The New Guv'nor: Stormin' Norman Buckland by Norman Buckland & Lee Wortley

Author:Norman Buckland & Lee Wortley [Buckland, Norman]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781786750716
Publisher: Ad Lib Publishers
Published: 2022-04-27T00:00:00+00:00

10

THE BIRDMAN O’ WOODHILL

Writers’ Note

Some go to prison for an education in criminality. Some go because it’s simply a by-product of their chosen career. Some even go for a holiday. However, our protagonist was somewhat different, for this man went to get back his life; this man went for the sake of his sanity!

So, it’s finally come on top! But to be honest I wasn’t bothered, I deserved it, I mean, who picks up a shooter and marches round to some geezer’s house and goes to town on his stone cladding, while pepper spraying his plant pots with lead and thinks they’re gonna tootle off back to life whistling a happy tune? Well not me, it was obvious, everybody knows me, and every dog and its owner knew I had a beef (problem) with this fella: his mouth was as wide as the fackin’ Mersey; he’d been badgering me for years, I’d had more little rumbles with this man than I’d had hot dinners, he was a fackin’ nightmare. Anyway, in the end after many warnings, I smashed into him and threw him through a window; he got the hump about that and started threatening me with a shooter. Then, one day I heard he was after my family and that tipped the balance. So that’s when I went round to his house and acted out my version of the Mafia’s Valentine’s Day massacre. Stupid thing to do, but I was a fackin’ loose cannon – I didn’t give a fuck for no one.

To cut a long story short I ended up at the Old Bailey getting ten years; I received a five stretch for the firearms and five for affray, but fortunately, I only ended up doing three for the affray bit.

So, for that little bit of naughtiness, I got life’d-off! Well okay, not exactly life’d-off, but seven fackin’ years. ’Ere don’t laugh, ’cos seven years away from my family truly was like a fackin’ lifetime to me! I didn’t think I’d handle it, I thought I’d go absolutely fackin’ loopy; I imagined myself ending up in Broadmoor chasing invisible butterflies around with a teacup in an empty cell. Anyway, there was no way out of it, listen, I didn’t have the judge and his peers in my pocket. I was had, and on my way to do my bit of porridge, from the courthouse to the jailhouse with no stops for tea and tiffin on the way.

Prison wasn’t really a deterrent for me. ’Cos like I’ve stated, at that time in my life I didn’t really give a fuck for nothing or nobody. This for me was just par for the course; in my line of work, it was inevitable that everyone at some time or another has to be prepared to do a bit of Stir, Nick, Bird, Jug, Choky, or whatever else you want to call it. You can even call it Porridge, as the title of the next bit informs you. I guess every area

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