Stuart: A Life Backwards Page #2

This is a peaceful protest.

Yeah! F***ing why?

You can't cross these brass flags if

the Home Office doesn't want you to.

That's social f***ing fascism, that is!

And then we must put a fence in behind

you to ensure you're not trespassing

and ones on either side to protect you.

- What?

From the public, sir. They might step on

you. And a fence in front just in case

during the night you roll onto

the road and get run over.

Oh, I see. So you mean

to cage us in completely.

I didn't say cage, sir, no.

That was your word.

Do prisoners really get wages?

Yeah.

You mean a lot like normal people?

Yeah, make a f***ing fortune.

Millionaires coming out of the nick

every week.

You've been in a lot of prisons then?

Have I? F***ing hell.

How many?

Well, um...

Well, start off, when I was a nipper

there was Send Detention Centre,

Baintnow House, back to Send again,

Eriestoke, Norwich,

then I grew up and went to big boy prison.

Whitemoor. Aw, now that's

what I call a real prison.

You got everything there, mate:

terrorists, psychopaths, security threats,

murderers, manslaughters, crazies...

Which lot do you belong to?

Crazies, really.

Mm, yeah.

Norwich, Whitemoor again.

Grendon Underground.

Thirty-one.

I don't think I've missed any.

Oh yes, I have actually!

I've been to Leicester three times as well.

Wayland was me last one.

Good night. Sleep well.

Thank you. Same to you.

Oi, you. Since you got so much

f***ing time on your hands, yeah,

answer this one:
do you know how many people

get killed by screws in prison every year?

Murders.

Oh, sorry, Gov. Excuse us, how was we

supposed to know that bending him in half

the wrong f***ing way was bad for his health?

It was only people like me what is

really rotten, isn't it? Really bad.

Beyond hope. You haven't got the faintest

f***ing clue, have you? Huh?

- Yeah, all he said was "Good night".

- You can f*** off and all you f***ing geeky

- Oh, shut up yourself, Stuart.

- You f***ing wanking middle class c*nt f***, Alexander.

You want to know how I became what I am?

I'm giving you f***ing answers!

Why don't you write a book

with no f***ing answers, eh?

Go on, you f*** off.

You find your f***ing answers.

On a scale of anger, one to ten,

I'm probably on four and Stuart's on eleven.

You never can tell...

how families have been down and they've

been up then they've been down again.

You just like Stuart, you know?

Drugs, prison, being a beggar.

Go on, go on.

Yeah, mate.

- Bastards!

- Morning.

Like the taste of piss, eh?

You bastards.

Someone smells nice.

After three months of preparation.

I mean, who's bloody stupid idea was it that

we camp out over the weekend anyway,

the one time Mr. Straw's not going to be there?

- I bet it was yours.

- Oh, f*** off.

- Oh, I like this song.

- This is a good song.

Still, one blimey thing did

come out of that weekend:

Stuart's idea that his life should

be written backwards.

It was cutting me throat what done it.

Put a beer glass into me neck.

Just lost it.

Sometimes you wouldn't believe how

hard it is to f***ing die.

So, you got a council for that,

because you tried to kill yourself?

Works a trick for the old housing

points, doesn't it?

Whoosh! Straight to the top of the list.

It's not all gone though.

What's not all gone?

The hatred.

I got so many enemies.

Up here, mate.

Somebody's going to get hurt though,

that's what scares me.

When's this thing going to happen?

I call it me "black mists".

Next week? Next month?

Next ten seconds?

That is lovely bit of workmanship.

That's value. That's value.

Oh my God.

This for the series.

For my son.

You've got a son!?

Yeah. In Glasgow with his mum.

Fourteen years of age to mind.

Always out on the golf course,

the little 'un.

Not bad there, mate.

Not better than Laurel Lane.

Wine always smells like sick.

Here, have a beer.

Fancy something to eat?

So why do you want to be a writer, then?

Oh, I don't know, really. Bit like a

disease, all my family's got it.

Didn't want to be left out, did I?

Nah. I know what you mean, mate.

Me dad is a thief,

and, um, me mum's a barmaid.

What's the colour orange highlighter

in your diary for?

Family stuff.

Yellow?

Social.

Now, uh, this book

that you're writing about me,

is it just to make your name?

And yours.

I've, uh, had an idea for a job, too.

For the foreign businessman what

doesn't have time to waste,

what does he need?

An office... in a van.

It's lateral thinking, isn't it?

Gets off the plane at Stansted,

straight into the back of me van.

That will have everything:

good-looking bird what can do shorthand,

fax, internet, wires all over the

f***ing gaff. It's brilliant.

Red sauce or brown?

Oh, yes please.

I mean, uh, red.

- WhatWhat's

- Oh yeah, that fella upstairs

is gonna make me a bed what folds up against

the wall, like what James Bond has.

- Ooh.

- Yeah. It's got to have, um,

springs and latches on the floor

otherwise it's boing, boing, whoosh!

Boing, boing, whoosh?

You know what I mean, bird's not going

to be too happy if she gets her face

squeezed up against the plaster, is she?

Hey.

Sorry.

Good stuff, that. You can use it with anything.

See that right by the bed? This should be a

huge stain where I overdosed there last week.

And all the spilled cans and vomit. That

cleaned it up really, really well, actually.

But you want to, um, you want to leave it, uh,

for about... about a week before you vacuum.

Here you are, mate.

Careful, yeah? It's a bit hot.

I never asked you why you were in prison.

The last time

Stupid things.

Me mate, Smithy, well bubblegum chap,

I'm not being funny, he's in the

Guinness Book of Records.

1983 edition, as it goes.

Like brothers fighting the world.

Respect, trust, and honour.

Go, go, go, go, go!

Right.

Ow.

- Oh, f***. Did you get menthols?

- Menthols? F*** off.

- She'll f***ing kill me. She asked for menthols.

- Well, give her the vodka.

She don't want vodka, she wants menthols!

Go, go, go, go, go!

Aw, I don't believe it!

These aren't f***ing menthols either!

They're just in a green packet.

I've got ten packets of green cigarettes.

Hurry up.

25 quid, 60!?

Women! They think they can boss you

about in everything, don't they?

And one day, Smithy got a tip-off.

- 20,000 quid?

- Just keeps it under the counter.

Not a cop shop in 20 miles.

F***ing That's f***ing irresponsible.

No pride of ownership.

Go, go, go, go, go!

Right.

Let's just say it was funny because

as soon as we was sent down,

Smithy's missus moved in with the

fella what told us about the job.

Five years.

Pretty steep sentence.

Were you armed?

No.

Only with a crowbar.

Hey, Alexander? You wanna stay for tea?

Me favourite, "convict curry".

We used to make it in jail.

Ooh, mushrooms!

- What about the first time, then?

- First time what?

Well, that you were sentenced as an adult.

I can't I can't really talk about that, mate.

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