’t though, having swapped fags for nicotine gum. Once I cottoned on that, as a Co-op member, I had the right to swap (there wasn’t on Shortlife Housing), I was on that ‘Home-Swap Scheme’, toot sweet and, I believe, I was out of Canfield in six months. That’s how I wound up in EC1 and, despite the flat being severely dilapidated and, having a downstairs neighbour, regularly shitting on the stairs, I was delighted to be there. I’d moved in during the summer which meant there were a couple of months of blissful ignorance, over what was to come…
Then- it came, the winter… and that flat, that flat turned into a fucking icebox. It wasn’t so much the lack of central heating. Or, come to that, any heating. It was the total absence of insulation. All the wood around the windows had rotted, the windows rattled and the wind would gust right through, more or less unimpeded. Look, I grew up in a pub without central heating and my mum’s didn’t have it. In truth, I’d never lived anywhere with Central Heating. I wasn’t some pampered, council-flat kid. I was used to the cold but I’d never known anything like that - ever. Being on the top floor probably didn’t help but I doubt anyone in that block was what one might call cosy. In the winter, you’d be indoors and see the condensation as you breathed. Occasionally, the cold got inside you and once it did, you just couldn’t get it out. It was horrendous.
While all of this is true and the Canfield Gardens property was superficially superior, that mansion flat on Rosebery Avenue was stunning. The street doors comprised some sort of very sturdy wood, decorated with wrought iron and, once inside, the entrance hall had a high ceiling with a black-and-white tiled mosaic floor. The mosaic motif continued on the stairs. These were guarded by wrought iron bannisters, topped with oak. For a building that had been neglected for half a century, it was holding up extremely well. My block was ‘Barnstaple Mansions’. The adjacent one was ‘Bideford.’ There are numerous blocks scattered around London, named after places in Devon. Each was built and designed, by a gent named James Hartnoll. Nice one Jimmy I say.
If memory serves, it was a hundred and three steps to my flat. These weren’t shallow modern steps but deep, old-fashioned ones. The postman, rather than undergoing the climb, would leave the post at the foot of the stairs. As I lived on the top floor my letters would always be on the uppermost step and I dreaded seeing anything on it. One morning I came down and, sure enough, there were a couple of bills. Opening them, I stared at the fuckers in abject horror. Bills themselves don’t bother me, it’s the inability to pay them that does. I suddenly thought about what might happen if I simply ignored them. I mean people do it but my mind was filled with the image of me begging in the street. This may sound dramatic but, given how things had been going, it wasn’t an unreasonable scenario. As I stood there, staring at those bills, my sense of panic was slowly replaced by, and this is weird, one of gratitude. For, it struck me that, while I was receiving those bills, I was still in the ring. I may have been covered in blood and clinging to the ropes. The ref may have been staring at me suspiciously and, I was quite obviously losing but while I was still losing, I hadn’t… lost.
Over the last years of my first marriage, my mother had died, my father had died and, unbeknownst to me, my career had gone the same way. The latter’s something that requires constant attention and I’d neglected it. Plus, I’d kind of run out of bridges to burn. With no income, I’d had to sign on and while the Finchley Road Job Centre was a lot stricter than I recall dole offices being. In the mid-’70s, when I’d sign on wearing cutdowns and flip-flops, with a towel rolled under my arm…. My move from NW6 to EC1 meant changing dole offices and I toddled up to the Penton Street one, blissfully ignorant of what lay in store and that, in a word, was Mustapha… Man, this guy fucking hated me. It was on sight and his hatred just got worse and fucking worse. During the initial interview, he’d enquired as to my profession and, as I’d made a fair few quid out of it and won more than a couple of awards, I responded, “Writer.” That, folks, was a mistake. Had the rules allowed, Mustapha would have beheaded me – instantly. He didn’t like the writer thing - at all. After a (good) five-second death stare, he stated, “I too am a writer… In another language.” If this was a film script, that would be what’s known as “a beat”. Where a character reveals something about themselves that later becomes a plot point. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a film. It was real life and worse still- mine, While I’ve no idea what language Mustapha was writing in, I’m confident nothing he wrote was going to be intentionally funny. That cat just wasn’t giving off comedic. Over the following months, Mustapha made my life hell. Or at least, he tried his best but, given the multitude of tribulations I faced, his efforts were like a flat tyre on a car that’s missing an engine. His efforts were not in vain though, as I grew to dread the weeks I had to sign on. Which, he ensured, was always a long and laborious process. I’d arrive early and be made to wait at least half an hour. People would come in long after me and leave, long before. Their process would take five minutes, mine - fifteen. Mustapha was always keen on quizzing me about my “Job search” and insisted on some form of evidence. I’ve forgotten what that entailed, but I do recall having to produce fake job applications being tiresome. Thankfully, though officious, Mustapha was also, incredibly lazy. Had he bothered to check, he’d have found that all my applications were, you know, bogus…
