Nice One Cyril

Let me first introduce myself. My name is Cyril Reginald Saunders or just call me Cyril for now. I came into this world in the winter of 1939. My place of abode at the time was situated in the plush borough of Bermondsey in London. I came from a big family that consisted of five brothers and three sisters. By coincidence, I had longed to follow in my father’s footsteps as a well-respected burglar, doing mostly houses and the occasional warehouse, but funnily enough the old codger collected stamps, would you believe. (Can’t be a bad bloke) My mother Aida, God bless her, took great pride in bringing us up, and especially as we’d turned out a right load of thieves and scallywags, along with anything else that was associated with crime. I personally yearned for job satisfaction and independence. Yet for some mysterious reason I landed up getting nicked just before my fourteenth birthday. Anyway on with my story. Whether for this reason or another I got into more serious trouble just after leaving school when I was just beginning to the hang of things. Ironically, it was when I had reached my late teens when I started to do even bigger jobs and getting more daring with it.

Anyway, having successfully been spotted by a talent scout (villains that is) I was asked to join a London mob called the Big D Outfit situated in the East End of London, and boy, I was on my way. They had the lot working for them, safe crackers, dynamite experts, forgers, and top-notch getaway drivers. The operation was run by a man called The Major. Ex-army type who had previously been engaged in military type operations, here and overseas. It must have been around 1959 when the Major boasted he was going to pull off one of the biggest jobs in history. He summoned us a meeting at one of his many warehouses, whereby we were given a briefing session. Positioned in front of us was an old tea-chest - and on top of it stood proud the Major. Little by little we began to get the low-down on the job. The lights were slowly dimmed and so began a short film session. The job as it turned out was going to be an armed robbery of a security van belonging to a firm called Sutton and Cartwright, the very same people who specialised in the transportation of gold bullion whose headquarters were situated in Church Grace Street, London. In the course of his briefing the Major outlined his plan which went something like this. The security van left the bank at precisely ten o’clock, every morning, whereby it took the exact same route. Hiding in wait in would be our firm, gathered together in three separate vehicles, ready and waiting to pounce. At a precise moment two things would happen. Firstly, a smoke bomb would be used to knock out the guards and anyone who was in the vicinity. This was accompanied by the use of tear gas which would enable our gang to move in and immobilised the vehicle. The security van would then be winched on to a low-loader truck and taken back to our warehouse where we’d go to work on it with the acetylene equipment, by thus cutting a hole through the rear doors and enter, thereafter. In short once the job had been successfully completed the gold bullion would then be distributed amongst ourselves, and hence going our separate ways, moreover, becoming fabulously rich. The Major, thus described the job as the most audacious crime of the 20th century. By now, the Major had worked himself into a state uncontrollable frenzy at the very thought of getting his hands on all that lovely loot. So the scene was set for one of the biggest robberies to come out of London.

Anyway, to cut a long story short the job went off like clockwork. However, during the execution of the raid my wristwatch had regrettably gone missing. The worrying thing was it had my name stamped on the reverse side of the damn thing. It didn’t take long for the police to put two and two together which later led to my downfall. In fact a week later there was a knock on my door. The bogies picked me up and took me to the local nick and later charged with armed robbery. So consequently as a result of my stupidity, in September 1959, I appeared before Bow Street Magistrate’s court for sentencing. The Judge, a well-respected man by the name Lord Chief Justice Gordon Ramsbottom, gave his rather disturbing verdict. Whilst standing there in dock he had the audacity to announce. “Let the bastard rot in hell.” In his final summing up, he said - “Cyril Stanley Saunders, you are a menace to society, and therefore, as you’ve had previously convictions, I thereby sentence you to a term of no less than twenty five years in prison.”

