Somewhere way back when, I don’t even know exactly when, I made a career decision. My ambition was to be a rebel. Frankly it didn’t matter a flying fuck what work I did for a living as long as I didn’t go down the pit, work in the purgatory of a foundry, or waste my brains as a payroll clerk.

This was a heady decision for a 10 year old. There was no defining moment, no critical incident, just a certain knowledge that this was my destiny. I wanted to be a professional pain in the arse, a thorn in the flesh, a boho, a bum. Like a seasoned old timer I reflected on my career as a low life so far. I rolled up a Christmas streamer of crepe paper into a cigar shape. Lit it and quietly choked as I smoked the devil weed of Christmas past.


I had started my career trajectory early by eloping with my girlfriend Diane at the age of four. Diane was gorgeous, and a rebel like me. Her ability to piss without the aid of a dick was a source of wonder to me. She was without fear. Her compassion for all animals moved me greatly. She would happily handle and kiss worms, frogs, woodlouse, and all other manner of incarnation. With a bit of luck she might even kiss me one day.

She hopped aboard the rear strut of my tricycle with a cardboard attaché case full of Jacobs Fig Rolls, jam sandwiches and a bottle of ginger pop. She threw her arms round my neck, clinging on tight and I knew this babe needed taming. We headed out for the open road. We had seen Dragnet on TV and we meant business. We were about to live the dream.

I wore a mean duffle coat onto which some cynical WW2 veteran had pinned his medals. My Wellington boots, even though they had a hole in them, would kick the ass of anyone who got in our way. Diane wore the sexiest dungarees and pumps this side of Paris. If I had had a watch to wear, despite the fact I couldn’t even tell the time yet, I would have thrown it away in a gesture of defiance. We were heading for the Badlands of err well we weren’t sure where, but we knew we had a date with destiny. Fuck you, post war Britain, the future begins with us.

We didn’t get too far. The Feds cornered us before we made the A6 Derby Road. About 500 yards at a guess. I refused to let Diane take the rap for this even though I know her greatest wish was to die with me in a hail of bullets like on Highway Patrol. I surrendered to Broderick Crawford, he seemed like a decent kind of guy even though my Mum told me he was a drunk.

Our Bonnie and Clyde days were over. Diane acquired the new nickname of ‘Dicey’ as in dangerous, death defying, devil may care. Me, what can I say. I still bear the scars. At the time there was a popular hit written by Jim Reeves.

It was called ‘Bimbo’.

The lyrics went something like:
“Bimbo, Bimbo, where ya gonna go-e-o
Bimbo, Bimbo, whatcha gonna do-e-o
Bimbo, Bimbo, does your mommy know
That you're goin' down the road to see a little girleo.

You never catch him sittin' still, he's just the rovin' kind,
Altho' he's just a little boy, he's got a grown-up mind.
He's always got a shaggy dog a-pullin' at his clothes,
And everybody calls to him as down the street he goes.”

Yeh, my new nickname was Bimbo. Brothers, parents, neighbours. Everywhere I go. Bimbo.

Have you any idea what that does to a little guy’s self-esteem?

I withdrew into myself and plotted my revenge.

‘Born to be Wild’

You mofos have got it coming.


TO BE CONTINUED

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