* W A R N I N G *
Let's say you wanted to become a real life gangster; where would you go for your training? Well, it depends on the level of your ambition. If you are content with being a wannabe gangster, then binge-watching The Sopranos, fixing a second (fake) exhaust to your car and playing Dr Dre through your sub-woofer, while threatening traffic wardens might be enough.
For medium-level gangsters I would suggest a portfolio career, which would involve a smorgasbord of crimes, including violence, extortion, large-scale theft and if you've got the stomach for it, a sprinkling of drugs supply for good measure. Over a period of time, your crimes would increase with severity and frankly you'd get better at it, thus being financially able to employ apprentice gangsters to be your 'Flash floor cleaner' - they do the hard work so you don't have to.
But what if you want to be at the top of the pile? Not a lifestyle business or an aspiring small enterprise. but what if you have high growth potential? If that's the case then you need a mentor. You need to learn from the best. Learn from the gurus. Just how Tony Robbins became the personal development giant of the planet - he learned from the best in the world, his mentor Jim Rohn. Just as Luke Skywalker defeated the empire with the assistance of a tiny Jedi, Mr Yoda and similarly how Leonardo DiCaprio learned how to be high on Quaaludes, from the world's expert, Jordan Belfort.*
You'll learn more in a one hour conversation with a 'guru' than you will in years of trial (literally) and error and Tully knew this.
He was sleeping rough at ten years old, escaping the violence of his stepfather. By 14, he had smashed a glass bottle and holding it by the neck, pushed the fragmented edges into the face of someone who quickly wished they hadn't pulled a knife on him. Sowing the seeds for a lifetime of crime, Tully was to become a tier one criminal.
In 1983, he was incarcerated in Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight, UK one of the few maximum security prisons in the country. It was here that he had a brief liaison with his first mentor, Charlie.
Like any gentleman would, Charlie invited him in for tea (in his cell) and spotting that he was keen to learn, handed him a book about positive mental attitude. He was a scrap metal dealer who had fallen on the wrong side of the law; when I say fallen I mean leapt, whilst wearing a rocket pack and fully on steroids. 'Charlie' was in fact Charlie Richardson, leader of the Richardson Gang and arch rival of the most famous of British gangsters, the Kray twins. The Richardsons earned the alias' The Torture Gang' as their signature moves were using pliers to remove fingers and toes and hammering six inch nails into (alive) humans to nail them to the floor.
Good to know that whilst he cut off your fingers, he would do so with positivity.
After Charlie came and went Tully, now in his mid-twenties, decided it was time to go to the very top. By some luck (?) there was a fellow inmate who fitted the bill. He'd been given thirty years for murder and sent to maximum security at Parkhurst after the longest criminal trial in British history. It was a highly complex and dangerous investigation, requiring witnesses to have secret interviews and change their identities in exchange for their testimony. The perfect mentor.
Taking the deepest of breaths, Tully approached the cell door of Reggie Kray:
"Mr Kray can I speak to you?"
"Yes come in son." He made him a tea (which apparently tasted foul, but you probably wouldn’t mention it).
"I want you to be my teacher."
"Well, I've never been asked that before, son. Let me think about it and I'll let you know."
Ten minutes later he was back in his cell, clinging onto all he had; a bunk bed and a positive mental attitude, having asked the country's most famous killer to be his mentor. Reggie adored his mother Violet and was still reeling from her death a year earlier, but that night she appeared in his dream. This was the sign that sealed Tully's fate and the next morning Reggie was stood at his door telling him that he agreed to his request. Reggie was now his personal teacher.
They became close and Reggie set about giving Tully the best criminal and business education that money can't buy.
Reggie taught him everything. He gave him the nickname 'Dodger,' (as in 'Artful Dodger' from Oliver Twist) and became the father figure Tully had never had and the results spoke for themselves. Tully amassed a seven-figure crime fortune in less than five years but also got twelve years for the trouble after being convicted of the armed robbery of a jewellers. The job went fully sideways, resulting in a serious injury of staff member, a police chase and Tully swallowing a ring in an attempt to hide some of the evidence. The moral of the story, don't commit armed robbery when it's snowing.
Although Tully was later diagnosed with a psychopathic personality disorder and was emotionally detached from his crimes, this was the one job that played on his mind more than any other. It was to be his last conviction.
After his release in 2009, Tully went on crime detox. He wrote a book, became a speaker and in collaboration with university professors this tragic and dangerous street-kid-turned-villain became fixated with giving back, devoting his life to ensuring troubled youngsters don't follow the same path as him.
