Blue Collar Read online

  Danny King was born in Slough in 1969 and later grew up in Hampshire. He has held a number of different jobs, such as shelf-stacker, postman and magazine journalist, and ran the hod on a dozen muddy building sites around Reading and the south-east of England between 1985 and 1992. He is the author of seven books, all published by Serpent’s Tail, and the BBC sitcom Thieves Like Us, and widely regarded as Britain’s third-best hod-carrier-turned-writer. He lives in Islington with his wife, Jeannie, and son, Charlie, and has his own tools.

  dannykingbooks.com

  Praise for Danny King

  School for Scumbags

  ‘Wayne Banstead is an engaging character; the set pieces…are first class; and the action sequences are fast, exciting and funny. Amoral, anarchic and un-PC, School for Scumbags is a lot of fun’ Guardian

  ‘Intelligent, witty and an eloquent comic creation’ Big Issue

  ‘A corker of a novel…great, swindling fun’ Time Out

  ‘Witty, pacey and definitely not for kids’ Heat

  ‘The perfect antidote to Hogwarts fever’ Daily Sport

  ‘Great fun’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘Just William for adults and all those sick of Potter’ Daily Mirror

  ‘A rite of passage of a bunch of Bugsy Malones learning the hard way that there is honour among thieves. A sweet book, basically, though I’m sure Danny King would hate me for saying so’ Sunday Express

  The Burglar Diaries

  ‘An absolutely hilarious, laugh-out-loud book by someone who has been there’ Bruce Reynolds, mastermind of The Great Train Robbery

  ‘Occasionally hilarious, if morally dubious, The Burglar Diaries is well worth buying – and definitely worth half-inching’ GQ

  ‘This is the sweet-as-a-nut, hilariously un-PC account of the jobs [Bex] has known and loved – the line-ups, the lock-ups and the cock-ups. If ever there was an antidote to Bridget Jones’s Diary this is it.

  The Burglar Diaries is the first in a series. Long may it run’ Mirror

  The Bank Robber Diaries

  ‘The Bank Robber Diaries is the best (and funniest) British Crime novel since The Burglar Diaries, also written by Danny King’ Ice

  ‘Once again the comic genius and hilarious one-liners have you warming to the anti-social protagonists of Chris, Sid and Vince; more cock-ups than hold ups … a thoroughly un-pc but rewarding novel’ BBM

  ‘A second tale of wickedly un-PC caper crime’ Publishing News

  ‘Extremely funny’ FHM

  The Hitman Diaries

  ‘One of the few writers to make me laugh out loud. Danny King’s brilliant at making you love characters who essentially are quite bad people’ David Baddiel

  ‘It’s blokeish humour ahoy in this thoroughly enjoyable tale…King’s writing is sharp, and he has a real penchant for dialogue as spoken by criminals’ Maxim

  Blue Collar

  Danny King

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by

  SERPENT’S TAIL

  an imprint of Profile Books Ltd

  3a Exmouth House

  Pine Street

  London EC1R OJH

  www.serpentstail.com

  This eBook edition first published in 2010

  Copyright © Danny King, 2009

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  eISBN: 978-1-84765-163-1

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  1 Polite awakenings

  2 What’s in a name?

  3 Jason and the Lagernauts

  4 Rainy Mondays

  5 The workers ain’t that social

  6 Money can’t buy you love

  7 Idol hands

  8 The greaseless spoon

  9 The waiting game

  10 Secrets and thighs

  11 Friends

  12 Specs

  13 Muckraking

  14 Dinner dinner dinner dinner, dinner dinner dinner dinner, Batman!

  15 Hugo and cry

  16 Hey, lads, guess who’s going to be on the telly?

  17 Sandra-ingham

  18 The Domino theory

  19 Lights, camera,action

  20 The poshos are revolting

  21 Done by the pigs

  22 Upcoming talks

  23 The planning department

  24 Getting my retaliation in first

  25 :-( ?

