When I lived on the Bellbrookes in Harehills, I ended up with ‘Mad Chris’ next door. Sleeve tattoos when they were still the preserve of the long-term prisoner and eyes that told you he wasn’t quite all there.
He sold amphetamine and stole stuff. And hit people. His lad, Billy, was a little cunt even at the tender age of 12 or so.
Cut all of the cable TV wires for the whole street one day. Naturally, a bloke like that became a magnet for the TWOCers etc.
I spent half my life asking folk to get off my wall etc. Fast forward some months and I came back from a works night out pissed out of my head. There were loads of them outside his house, some sat on my front step, names scrawled in marker pen on the house. It was my Michael Douglas in Falling Down moment.
I lost it. Went inside, got a bat, came out and promised all manner of Medieval stuff if they didn’t shift. I’m not hard. Never have been. But I was drunk and I’d genuinely had enough. Out strolls the Mad one in his vest like some East Leeds Paulie from Goodfellas. Long story short, he got rid of them and, by and large they didn’t come back. Apologised and offered me a spliff.
Chris didn’t hang around much longer. His Sierra 4×4 got smashed up and then I came home one night and all his windows had gone through. Police came looking for him. He turned up on the doorstep one day, wide-eyed as ever, asking if people had been looking for him.
Never a dull moment…..