My son, Craig, and I booked a table for a couple of hours at the local snooker centre. It was a quiet Saturday morning, and only two other tables were in use. A group of four pensioners were playing some strange doubles game on one of those tables where it seemed they were allowed to hit any ball they liked. One even threatened another with a ‘good hiding’ if he put him in another snooker. This story is not about snooker; it’s a story about a story.
We couldn’t help but overhear their constant chatter, but we weren’t complaining; it was like we were playing snooker in the company a quartet of old-time comedians. They kept us royally entertained. One of them told this story to his pals, and when it finished, Craig and I could not help but burst out laughing. I have no idea whether the story is true or whether it was just a joke, but it certainly seemed plausible.
This young lad I used to know back in the 1970s – let’s call him ‘Billy’ – went out on the rob from time to time. Along with one of his mates, while wearing monkey masks, he once went into a quiet shop, aggressively knocked a few things over and made his way to the counter. Armed with a baseball bat, he shouted at the shopkeeper “Open the till and give me all the cash, YA SCHMUCK!” The shopkeeper took no chances and did as he was told. Billy took the money, made his escape and fled the scene.
Unfortunately for him, he dropped his wallet while running away. The police found the wallet, and it was enough to identify Billy, and where he lived. In the early hours of the next morning, the police rolled up to Julian Street and banged on Billy’s front door. They eventually forced their way in and managed to arrest him. He kept screaming at the officers that it wasn’t him and they had the wrong man. One of the officers told him they had interviewed the shopkeeper and had also found his wallet which they know he dropped outside the shop. Billy replied, “That’s still no proof that it was me, YA SCHMUCKS!”