To say I was devastated by his harsh sentence was an understatement. This was without doubt the worst thing that ever happened to me. But little did the authorities know I had the intelligence and wit to starch my share of the booty away before being caught. Only I and I alone knew of its whereabouts. What I had done in fact was to bury my share of the gold in the grounds of an old church called St Mary’s just off the Wandsworth high street. So with this in mind I had the luxury of a vast fortune waiting at my disposal once I had finished my porridge. Undoubtedly, all I had to do was dig the darned thing up as and when the moment was right. With twenty five years in the nick to look forward to all I could do was to sit back and bide my time. The first ten years were the worse really. However, during my time in prison I had managed to strike up a remarkable bond with several of the inmates. Let me see now, there was Snowy, the explosives expert. Charlie, the get-away driver and Sid the forger, and of course not forgetting Harry the safe cracker: all-in-all a right bunch of villains.

As time drifted by incarcerated in the solitude of prison life, I made a firm pledge to myself, which was, I never ever wanted to go back to prison again. The years had taken its toll on me. It had changed my way of thinking. I wanted more than ever to become a man of respectability. A man that people could look up too. Let’s face it, having been banged up for the best part of my life I had plenty of time to a lot of serious thinking. In the end my plan was to buy myself respectability.

Fifteen years had passed by when I summoned by the board of governors of to attend a review for parole. Mercifully, they granted me my wish. For being a model and for good behaviour I was granted parole and was set the leave to prison, forthwith. The sad part of it was leaving my fellow inmates behind. I made a parting promise to them. Once they had got their paroles sorted out my intention was to meet up with them in London for an old lags reunion.

The following week I left Wandworth prison armed with a few bob and a first class rail ticket. Stepping off the train at Liverpool Street Station, I could see that life was going on as normal, but I could not visualise it in the same way as before. I was going to find it increasingly difficult to become an ordinary human being again.

Furthermore, after spending so much time in prison it would be very hard to pick up the threads of life again. It was nevertheless imperative that my most immediate priority at this moment in time was to get in touch with my family, and hopefully they would fix me up with temporary accommodation till I found myself a proper place to live. Thankfully, all went well with the reunion with mum and dad. Thereafter, I settled back into my old surroundings very nicely.

The following Monday, after breakfast, mum sent me packing off with a packed lunch, thinking I was going on a picnic, but little did she know what I was up too. (Gold, lovely gold) I decided to catch the 239 bus and get off at the top end of Garrets Lane. However, as the bus sped along I couldn’t believe how many the changes that had taken place in my absence. New buildings had sprung up. So many cars, so many people. It would seem the world had got itself into a mighty big hurry.

Sometime later the bus roared up to Gordon’s garage, adjacent to St Mary’s church. I was trembling with excitement at the prospect of getting my hands on all that lovely loot that I’d buried all those years ago. As I made my way through the church grounds I was horrified to find the place in a state of disrepair and neglect. For a second I couldn’t believe my eyes. Twenty five years ago St Mary’s was thriving church with a huge congregation, so what in tarnation had gone wrong?

My observations did not go down well - for it was impossible to overstate the grief that came over me. Part of the problem was made even more wretched by the rather disturbing sight of the many tombs and headstones that were overgrown with weeds and bramble. The windows were boarded up, and blow me there was a “For Sale” sign positioned by the front entrance. However, my sadness quickly turned to joy as I cast my eye on a particular spot that was very precious to me. For over yonder stood a huge oak tree and just a few metres from it were the proceeds from the bank robbery.

But first I would need the necessary tools to dig it up. It would also need to be done at night so as to keep away from prying eyes. So with this in mind I made for the nearest hardware store to purchase the necessary equipment that I would need. For a while I flirted with the idea of going back that very night but my senses came back to me, knowing a little more planning was needed.

The very next evening on a freezing cold night I borrowed my brother’s pick-up truck and loaded it up with the appropriate tools and then set a course for St Mary’s church. As I poodled along I felt like one of those prospectors, like in California, who had the gumption to go searching for gold in the1800’s. Just like them I was filled with the same hopes and aspirations as they. When at last St Mary’s church came into view. I immediately set about the task of pacing out the following measurements from the great oak tree. Twelve paces to the left, turn, then ten paces to the right.