The thing was, if I did get any work, Mustapha would have been the last person I’d have told about it. I had been working at a cab office in Frith Street. I was meant to be managing the place but one day, on looking at a couple of trays of correspondence - one marked “In” the other “Out” - and realising I had no clue what went where and, more worryingly, cared even less, I knew it was time to go. Next up, was a job on a maintenance crew. Our primary, almost exclusive client, was Paul Raymond, the porn baron. Mr Raymond, I came to appreciate, owned a lot of properties in and around Soho. There’s a bit in Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid, where our anti-heroes are being chased by a posse and, unable to shake them, the question arises, “Who are those guys?” It transpired that they were lawman from various states who’d been banded together by E H Harriman, with the sole purpose of tracking and killing Butch and Sundance. That’s what the guys on this crew were like, lunatics from across London, banded together with the sole purpose of fixing Mr Raymond’s West End property empire. Let me put it this way, on being paid one Friday, we entered a pub and a well-known celebrity gangster was in there, holding court and, despite being in mid-sentence, he took one look at this lot and, quite literally, ran out. Oh, and by the way you won’t find a single of these guys talking shit, or being mentioned, on YouTube. They Real…
I didn’t like signing on and I certainly didn’t enjoy working whilst doing it but, needs must. The cab firm was only just starting and, as the money was yet to pour in, the wages were low. The money on the maintenance crew was good but it was a matter of getting the days. I was only required maybe three a week. I wanted nothing more than to get off that fucking dole. I’d applied for a job as a porter in Lincoln’s Inn. This was a place where barristers knocked about and, I found myself hoping that the job came with a brown overall coat. I quite fancied moving desks and whatnot, from office to office. Alongside that, there was a chance of another gig. Assistant to a Locations Manager, on adverts and suchlike. This one was very well paid but I needed a car. That wasn’t an issue as there were people who’d lend me the cash. There were a few who’d stood by me during this period. Darren, Robert and Ardon were the three main ones.
My concern on the work front was that, while I was perfectly happy doffing my cap to members of the legal profession, I had a sneaking feeling that the moment any of those advert bods even looked at me in the wrong tone, I’d be telling them all about themselves and getting fired- pronto. Leaving myself without the means to pay back the car loan. A quandary. Plus, the gent proffering the job wanted a grand for getting me it. Which on one level, was fair enough but, on another, quite cuntish… I was meant to be meeting him on a Wednesday afternoon. That would entail signing on in the morning, popping home for lunch and into the West End, for the meeting. That morning, after explaining all this to Mustapha, he put a spanner in the works by insisting that I returned in the afternoon for some Job Centre bullshit. Sensing I wasn’t taking it too seriously, Mustapha turned the screw by stating that failure to attend would result in the loss of my Job Seekers Allowance. My reaction must have again, betrayed my indifference. Because it was then, that Mustapha played the ace up his sleeve: “And your Housing Benefit”. There’s an old rule - you don’t get behind with your rent - and I lived in mortal fear of it… So, game set and match – Mustie.
Now, this was a bright Autumn Day without being overly warm but on arriving home from signing on, I suddenly began swinging between sweating profusely and my teeth chattering with cold. I climbed into bed, freezing. Ten minutes later, the duvet was drenched in sweat. This went on for a while and I eventually phoned the guy and explained I couldn’t meet him and that was the last contact I had with that prick. Whatever was happening to me physically, was no joke. Proof of which was staring me directly in the face as I’d broken out in cold sores. I’d been plagued by them all my life but this outbreak was the most severe I’d ever had. Normally they’re restricted to my mouth but aside from the three there, one had sprouted on my nose. Another, on my chin. As an indicator of how ill I was, none of it bothered me. What did, was walking back up to that dole office. It crossed my mind to phone and explain that I was ill but my pal Mustapha would love hearing me beg, before of course, ignoring my plea. I considered swerving the whole thing by going to the doctor’s and getting signed off, but not only would that entail having to go out anyway, but it would also mean having to deal with the Housing Benefit Office again and man, I could live without that.
With no way around it, fully dressed and shivering, I climbed out of bed, donned my shoes, buttoned up my Parka and, somewhat unsteadily, made my way down the hundred-and-three stairs and out, onto Rosebery Ave. Where, despite the sunshine, I shivered. By the time I hit the Penton St, I’d disrobed my Parka, along with the roll-neck underneath. Yet, I was still sweating. Mustapha pointed to the room I had to go to and, once inside, along with a few other losers, I was handed a form. The problem was that the font kept moving around, making it impossible to decipher… At that point, I gave up. I may have managed to fill in the name section but anything beyond that, no chance. The young black guy running things approached, studied me, shook his head and walked out. Via the windows, I watched as he approached Mustapha’s desk. There was a brief conversation and my old mate turned and, looking through the window directly at me, shook his head. The young guy returned and ignored me. He made no effort to push me into filling that form and, God bless him for his humanity.