Spoiler alert: prison doesn’t really work and it’s all we’ve got, but expecting a career criminal to go straight after release is like sending a fox to a chicken coop to learn vegetarian cooking, running a drug rehabilitation course in a pharmacy, or holding an AA** meeting in a pub. You get the idea.
This makes Tully’s achievements even more remarkable and despite his shocking past, I am both fascinated and inspired. Perhaps even more so, because I witnessed the very beginning of his new crime-free life.
I was his business advisor.
*Jordan Belfort, the real-life Wolf of Wall Street who taught Leo how to ACT high on (not take) quaaludes. I think.
** AA Alcoholics Anonymous
They only got me once, which wasn’t bad going for a ten year career. Police are known for pranks and wind-ups and in the 90s, many were outlawed as unacceptable examples of a ‘canteen culture,’ rife with testosterone-fuelled mischief, ranging from the ridiculous, to the bullying to the downright criminal.
Mild examples include the teapot being super-glued to the tray, a non-existent disturbance call with people waiting to leap out of the bushes, or tricking the newbie into jumping repeatedly on the automatic barrier plate to check it’s working correctly.
My favourite, which thankfully was banned (and rightly so) shortly before I joined, on account of the trauma it caused the victims, involved some pre-planning, a trainee officer in their first few months of service and a mortuary.
Yes, a mortuary.
Acceptance from colleagues is a big deal for a new cop. You’re either in or you’re not and if you’re not, it’s a rough and lonely ride. You have to prove yourself first: a pub fight, a violent domestic or some other dangerous incident, to show that you can be relied upon. Your life is in the hands of the person next to you, without notice and at any given moment, so when it hits the fan, everyone has to know you'll get stuck in. There needs to be evidence that you won’t freeze, panic or run away or a combination of all three (which sometimes happened first time round).
This is why the mortuary prank was so effective. It played on these insecurities and enabled a dreadful slight-of-hand trick.
Here’s how it works. An experienced cop takes the newbie to one side (still wet behind the ears as the expression goes) and conspires to prank a colleague, by hiding in the mortuary. When the prank-victim arrives (to investigate a spurious intruder alarm), the hiding cops jump out and scare the shivering bejaysus out of them. For added effect, this is best performed at night; there’s no one else around, but more importantly there’s nothing like silence and total darkness to dial up heart-rate of a mortuary prank.
Naturally the newbie is thrilled to be in on the joke; finally they sense that they’re truly becoming part of the team. Except they're not. This isn’t the actual prank. It’s an illusion. This is just the set-up.
So while they cheerfully hide among the body bags stacked on sliding stretchers in the refrigerator, next to the main examination room, their colleague closes the door and the lights go out.
Unbeknown to them, there is already an officer hiding in the fridge. Not only is he hiding in the fridge, he has been zipped up inside a black plastic body bag, waiting silently among the corpses.
You can see what I mean when I say this particular one had to be banned. I’m not sure which is worse, when the body bag sits up in the darkness, when their hand grabs your wrist or when you hear the bag talk:
“Cold in here, isn’t it.”
I think I’d still be running now.
How they got me was with an intricate plan. It involved over 70 staff across 5 departments (including the police control room), an Algerian national and a large metal bucket.
About to be posted somewhere else, I was counting down my days on station sergeant duty, which to put in context of challenge and excitement, ranked right up there with defrosting an ice box with a blunt toothpick. The police station I was at had been designated for terror suspects, so in the unlikely event* that someone was arrested on terror offences (PoT**) the whole place would get shut down to become an ultra-secure zone.
This hadn’t happened in years, but just after 3:30pm one Friday afternoon, the phone rang. Special Branch had 'pot'd'*** an Algerian national with a false passport and the Inspector instructed me to get the manual and follow procedure. 'Prepare for Special Branch,' he said.
I may have mildly, secretly panicked. The good news was that a step by step guidance manual had been written and was cloaked in dust on the shelf, waiting for me. The bad news was it was thicker than a car dealers money clip and I only had fifteen minutes to read it.
I ripped out the checklist page and marched around the building, barking orders at anyone I happened across; windows had to be locked, the car park cleared of all vehicles and the cells prepared (that until that day were used for storage, lost uniform items and dead house plants).
I was frantic but after a huge and collective effort from five or six in the team and with a few minutes to spare, the checklist was complete and I sat quietly in the office contemplating. The radio was on the desk I listened anxiously to the details unfolding.
“One detained. PoT. Sus links to Islamic terror organisations on a false passport, over.” I could hear a foreign voice shouting in the background of the transmission. He didn’t sound happy. My mind was racing.
