Friday, January 25, 2008

Contraband

What follows, what I have just discovered tonight, is too good - or bad - to be true, but in my heart of hearts I have an awful feeling that True it be.
I feel sick.

I also feel down. It is the annual global shitty season, the period a few weeks into a new year when people have become accustomed to being back at work, people who've got fatter, more inward-thinking, and are now very cold, at least in this hemisphere. And I've been obliterating my oft-regurgitated resolutions to not smoke and to weigh less, by smoking more and exerting a heavier than normal gravitational force on the UK, so that's been fun.

Last night, I got to help Large Northern Flatmate attempt to extract our sodding mouse from our shitty rented living room at midnight. I had been standing alone in a towel and a vague fug of bemusement when I looked down at the floor and saw the fucker staring back up at me (The mouse, not Large Northern Flatmate). We managed to trap it under the sofa when it made a break for it and ran over my foot, under the closed door of the kitchen, and behind the washing machine where it stubbornly refuses to leave, like a bent politician in office.

I then decided to phone my lovely ex-American girlfriend to say Hey! We've seen a mouse, on her answerphone, because I'm desperate. In the 24 hours that has passed, she hasn't replied. Something tells me she never, ever will.
So that's the end of that; finally meeting an attractive, intelligent, and decent girl who freely admitted that she loved me worryingly early into our crapulous long distance relationship, thereby scaring me off like the shallow, fragile, pathetic one-dimensional male arse that I am, forcing me to call the whole thing off before I really hurt her, only to hurt her anyway as I hid in blissful peace 4,000 miles away while she went through the rejection, the pain, and the self-loathing until she finally achieved acceptance and rebirth only for me to re-enter her life during the now normal (for most women) Me-hatred stage.

And that's just rubbish. At least I'm trying to desperately and pointlessly stalk keep in touch, like the shallow, fragile, pathetic one-dimensional male arse that I am.

But that is not the point of this post, not by a loooooooong stretch. Mouse and Ex have no bearing on what was revealed to me tonight, and are mere incidentals. What I discovered was truly the stuff of movies, folklore, and moral fucking minefields.

As I commit this to the World Wide Web, I realise that this will leave the realm of 'Gobsmacking Family Incident' and become a tenuous friend-of-a-friend story. But I digress. This will remain a very real cliff-hanger, a What-Really-Happened?

Either way, I could vomit.

Today is my Mother's birthday, my sprightly 67-year-old, wheelchair-bound, bottle blonde old dear who shat me out into this world like a chicken laying a fat brick, 33 godforsaken years ago. I had travelled up to her bungalow in Just-North-Of-London London to pay her a surprise visit and furnish her with a digital frame I've spent the better half of a week filling full of old pictures and - oddly - an Aerosmith MP3 that she really, really likes.

She loved it. Feelgood points: 10 billion.

Later into this evening, my Mum's old friend turned up, freelance agent to the stars. Vacations in Florida. Thinks everyone's gay. And during our discussion, she talked about Nothing To Declare, a Living TV show she's rather fond of. She described to me this airport reality show, the stories, the tales of nervous, twitchy people being sniffed at by dogs and ultimately being arrested for massive drug possession.

So I swore her to secrecy (fairly large mistake), and revealed my vaguely related story of buying Class A drugs amid hordes of policemen in broad daylight.

'Well you know about that, don't you?', she replied, pointing up at the ceiling.
'What?' I looked up.
Still a ceiling.
'Oh my god, you don't know!'
'No. What are you talking about?'
'Well your mother obviously hasn't told you for a reason.'
'Told me What??'
'About 18 months ago,' she began, 'about a year or so after they'd moved in here, they had a guy in to look at the light fittings.'

This makes sense. Mum is in a wheelchair and my 70-year-old stepdad is a stranger to light fittings.
And not walking like a penguin.
And not being deaf.
'Well, this guy is up a ladder,' she continues, 'when he sees this package hidden at the top of the cupboard.'
'A package?'
'So he brings it down and shows it to my Mum and Stepdad. "Is this yours?" he says. No-one knows what it is, so they open it.'

I grimace in precognitive shock. I know what's coming, mainly due to the fact that we'd been talking about drugs for the last half hour. And before anyone has any other ideas - it ain't mine. This package was news to me.

'So they open it up.'
'And?'
'White powder. Solid white powder. Cocaine.'

I frown. 'What?'

Where I stood was not the place of my childhood, but my folks' new home. My Mum moved out of their old house and into this bungalow only a couple of years ago.
I begin to feel giddy. 'How big was it?' I whimper.
My Mum's friend makes a 30cm gap with her hands. 'About so big, all wrapped up in cellophane.'

For a full year, while I helped my Mum move in - Jesus, even when I had crashed there for 3 months while I was between houses - a kilo of cocaine had been stashed in my mother's kitchen by the previous dodgy owners. Street value, I surmised, was about £50,000. Call it €67.000 if you will. Or if you prefer, $100,000. In fact, if I may, it was AUS $112,000, 708,000 South African Rand, and a very pleasant sounding 3 million Thai Baht.

That, I yelled on hearing the story, was a down payment on a house.
And a really good party.

I could have sold it. All.
Nay, I would have sold it. Most.
Call me a bastard if you will, but as God As My Witness, I would have sold that fucking cocaine - the majority of it - at a reduced rate to some scumbags I know, and kept a happily sizable chunk for myself and some close personal friends.

