Présentation de l'éditeur
Bristling with a razor-sharp wit, The Burglar Diaries is the first person account of petty thief Bex: a bit of a geezer who, with long time partner-in-crime Ollie, just about gets by on the money he makes from house-breaking in small town suburbia. Not the sharpest tools in the box, Bex and Ollie get into more than their fair share of scrapes, but they stick together, have a laugh, and make enough cash to stay in the pub all weekend. A confident and lippy raconteur, Bex frequently shares his thoughts on life which are as dodgy as he is and offer an hilarious insight into the mind of the petty criminal.
Extrait
The Burglar Diaries by Danny KingLeadtext: Fred sees red'What?' says Ollie, shining the torch in my face for the umpteenth fucking time.'Get the instructions.''What instructions?''For the video.'Ollie swishes the torchlight around the room a couple of times as I struggle to disconnect the cables out the back of the machine, before bringing it back to rest in my face.'Why?''Electric told me to get 'em while we was here.''Where are they?'What a great question. Like I'd know any better than he would. Ollie's like that though, king of the stupid question. Ain't no question too pointless for him to ask. It's the same all the time, whenever we go anywhere together for the first time he becomes a real 'where's the bogs' or 'how much further is it' merchant. One time after I had a medical and I was telling him about it, he even asked me what blood type group he was. My standard answer to all of these questions, over the years, has invariably been 'How the fuck should I know?' You would have thought he'd got the message by now.'How the fuck should I know? This ain't my house, I don't live here do I? Have a look in those drawers over there by the videos,' which he does, as I make a little more room for my hand so I can finally yank out the last of the cables. I pull the machine out from under the table and take it through to the back door - our point of entry for this evening - to put with the rest of the pile. A big telly, a portable, a microwave, one of those miniature hi-fi systems, an answerphone, a camera, a leather jacket, a three quarter's full bottle of scotch (for personal consumption later) and an alright looking set of graphite golf clubs. Some burglars would take the furniture as well, but I'm not really in that game. Too big and too much of an effort to be arsed with. I'm strictly an electrical appliances man; they yield the most amount of wedge for the least amount of bulk - not counting jewellery of course, though there ain't an awful lot of that about in reality. The image of some Milk Tray man shinning up a drainpipe to steal Lady Fanshaw's diamond tiara is nothing more than a product of Hollywood and a romantic view of burglary. Let me assure you, if Raffles had lived on this estate, he would've nicked videos as well. 'These 'em?' says Ollie, holding out a manual with 'How to use your new video recorder' written in big letters on the front.'Yeah, that's them,' I say.'Well here'ya.''Don't give 'em to me, I don't want them. Stick 'em in your pocket.''I ain't got the room, you take 'em.'This is another of Ollie's little traits, filling his pocket with crap. We ain't in most houses more than ten minutes before he's stashed half a ton of junk we ain't ever going to get a penny for away in his slacks. Calculators, pens, cheap digital watches and anything else shiny that catches his eye. We did this one job once where the geezer had a big bottle of coppers - you know, one and two pence pieces - and old jackdaw here practically gives himself a hernia trying to clamber over the back fence in a hurry, a bit later on, with little more than £19 in his pocket. Cunt!'What you got in there?' I ask.'A chess set.''Chess?''Yeah, all nice carved pieces and a pucker board, it was all set up on the coffee table in the other room.''What the fuck do you know about chess?' I ask. This is rather patronisin