  26 Laying bricks

  27 At thekeyhole

  28 Hitting the roofs

  29 Lofty reactions

  30 One year later…

  For our adorable son

  Charlie Stewart Milo King

  with all our love x

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I have to thank my esteemed editor, John Williams, for getting behind this book and for helping me shape it into the story you’re about to read. It’s no exaggeration to say that if it wasn’t for John, I wouldn’t be the writer I am today and Oddbins in Cardiff would’ve closed down by now. Extra-special thanks must also go to the good people at Serpent’s Tail, particularly Pete Ayrton, Rebecca Gray, Niamh Murray and Ruthie Petrie, for continuing to show a level of faith in me that’s rarely seen outside ufologist chat-rooms. Thanks also to Mark Philpott of Waterstone’s for press-ganging the readers of Eastleigh into buying my books. To Simon Key and the fine folks at the Big Green Bookshop in Wood Green for keeping literature alive in N22 and for their generous hospitality. For Araceli and Gemma for coming along to say hello and hear me read when some five thousand pubs must’ve been open across London that same evening. For Jeannie for bringing me a cup of tea just now. For Andy Rivers at bykerbooks.com for publishing my short ‘Burglar Diaries’ story and for wearing a shirt during our interview despite coming from Newcastle. For Danny Marsh at the Norwich School of Art & Design for publishing my story, ‘The Echo’, in his college’s 2008 anthology. And for Dan Chant, Robert Splaine, RJ in Australia, Steve Pickwell, Elizabeth Earle, Dave Cobb and Maggie Kaye for all their support over the last year. It’s very much appreciated. Finally, an enormous debt of thanks must go to Helen & John, Dot & Mike, Robin & Denise, Ralph, Claire & Thomas, Andrew, Petra, Filip & Kajá, Cliff, Amanda & Abigail, Clive & Jo, the ladies at Jeannie’s book club and everyone else who’s contributed so generously to Charlie’s wardrobe and nursery. Thanks to you, all the royalties from this book can now be spent on beer and puzzle magazines. Thank you, one and all.

  1 Polite awakenings

  I don’t know if you’ve ever done this, but waking up somewhere unfamiliar after an almighty night on the sherbet is an incredibly confusing experience. At first, you just lie there with your eyes open, unable to focus or hone in on anything, and frankly, reluctant even to try. It’s all just lights and shapes, a bit like when you were a baby, but that’s fine with you. Just as long as you’re nice and comfy, as long as your nappy’s empty and your feet aren’t two dirty great blocks of ice, then why bother even trying? Your bed’s all lovely and warm and you haven’t got work today…

  Hang on! A quick jolt of panic as you race an even quicker fi
nger across the old brain calendar and double-check the day, before you’re able to relax again, sink back into your stupor and drift off, safe in the knowledge that this is a genuine Saturday morning. And not just a practice one like last Thursday.

  No, that’s that; everything’s hunky-dory and you’re all done for the week. You’re able to take it easy and write off a small chunk of your life until lunchtime when you’ll give Jason a bell to see if he’s up for a couple of pints and a bucket of balls down the golf range before you give any thought to tonight.

  There’s only one thing.

  When, and more importantly why, did you decide to hang a load of bits of bamboo from your bedroom ceiling just over your bed?

  OK, maybe this has got a little bit specific but this was what I found myself wondering after one phenomenally successful Friday night down the dogs.

  I’d been Michael Winner all night long and won nine out of thirteen races. Straight up, absolutely incredible. All right, I’d only put a couple of quid on each time and I’d never got anything more than twenty or twenty-five quid back on any single race, but I still walked away with a couple of hundred quid in my back pocket. I was absolutely made up. Fantastic. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing either. Well, I’m no expert. All I did was have a quick look at the form guide, ask luckless Jason which one he was going to stick his money on then go for one of the other ones, usually the one in the stripy waistcoat running in the middle of the track, and hey presto; four-to-one plus my stake back? Stick another fifteen quid in that pocket of yours, young man and see who’s up for a high-five. No? No one? OK, never mind, what’s next?

  Of course, there was always the slight niggling regret afterwards that I didn’t cash in my mortgage and/or my gold teeth and stick the lot on any of my winners but to be honest I’m not brave enough to bet big. It’s only a bit of fun for me. A night out, a few beers and a bit of a laugh. I work too hard for my money to go chucking it away on dogs, horses or scratch cards.

  No, it’s just a bit of fun. And what fun it had been too.

  Of course, it narked Jason off something rotten, particularly when the only time I didn’t win anything was when he stuck his two quid on the same dog as me. What a Jonah! Still, somebody’s got to cough up if I’m going to be kept in scampi and chips for the rest of my life.

  And champagne?

  Oh God, yeah, that was right, I’d been drinking champagne last night too. Jesus, I must’ve been in a good mood.

  It was at this moment that the bed gently rocked and a lovely warm pair of buttocks pressed back against my thigh. I almost smashed my head into the bamboo mobile in surprise and pulled back the covers to see who I was in the bed next to.

  It wasn’t Jason. Thank fuck for that.

  But who was it?

  And hang on a minute, where was I?

  And how did I get here?

  And Christ almighty, how much did I have to drink last night? My poor old aching head.

  I quickly ran through the evening’s events in my mind but there was a total blank where the post-dogs memories should’ve been. Like someone had nicked the tape or recorded Dad’s Army over it by mistake. What did we do last night?

  I’ve never been one for blanking out before, and indeed, reckon it’s all a load of old codswallop when people tell you they can’t remember what they did the previous evening.

  ‘Here, Tel, you remember dancing on the table in the pub, flashing your arse at everyone and chinning old Stan?’

  ‘Er… no.’

  But this was different. This was a genuine, bona fide, couldn’t see the woods for the trees, missing-in-action memory blank.