I may well have fallen asleep in there but as we filed out, I learnt that I still had to get signed off by Mustapha. I can’t recall exactly how long I was in the dole office that day but I was still waiting for Mustapha, as the place was gearing up to close. Naturally, despite him having nobody else to see, I was made to wait. Then, after maybe half an hour, Mustapha offhandedly beckoned me. There was something very dismissive in that beckoning and… it irked me. I stood by his desk being ignored as he chatted on his cell phone, in a language I didn’t understand. Maybe this was the one he wrote in? As I stood waiting, my gaze happened upon a pen. A very ordinary biro, just lying on the desk. On looking around and estimating how long it’d take the security guard to intervene, I realised that not only could I stick this fucking thing in his eye and take it out. I could do considerably more damage before that African made it up to this end. I fully understood I’d get a custodial sentence but my exact thought on that was that they can throw the fucking key away. I had you see, been pushed too far. Once the prison thing was decided, Mustapha’s trip to Intensive Care, was pretty much a done deal.
I lifted the pen “Ah… Mu-sta-fa.” A young black woman in the background caught the tone and gasped- audibly. No doubt she thought I was racist. Now, credit has to go to old Mustee here. As, on looking up, he understood exactly what was about to go down. Without a word, Mustapha terminated that call and the only word he muttered, more than once, was “Sorry.” This was while scrambling to proffer me the form. Ultimately, I have to thank old Musti, as his instinct saved us both a lot of trouble. The moral of the story is that you can only push a man so far and Mustapha pushed it, way too far. A toughie would have put him straight about five minutes in… I, however, suffered it.
Walking home in the dark, my soul, along with my step, was light. Over the last few years, I’d traversed broken and moved firmly into the realm, of beaten. Quite badly beaten actually. I’d spent much of my life trying to “evolve”. Sixteen years of self-help programmes had coincided with group therapy and, before that, I’d semi-tolerated the wankers that the film and theatre game was stacked to the gills with. All of which had resulted in me not only abandoning this component of myself but almost killing it. On Amwell Street that evening, I felt as though I’d been reintroduced to an old, and very dear, friend. The capacity for cold-blooded violence, whilst not something one would want to deploy daily, meant I was no longer entirely powerless and that, should push come to shove, I had a response. A draconian one but one that was infinitely superior to what I’d had to protect myself over the last few years, which was- nothing.
My joy didn’t last long for, on skipping across the road to check on my nest-egg, I discovered it gone. Man, the times I’d walked over that and vowed to rip it out of the ground. Alas, someone had beaten me to it. Just as I began spiralling down, it appeared. I’d simply misjudged its placing, my Banksy was still there. To clarify, at the bottom of Amwell Street, on Rosebery Avenue, was a Banksy. The one of a girl by an ATM. At the top, on Penton Street, was another, on a steel security door, adjacent to The Lexington pub. Halfway down Amwell Street - was my one. Stencilled onto a paving stone, Phil Collins’s face. I admit, I found the subject matter a little surprising but, then again, people would be treading on it. Maybe that was Banksy’s point. To tell the truth, I didn’t get the Banksy business. Like John Lennon’s “Imagine” and the singer from Coldplay, it was all a bit too 6th Form for my liking. That moment of potential loss had galvanised me. It was the jolt I needed to phone my friend Paul. Who, for one reason or another, feels more like a cousin. Paul, needless to say, was instantly up for it. Paul, though, is up for most things that involve any sort of derring-do. The next morning, we pulled up in his truck and within two minutes, we were driving off with a precious ‘artwork’. A minute later, we were outside my building. I was sitting in the passenger seat with the artwork on my lap when Paul enquired, “Do you need a hand?” What I heard was, “Are you gay?” I shook my head. Seconds later I was across the street and into the block. At this time, I was in my fifties, I was very unfit and paving stones, were very heavy. The adrenalin from the heist saw me up the first few flights. Fear, the next few and sheer determination, the last. My concern was that had I rested, I’d have been incapable of re-lifting the fucking thing. On reaching the top and putting it down, I thought my insane heartbeat would decrease- it didn’t. Not only was my heart throbbing like a bastard, but so were the veins in my temples. If I’ve ever felt there might be a heart attack on the horizon, it was at precisely that moment. I dragged the artwork into the flat, left it by the door and spent the next ten minutes thinking I was about to die. Obviously, I didn’t and, equally obviously, it wasn’t a Banksy. He’d been appalled at the suggestion that this might have been one of his and in fairness, he did have a point. I mean, come on, Phil-fucking-Collins?