Read For the Love of God and the Arab Rising Page 7

  Chapter six: Socially Acceptable. I’m not long home when there’s a knock at the door; I head for the hallway and immediately recognise the very large shadow on the other side of the front door. After an hour or so talking about work and boring ourselves silly; it was decided that it was about time we had a night out with the lads. A few beers around Trafalgar Square or Soho, and then on to the main event: the new Casino in Leicester Square. I yell through the serving hatch to Cat that we are heading on out as we usually do once a month around payday. She pokes her head through the hatch, demands a kiss and informs me that she’s off to her mates anyway. It’s all OK. I have a freedom pass off the wife, plenty of beer tokens, and we’re outa here.

  You may be thinking that Jeff is your stereo typical ‘jack the lad’ waster, how wrong can you be. Jeff is 22 stone and 5 ft 11 inches tall, but bloody huge compared to me. He is only an inch or so taller than me, but I am only fourteen stone and have an athletic build. Jeff is just a powerful lump and does not read or write but definitely makes up for it with regards common sense and has amassed a reasonable amount of collateral in his life. The house is paid off, and he buys and sells cars as a hobby. He sold his Jag just to get a good price whilst the market was strong, which really caused some friction in the house I can tell you. His missus loved that Jag. So he is in essence, the complete opposite of Steve Mitchell. Jeff has two other brothers just a big as himself, albeit slimmer and fitter, and they know every villain in the area. In fact they were brought up in St Marys Cray, Orpington, Kent; not the most salubrious part of town, and have known all the local villains since their school days. And here they are, the other two: Paul and Kevin. I can hear the car horn outside, blaring its way through the night air. All three are general builders and labourers, and on this particular Friday night all four of us guys head for Leicester square. We load ourselves into Pauls car and get onto the A2 heading for the Blackwall Tunnel and the East End. All looks familiar as we drive through Cheapside, Popular and past the Tower of London. Its nine o’clock at night, it’s a dark November night and every light in the city is switched on; don’t you just love London at night? The lads ramble on and gossip about anyone they know, who has had any misfortune, especially if it involves violence, money or women and not necessarily in that order. It’s a steady drive along the embankment as we pass ornate lamp posts and civil works of art in the form of Bronze Statues and Egyptian cenotaphs, all sited strategically along the banks of the river Thames. And then we turn right and head north into Trafalgar Square. We choose the NCP car park in China Town, Soho, which is just north of the square. Here, in the heart of the west end, it’s a short walk to Covent Garden, Piccadilly or Leicester Square; it’s a great spot for a night out on the town, so we head for a few west end pubs. But the order of the night is to finally end up in the ‘Grand Casino’ on Leicester Square: Blackjack and Roulette are the order of the night; coupled with extensive chit chat about any reasonably good looking woman who crosses our path. The fact that all four of us are like gulping fish when it comes to chatting up women is totally forgotten as we pat each other on the back and laugh at our own jokes. The buzz of the Casino is a drug that lights my veins with an invisible energy. The reality of what is happening to my brain is not lost, the stimulus of risk and reward is causing dopamine to be released into my blood stream and I love it. I get off on it, and I don’t care if I am straight up and admit it. Enjoying life is my goal and I will not be one of ‘those’ sensible types all ways at home watching TV. I stroll past a blackjack table advertising a minimum bet of fifteen quid, that’ll do nicely. My chest rises as I draw a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves and slow my heart rate. My conscience pricks my ear, nice and slow Steve, nice and slow. Stop if you start to lose. Then there is the little devil in me, sitting on my other shoulder, go for it son! You can’t win unless you play. You are only on this earth once, so make the most of it. The place is so busy, people coming and going, politely manoeuvring for a position at the table of choice. Croupiers push and pull at chips of plastic that have more of an effect on some peoples’ lives than genuine money. Time flies by as if one is caught in a time warp of illicit pleasure; the cosy, warm feeling that envelopes you will last as long as you are winning or have a handy supply of money. Our night comes to an end as Jeff wanders over to me and announces he is all out of cash, he has lost his dough, which is a real turn up for the books for our savvy Jeff. You win some, you lose some: it’s time to go home. Outside the Square buzzes with activity, its 2 am and the place is filled with locals and tourists alike; walking, talking, and shouting with the excitement of it all. Restaurants are filled to bursting, and every seat in the park is taken. And then as we stroll south to the lower side of the square, towards Soho; two cars swing into the square: A brand new Bugatti Veyron, and the latest four door Porsche. The Porsche is fitted with the biggest body kit and wide wheels I have ever seen. A young man in his twenties is driving, his dark Arabic looks only causing me envy as I try to imagine his privileged lifestyle and the string of exotic women he must court. We look, look again, and then head for the car park and Paul’s 10 year old Ford Mondeo.