But my Stepdad is more Daily Mail than I.

'I'm not having that in my house,' he said panicking, and flushed the lot - all 20th of a million pounds - down the toilet and into the drainage system of the home counties. And so scared were my folks of the whole un-be-fucking-lievable incident that they told no-one and allowed a full year and a half to elapse before I got wind of this.

I spoke to my Mum who confirmed everything, then pissed on my 'I could've sold it for you' fire by declaring that lives would be ruined if I did.
Damn that woman's morals.

So, Happy Birthday, Mum.

My mouth remains open wide with shock as I type. I have grilled my Mum in earnest to discuss exactly what she saw. It was a large, tightly wrapped, well sealed package containing nought but a huge brick of solid white powder, vast and hidden from view, the words of - admittedly - a near-pensionable Jewish woman from North West London whose only point of reference is Lethal Weapon and Hill Street Blues, leading me to surmise that this could well have been a very large parcel of gak hidden in her kitchen.

It sounds utterly fucking ridiculous but this hidden package, the threatening people who visited my parents during their first year in their new home looking for the previous owners... I don't know. I really don't know. Is anyone that stupid to leave a kilo of class A's behind and not even come back for it? That, to me, is the only mystery. But it's no secret that the previous owners were a cagey, middle aged, secretive and eager to leave couple who told my folks they were emigrating 'somewhere' and left no forwarding address.

Even I am in two minds as I commit this to Blog. But I veer towards this final assumption... it was probably, not possibly, but probably a kilo of pure uncut cocaine stashed three feet above my close family's heads for about a year.

I'd've nicked that.

18 comments:

Angela-la-la said...

Ah, the priceless memories that this post invoked...



Hill St Blues was class!

Word said...

Spliff on, Montana.

Z said...

Yes darling, but you haven't considered the other side of the coin. Consider the Luck of Fweng. You'd have been caught in the act, or someone would have died and it'd be traced back to you. And if you'd suddenly splashed around large amounts of cash, would you have known how to launder it? They'd have been on to you in no time and now you'd be languishing in jail instead of dedicating your life to our entertainment.

Clarissa said...

I wouldn't have had the foggiest as to what to do.

Will said...

Which Aerosmith song was it?

chopperbomb said...

I'm gobsmacked. "Smacked", get it? Wait, that's heroin. Either way, that is massive news. We'll discuss it over a beer soon...

Quote said...

Nice one.

You must feel a proper Char....oh.

luna said...

That explains all the dead fish!

That will teach you not doing the dusting for your Mum!
Have you thought of ripping the floorboards and dislodging the flushing cistern?
In case there's the odd dose still stashed around...

Hahaha I laughed at this one.Evidently another instalment in your future comedy series.

Em said...

Wow! But. . .yeah. . .that would've been a crazy thing to do, really.

Vi said...

I can see you now ripping up all floor boards, ceilings looking for more!

Z said...

If it cheers you at all, dear boy, I've finished your meme.

Huw said...

They say they flushed it...

PI said...

Here via Z and what an interesting post. All I can say is yay for step-dads and Mums.

Peach said...

bloody hell, like the numbers came up but you hadn't bought the ticket!

londongirl said...

Humn. But you probably would have got yourself put in prison whilst selling it and then your problems would be MUCH worse...

jeremy beagle said...

Not wanting to excite you too much but I hear there is more buried in the backgarden

fwengebola said...

FB ~ Yes, Hill Street Blues. That's all I've been thinking about recently, and not the package.
Word ~ Yes indeed. Thanks.
Z ~ Ten seconds into hearing the story, I had thought about that possible parallel universe where I found it first. I would've got high off my own supply, then arrested, then inprisoned, then someone's bitch in E-Wing And my Mum would've been rather depressed, what with her being my initial supplier by accident.
Clarissa ~ Sadly, I would've. And the outcome would've probably been baaaad.
Will ~ Love in an elevator.
No, seriously, it was 'Don't want to miss a thing', a syrupy ballad from a film with a big fucking asteroid in it - you know, during that spate of asteroid films from a few years ago.
CB ~ It's unreal. Let me know when you're free, fuckhead.
Q ~ I'd've felt a proper charlie with a huge and irreversible drugs habit to feed.
Luna ~ They had the house turned over when they moved in and decorated. Oddly enough, the kitchen ceiling was the last thing to be done.
And they'd long since found and flushed the fucker away by then.
Em ~ Welcome. And yes, it would've been stupid and highly illegal. But tempting. From model citizen (-ish), to Pablo Escobar.
(-ish).
Vi ~ How did you kn... ? Never mind.
Z ~ Right, I'm checking that out...
Huw ~ Come to think of it, my Mum has seemed pretty wired for, oh, about 18 months.
Pi ~ Hello and welcome. Yes, yay for common sense, decency, morals and vast-quantity-of-illegal-drug destroying.
They should move to Colombia and become crop sprayers.
Peach ~ Yes, that's a nice analogy. Except prospective lottery winners may not end up with a massive drug addiction.
Actually, some might.
LG ~ Yes, my one consoling thought was that I could be dead by now.
JB ~ Welcome too. And regrets at your (near) namesake's demise, or 'Beadle's not about', as the Sun said.
I'm going to get the train up there and dig up the damn garden now...

Dandelion said...

Oh, this is hysterical. Jeremy Beagle must be gutted!