The debt is an ideological construction. " Noam Chomsky
IT was Blagger’s plan. As per. It was always Blagger’s plan. As fat as the fat bastard was, there was nothing flabby about his planning. Basic old school. Three face masks. Two shooters, sawn-offs. Me and Tall Tim. And an automatic for Blagger. Tooled up, stroll in through the front door of the Unity Bank. Blagger barks out instructions, which puts the fear of God into the cashiers and the punters.
My job is to keep schtum and look mean. I keep an eye on the door for filth or any have-a-go wankers. Tall Tim gets anyone who isn’t yet on the floor to crouch down with hands on their heads. Reckons he’d seen it done in a film.
Blagger, meanwhile, is all On the fuckin’ deck now, you slags!
He’s good at that bit. You’d never know he’d gone to a posh school, the way he dishes out the verbal. They’ve no idea he’s a fucking big ponce who’s going to get offed, first chance I get.
It’s like something out of the 70s, too stock, two smoking barrels... too fucking easy. I mean, where's the security, the laser beams, the hi-tech bollocks that Tall Tim is always banging on about. Anyways, I cover the door. Blagger gets all hands up against the wall now. He drags one woman across the floor by her ankles. Naughty naughty. I don’t mind making a right mess of a copper’s face, but that is bang out of order.
Another weird thing is the vault. It is already open, like someone knew beforehand. The cash is counted and laid out on the table. All that has to be done is to put the lolly in the sacks the assistant manager hands us. His piss-hole eyes and oil-slick hair remind me of somebody. He even helps us fill the bags. Fact is, everyone’s strangely co-operative. One cashier practically pleads with Tall Tim to be allowed to join in.
- Be my guest, sweetheart, says he.
Blagger insists on big denominations. Sterling in 50s and Euros in 100s and 500s. The chief cashier and his assistant carefully, but rapidly fill the GPO sacks - the likes of which ain't seen the light of day since the Train Robbers. It is then I notice that the assistant manager is a dead ringer for Blagger. A lot less lardy, but there’s definitely a resemblance. Family even.
Suddenly, Tall Time starts getting angsty. - The fucking law's here! he bellows.
Sharpish, I leave Blagger in the vault and head towards the exit - sawn-off cocked and ready. Turns out to be Bank security, not the Old Bill. I keeps my shooter trained on ‘em, right up close to their faces.
One of the guards is a right lanky sod. Roman nose and edgy. Again, he reminds me of someone.
My heartbeat is quick. Sweat trickles down the small of my back and into the crevice of my arse cheeks. But I’m bizarrely relaxed.
Tall Tim starts to bear hug one of the security. And he then takes off his mask and smiles to him. Like he’s his long lost fucking brother, I swear.
Next up, Blagger, who emerges from the vault, mask off as well, followed by a small army of helpers humping huge sacks stuffed full with the readies. You can see notes sticking out the top. By far and away the tastiest blag I've ever been involved with. Off its head in its simplicity.
- OK let's go muchachos, declares Blagger, like he’s in a fucking Spaghetti Western.
This is a blatant blag. Armed bank robbers going out the front door in broad daylight.
But then, of course, the rozzers are outside in a panda.
- Hello, Blagger, says the one in the braided uniform.
- We've been expecting you. Which is it to be? Heathrow or Stansted?
The Bill love their Hendon sarcasm, don't they?
But when we are dropped off at Heathrow and not Paddington Green nick, the penny, or the £75 billion smackers as it turns out, finally drops. This is official. This is government. This blag is an inside job.
What is it Blagger always says? Give a man a shotgun and he can rob a bank. Give a man a bank and he can rob everybody.
- Oi Miguel, gizza another one of them piña coladas. And another of sangria for the ladies. Grassy arse.
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