The Ugly One

Everyone bundling out into the cold, you and your mates part of the massive crowd. Seemed like the whole bloody East End had come out for a special Saturday afternoon showing of “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly”. Absolute classic. How’d the Ities makes better cowboy movies than the Americans?

It was certainly your favorite film. The anticipation had been killing you all week waiting for today. The movie had taken the place of football, West Ham playing away in some Northern shithole none of the lads had felt like traveling too.

Angel Eyes was your favorite. Loved that there was the reggae connection through that King Stitt track. You’d gone all the way down to Brixton to pick up a copy. Clandisc must have been moving a boatload of ’em cause it took you weeks to finally find a copy.

Can’t really blame anyone for loving the tune though, could you? King Stitt doing his best toasting over top of a storming Crystalites rhythm. That blaring organ that seemed to be on all their tunes never failed to do the job. One of the black lads at school had told you his name was Winston Wright. Winston certainly knew how to play.

Fucking hell it was cold out, wind cutting through your crombie, At least the rain had held off. You were taking your chances wearing the crombie out with the clouds as grey as they were but it’d only been last week a trip down to Camden had resulted in you coming home with this beauty.

Three button, fly front. Velvet collar. And of course you had a red hankie stuck in the breast pocket. It was the dogs. Candy striped Ben Sherman underneath with your sta prest and royals. Among the lads you were obviously the dresser of the group. Not afraid of aggro either were ya?

It had only been last week on the way to Camden you’d ran into two cunts. Millwall supporters of course. Coming out the tube they’d bumped into you. After telling them to fuck off they’d started giving it the big ‘un about being Millwall.

Shortly after the red mist had descended, as they say. Memories of six Gypsy bastards, Millwall supporters of course, kicking fuck out of you and your mates Keith and Steve a few months ago outside the Commercial Tavern.

The first one, the one mouthing off about Millwall, had got it first. Caught him by his baggy harrington, scruffy cunt, and hit him with a right hook. As he instinctively began to tuck his head in you’d nailed him with an uppercut. Spark out. The hard work at West Ham Boys Club was paying off.

After seeing his mate collapse in a pile the other one was on his toes. Didn’t take much to catch up to the tubby bastard, tripping him from behind as he crumpled into a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

You were on him in a flash, putting the boot in. Or in this case the brogue. Fuck knows how long you’d kicked him for. Enough that the brogue had a tear in its leather from one of his teeth. Bit of kit lost to a good cause.

Hardly noticed Whitechapel tube station up ahead lost in last weeks memory. The lads had hung on your every word when you told them about it. It’d been stupid to go that far from home alone but everyone else was skint.

Out of the Commercial Road Troxy and into the tube. It was a constant crush of people today. But your lot stood out. Short hair, smartly dressed. How these other mugs just couldn’t give a shit you’d never know.

Onto the tube and you embarks on the quick journey home. Soon you’ll be out and into a boozer, getting the evening started right. Hopefully Trevor had picked up those blues you’d asked him too. That King Stitt track playing in your head and your were buzzing.

It was going to be a good night.

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