Two painfully long minutes went by and the radio went off again:
“Can we have a reception committee please he’s kicking right off.” The agitated prisoner was now going bananas in the back of the van and the arresting officer was barely audible above the screaming and banging. After muttering something beginning with ‘f’ under my breath, I started to rally a few cops from around the office and we made our way to the secure yard where the van was slowly reversing – and rocking with the prisoner’s tantrum – into position.
The Special Branch officer jumped out:
“Ready? He’s a nutter.” I could hear him screaming from inside the van in what sounded like Arabic, his face and limbs alternating their appearance at the bars in the back window. I could feel myself being ushered to the front of the welcoming party, which seemed odd at the time but I had too much adrenaline to process it. As the van was unlocked, both doors flung open and the prisoner leaped into the air like King Kong’s smaller yet equally peeved cousin. I was livid:
“Why the fuck isn’t he handcuffed?” I screamed at no one in particular and it was all I could think of as my feet left the ground, launching myself at him like a crap Superman.
No terrorist was going to spoil my day or anyone else’s. But it was at some point mid-air, at least three inches off the ground, that I suddenly realised I was acting alone. With such a large reception committee behind me. Wait a minute, why was the reception committee so large, I wondered. Why is no one helping me? Then as if to underscore my realisation, I saw the prisoner lift a full metal bucket and with a majestic swing of his arms, delivered the payload of freezing cold water it was holding with precision, hitting me squarely in the neck.
Everything stopped. I froze. Literally. I was still ticking at the lack of handcuffs and wondering what the Peter Paul and Mary a prisoner was doing with a metal bucket and then…oh.
My soul sank. Slight of hand. I was so focused on what was in front of me, I didn't spot what was really happening.
There was no terrorist. There had been no arrest. The international mastermind was in fact Ali, the esteemed payroll clerk from the second floor, smirking in wonderment of his moment: the only time in his life when he could drench the duty sergeant with freezing cold water without being hit with a baton. I never did discover who was the mastermind; I accepted defeat and took it as a compliment.
Slight-of-hand is not just for magicians. Something wonderful can be hidden in plain sight.
Just like a full metal bucket.
*This was in between gulf wars and just after the Good Friday Agreement so as far as terrorism on mainland UK was concerned, we were in a quiet period.
**PoT was the Prevention of Terrorism Act 1989, superseded by the Terrorism Act 2000.
***Pot'd - to detain someone under the Prevention of Terrorism Act, nothing to do with snooker.
* W A R N I N G *
The themes in the following post may be distressing.
She was just a year old and her brother, James was aged three the day her father walked out. It meant the end of her mother’s career, moving across the country and restarting life as a family of three.
The years that followed were beyond troubled.
Suffering with insomnia and bullied for being slim, she developed an eating disorder in her teens. Alongside trying to maintain a relationship with her father, she found it extremely difficult to connect with people. It was during this time that she discovered a therapeutic and horrific ritual that, whilst distressing for her mother and brother, was the only thing that made her feel alive.
She cut herself.
Suffering from depression she self-harmed regularly before discovering drugs. In fact there was barely a drug that she didn’t take although heroin was her go-to. Her spiralling self-destruction continued into her twenties and almost with catastrophic results. She planned her own suicide and even tried to hire a hitman to do it for her. Put simply, she was a punk kid who'd be lucky to make 30.
At the age of 24, scarred and tattooed, the safest place for her was the psychiatric ward. When things came to a head, she was detained and closely watched; her life depended on it. She was, for a short time at least, safe from the hitman, the heroin and herself.
The word 'remarkable' doesn't even come close to what happened next. According to Forbes in 2009, this distressed young woman was the most powerful celebrity on the planet.
On the planet.
For someone who found daily life so excruciatingly difficult, how, in the name of Rocky and Bulwinkle, did she find the resilience to reach the very top of her game? As Sharon Salzburg noted (meditation guru, best-selling author and provider of the quote I was looking for):
"You are capable of so much more than we usually dare to imagine." This is a truth. Especially true when it comes to takeaway pizza.
Anyway let's examine the facts about this extraordinary woman. She is a mother of six (by adoption as well as birth), an academy award winning actor (throw in a few golden globes for good measure), a writer, a director, an entrepreneur and a global humanitarian (working with the United Nations). As if that wasn’t enough, she achieved this through three divorces and a double mastectomy (to prevent the cancer that her mum suffered and took the life of her Aunt). Oh and in a final middle finger to her past mental health troubles, she decided to share the emotional experience of her consultation, operation and recovery publicly (despite a challenging history with the media) to encourage other women at risk of breast cancer. Her decision led to an unprecedented and sustained increase in gene-testing around the world as thousands of women faced their fears and stepped forward.
