On Being Mugged and Half Mugged

Please keep the comments coming on the ‘local’ crime fiction subject. I just thought I’d post this before I head off to bed. It comes under the ‘irrelevant personal diversion’ category, so I thought I’d just throw it in before covering more proper crime fiction stuff tomorrow.

In the backblogs Mary asked how I could be half mugged, and I also got a couple of e-mails wondering about it, so here’s the story (which some people will already have heard). A few months ago, I was in the city centre shopping and left at about 5pm by which time the place was starting to empty of shoppers. To get to my bus stop, I decided to cut through a back alley. Yep. Bad idea. There was no-one around except three neds in flammable shell suits. Now I’d better explain ned as I think it’s a British term. It stands for ‘non educated delinquent’ but is specifically used to describe the yobbos that hang around causing trouble. A Scottish politician said last year that we shouldn’t use the term ned as it is demeaning to young people. Well, it’s not. It doesn’t describe all teenagers, it describes…well…neds, and, quite frankly, they deserve it.

The Glasgow version of the ned is a quaintly dressed specimen. He’s invariably kitted out in a shell suit (generally white or various shades of blue and not quite as hideous as the one pictured) that rustles cheaply when he walks, and causes sparks as his legs rub together. It usually has ‘Lacoste’ or ‘Fila’ emblazoned on the back, front, and all down the side of the legs. He wears trainers of the expensive variety, but the only exercise he does is kicking empty cans down the street. His socks are white sports socks and also have a famous brand name down the side. You can easily tell this because for some reason, the fashion this year is for shellsuit bottoms to be tucked into the socks, leaving about 4 inches of sock showing. Perched on top of this lovely ensemble is a baseball cap. Often Burberry. When the hell did Burberry start making baseball caps? And, more to the point, who told these arbiters of fashion that a blue and white nylon shell suit went like a dream with a beige, red and black checked cap? Anyway whatever baseball cap they’re wearing, it too has a name emblazoned on it. Seeing a ned is like seeing one of those taxis covered in advertising. I keep expecting to see one lurching along the street carrying a sign saying “This ned sponsored by Reebok. To advertise on similar neds call….” Without the baseball caps the ned’s hair is short and stuck down to his forehead with enough gel to float a battleship. It’s carefully arranged into spiky little points. Either that or he has a Barlinnie haircut (ie shaved in jail) Should you be unfortunate enough to see a ned naked, you can still recognise him without his flamboyant plumage, by the enormous gold sovereign rings. About 8 of them. The female ned is distinguished by the 18 gold necklaces round her neck (most of them saying ‘World’s Greatest Daughter/Sister/Mum’) and the ponytail poking through the back of her baseball cap.

The rest after the jump.

Anyway, back to my three specific neds (who were indistinguishable from the rest of their obnoxious breed so I don’t need to describe them any further.) As I walked past them they fell silent and stared at me. I carried on walking and heard the ominous sound of the crackling of shell suited thighs as they followed me. There was still no-one else around. Oh dear. They surrounded me so I had to stop and one of them said:

“Gonnae gi’s yer money”. Several responses floated through my head:

“It’s ‘Gonnae gi’s yer money please‘ young man.”

“Listen, I’ve been mugged three times – the first time I got hurt, the second time no-one got hurt and the third time the mugger got hurt, so come on punks, make my day.”

In the end I settled for a stern “No.”

“Aye ye are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Aye ye are.”

Scintillating though this conversation was, I tried to move off and they closed in until I thought I was going to be smothered in nylon. And the smell of cheap aftershave was making my eyes water.

“Gi’s yer purse.”

OK, I was a bit fed up now. I was wearing cheap unlabelled clothes, a pair of silver earrings and a silver watch. Tweedledee, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber were covered from head to foot – literally – in labels, and between them they were wearing enough gold sovereign rings to send a small gold mine owner into an orgasmic frenzy (by the way, it’s the gold mine that’s small, not the owner. I have no idea of the average size of goldmine owners).

I could tell they weren’t serious (as in slash my face with a razor serious). And I was more exasperated than scared, so I said the first thing that came into my head, which for some reason happened to be: “Look, I’m tired, I’m pissed off, and I couldn’t find any boots that Iliked so fuck off.” So they did.

I wish I could say that they limped off licking their wounds from the ass whooping I gave them, using my finely honed self defence moves. Well, I could say that, but it wouldn’t be true. Instead, they just slithered off like poorly co-ordinated lizards badly in need of a makeover.

So, there you have it. That’s all there was to it. It was pretty obvious they were half-hearted about the whole thing and weren’t going to go all the way – it wasn’t a full mugging, more like heavy begging.

Tata,

Donna