  I couldn’t remember a thing.

  Not a thing.

  And this seemed like a shame because I appeared to have pulled an absolutely corking bird at some point in the evening.

  ‘Blimey, how did I do that?’ I either said or thought, as I cradled my thumping skull between ten nicotine-stained fingers.

  The lady in question was still sleeping, so I let her sleep for the time being and tried to get my bearings. What had I done last night? And who was she?

  After a few seconds, she slowly turned beneath the sheets so that she was now towards me and I was able to see her face.

  I still didn’t recognise her, not at all, and I hate to admit this but I had a terrible attack of the scumbags and wondered if I’d splurged my winnings on a prostitute. If I had it would’ve been the first time in my life, so I couldn’t really see that. Besides, this didn’t look like a prostitute’s bedroom. Nice lilac sheets, an enormously thick and fuzzy duvet, half a dozen fluffy pillows and stuffed toys all over the shop. Actually, the place was a bit of a mess what with the piles of clothes, shoes, books, ornaments and bric-a-brac cluttering up just about every available surface.

  No, if this girl was a prostitute then she was in desperate need of one of NatWest’s small-business advisers to come in and sort out her place of work, because she was scoring low on a few basics.

  Also, I still had my pants on, and what sort of prostitute leaves a bloke in his trolleys all night?

  No, this girl was no prostitute, and certainly no prostitute I could afford, though I still had one last lingering doubt knocking around with my headache that made me wonder if I shouldn’t just tap her on the shoulder and ask her if I owed her anything at all.

  Perhaps not.

  So, who was she?

  I didn’t know, but whoever she was, she was absolutely gorgeous. Shoulder-length blonde hair, a spotless complexion and a face as cute as a vicar’s daughter’s. She was still sleeping for the moment and looked peaceful to the point of angelic. She had a few traces of make-up around the eyes and lips, though she didn’t look like she really needed it. She had a tiny upturned mouth, half a button where her nose should’ve been and lashes that looked like they could’ve picked up Radio 1 – even on the motorway.

  She was, for want of a better word, luvvlie.

  I laid my head on the pillow next to hers and stared at her delicate features for about five minutes until all at once she screwed her brow into a tangle of pain and coughed the word ‘fuck’ into my face.

  ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, my head, my head. I’m in so much pain,’ she sobbed, curling up into a ball and pulling at her hair and eyes.

  She eventually opened them and I saw that they were like little emerald islands, floating in two bloodshot pools of regret.

  ‘Please, get me a tablet. Please please please,’ she pleaded, giving me directions to the kitchen and begging me to hurry.

  I found the kitchen roughly where she’d described it and nosed through half a dozen cupboards before locating a big box full of tablets and plasters. I selected some suitably dynamic painkillers and knocked back a couple myself, then returned to the bedroom and asked the patient if she wanted one or two.

  I was close, and watched her shotgun three in quick succession and drink a big glass of water before sinking back beneath the covers. I climbed in after her and tentatively tried a bit of snuggling. To my continuing surprise she seemed all for it so we settled down and nestled in each other’s arms, groaning, moaning and wondering who the fuck the other was.

  To older generations, this probably seems like absolutely outrageous behaviour, especially on the part of the girl – or ‘slag’, as I believe they were sometimes tarred back then.

  ‘I didn’t share your grandad’s bed until after we were married and I didn’t see him after that first night for another eighteen months because he was away fighting the Germans,’ my grandmother once told me, which I took to mean he’d either been in the trenches in the First World War or turning over BMWs with the Official England Supporters’ Club.

  Well, you know, that was fair enough for back then but times change. Not always for the better, I grant you, but they change all the same, and like it or lump it you have to change with them or else get left behind.

  I’ll give you an example of what I mean. OK, here it is; now, I like to think of my
self as an old-fashioned kind of romantic.

  I’m not really interested in bed-hopping my way through life and chalking up another carcass for the lads. Some blokes are like that, but not me.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not interested in kids or donkeys either and honestly enjoy/suffer from the same urges as everyone else. I seriously do and can’t think of many things better than lying in the arms of a beautiful woman – albeit in my pants. But I’d take a beautiful woman I knew and had a relationship with any day of the week over some saucy anonymous barmaid with enormous knockers and three days to live. That’s just what I’m like. I like the women in my life to be in my life for a bit longer than that bloke who came around a few years back to tune all our videos to get Channel 5.

  Actually, I think I’d probably just like to find a wife, though I’ll keep that under my hat for the moment as that’s the sort of comment that usually goes down even worse with women you’ve only just met than ‘How much?’

  So, with that all said and done, here’s the example. A few years ago – and I’m talking twelve or thirteen here – I was on holiday in Gran Canaria with a couple of my mates when I met a really nice girl. I can’t remember her name, I’m afraid, but she ticked my romantic job sheet down to the last box and had my insides doing loop-the-loops just smiling at me.