She stared death in the face and death blinked first.
She sat in the darkest of thoughts, across her formative years, yet went on to achieve truly incredible things in the oppressive glare of the public attention worldwide.
But despite all of this, Angelina Jolie will, in her own words: “always be a punk kid with tattoos.”
Mental health support:
Samaritans (UK): Call 116123 - www.samaritans.org
SPL (USA): 1-800-273-8255 - www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
In an undisclosed market town in Southern England, the security guard (off-guard) stumbled out of his workstation almost face-planting, as his eyes and commitment to his job moved considerably faster than his legs were ready for. The only crime of the month was happening right in front of him and on his watch. He lunged for the door.
The arch-villain had grabbed a Dyson from the window display and legged it out of the shop and up the hill and - I shit you not - towards the magistrates court which was situated - and I shit you not again - in the same building as the police station.
Why would he run towards the law in broad daylight, carting a stolen yellow vacuum cleaner? Well, his house was on the small housing estate next door to the courts and there was a convenient alleyway that lead from the top of the high street, between ‘Your Worship’ and the back gardens on the estate. Just 150 metres or so and he’d be able to duck into the alley and ten more metres he’d be home and dry.
But the main reason was this: he was a bad criminal. One of the worst criminals I ever met. Not ‘worst’ because of the despicable nature of his crimes but because he was really really bad at it.
As the call came in, we’d literally just poured the tea, before sharing the customary eye roll and strolling out of the back yard past the police cars and round the corner to where the Pablo Escobar of suction was padding through his garden and in the through the back door in plain sight.
There wasn’t a police officer either on or off duty who wouldn’t have immediately a) known the identity of the vacuum villain (sorry) b) known exactly which address he was headed towards. We knocked with authority on the door. His nervous girlfriend opened the door to a crack:
“What you want?”
“Can you go and get him please?”
“Who?” Insert Martin Freeman's favourite acting face (see below). “No. He’s not here.” Repeat face. “He’s not here.”
"Either you get him or we’re coming in to get him." We’ve just watched him run in with a hoover.” My foot was wedged in the door (one of the first lessons I learned in the job) in case she felt like making life difficult.
“He didn’t have no hoover.”
“I thought you said he wasn't here.” Not quite 'Line of Duty' but I was amused nonetheless. She stepped out of the way leaving her spirit in the doorway but resigned to the section 32 (ask H) that was about to take place.
What started as a house search quickly descended into a farcical game of hide and seek. The stolen Dyson was outside the bedroom door, sheepishly eyed by the girlfriend. We drew our batons and slowly opened the door to the main bedroom:
"We're coming ready or not, Matthew." I opened the door cautiously, ready to react. Nothing happened. My eyes darted around the room and in the same moment we both looked at the wardrobe. "Come out Matthew." Silence. "Maaa-theewwww. We've found you!" Still nothing. Even my sing-song voice didn't flush him out. "Come on! It's my turn to hide." Not professional I know but by this point we were struggling to hold it together. We moved to the closed doors.
Nodding to each other and on three, we yanked open a door each to reveal its contents. Empty but for the human-shaped lump sat cross-legged with a blanket draped over his head.
"Hello Matthew." Again, nothing. The blanket was breathing heavily so I put my baton back in the holster, deciding it would only impede my next manoeuvre. I bent down to grab the corners and with a Houdini flourish I whipped the material up in the hair and over his head.
"Ta-da!" Matthew held his hands up in submission. "Put your hands down Matthew it's not the Sweeney. Come on we've got to bring you in."
When I began writing this post (around 7pm Saturday 1st May 2021) I hadn't figured out how to frame the ending. Probably something about the comedic and no-doubt unprofessional manner in which the detail of the arrest was relayed to the custody sergeant or whatever.
Then this happened and the ending wrote itself.
At 7:26pm and 7:28pm I was still writing this post when I received two calls on Facebook Messenger, neither of which I answered. I rang back and we had a 2 minute conversation which consisted of a welfare check, a location check and then an apology for bothering me.
I stared at my phone for some time, followed by a longer stare at the wall. He'd called me by accident, which in itself is not unusual. Also the fact that I'd not spoken to him for over 20 years - not even via text - might not surprise you that much. If I told you he was a former colleague and we were both Sergeants together in the job it could cause a smile.
But what if I told you he was the custody sergeant on duty on the very day of the Great Vacuum Robber?
He booked him in.
Martin Freeman Acting Face
PS If you're not sure what I meant by the Martin Freeman acting face reference from the British panel show Never Mind The Buzzcocks, here it is:
CEO & Co-founder of the PopUp Business School.