With the enthusiasm of a mule on heat I began the daunting task of digging, just like one of those Irish navvies. It must have taken me all of two hours to reap the rewards of my labour. I was some six meters down and by now, ruddy well petrified what might be down there, when I came across a rather ghoulish sight. There was a column of maggots scurrying about, wallowing in a pile of thick mud. (Yikes) I proceeded to make good headway after my little scare, when I finally I struck something solid. Scraping away the loose bits of earth a big black box miraculously appeared before my eyes. Well bless my soul. There it was. My big black box. The very same box I had buried all them years ago. With great endeavour I grabbed hold of the handles and with a mighty heave I eventually I managed pull it on to the grass verge. Then, like a man possessed I went to work on it with my crowbar. Damn, the box wouldn’t open. The hinges were rusted solid. After two attempts with my crow-bar they finally gave way, and thus sprung open. What happened next was unbelievable. With gaping mouth I looked on in awe at the sight of beautiful, sparkling, gold bars, neatly laid out in rows of ten. It was my lovely gold, as new as the day they were made. They were just lying there in bed, waiting for daddy to come along and tuck them up. In today’s market the gold would probably fetch a small fortune. Boy, my head was going dizzy with excitement. What shall I do with all the money, I thought? I could buy myself a yacht, a big mansion, cars, tarts and even more tarts. But I must keep a clear head. Luckily, my brother’s pick-up had a winch on the back it. Ten minutes later the box on board and without any further ado I made for the nearest exit as fast as possible.

A few days later I contacted a middle man in the East End of London to dispose of the gold through his many contacts. Of course he’d take his usually10% from the deal but I could cope with that. Once the necessary readies were converted into cash it had an estimated value of £750,000. One will get awfully bored counting all that lovely lolly out. No chance my old son, I gonna be bloody rich and just loving it.

The following weeks were taken up with somewhat of waiting game; whereby I nervously sat back biting my nails for the transaction of the gold to be eventually processed into cash. However, I had ample time to contemplate on what I was going to do with all that lovely money. Then it came to me like a bolt of lightning. The church. The derelict church of St Mary’s. By George, I’m ruddy well going to buy the darned thing. I could have it thoroughly done up, and renovated to the highest standards possible. But here comes the whammy, folks. Not only do I intend to buy the church but in addition to this I intend to become the new vicar of St Mary’s church. Of course I’ll have to change my name due to my previous form, but I intend to call myself the very reverend, Cyril Harold Crumpington, a minister of the cloth and vicar of St Mary’s - the punters will never know the difference.

Naturally I’ll have to have elocution lessons in order to lose my cockney accent, but hey, my dream is finally coming true. At last I’m going to become a respectable citizen in life. I wasted no time in getting in touch with the estate agents (Griffin and Archer) who were dealing with the sale of the property. The asking price was £200,000, and being a bit of a wheeler-dealer in me time I offered them £180,000. A few days later my offer was accepted on behalf of the local council who owned the site. Once the appropriate paperwork had been signed I was in business. Anyway, having got the necessary quotes for the restoration to be done, all I had to do was to sit back and wait for the day to come when the work was completed. In the meantime I am going to live life to the full, buy me a new car, a house and all the trimmings that go with it.

It was about six months later when I was sitting at home downing a double gin and tonic when the phone rang. It was the estate agents.

“Ah, Mr Crumpington, Griffin and Archer here, as you know we’re the estate agents handling the sale of St Mary’s. I am pleased to inform that the restoration work on St Mary’s has now been completed. The contractors are just tying up a few loose ends but the good news is you can move in next Monday.”

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, my old china.” Cyril chuckled to himself.

It was by an incredible struck of luck however that the rest of my fellow inmates had managed to get themselves paroled. So consequently as a result of my good news, my first reaction was to make immediate contact with them. The reason for my sentimentality was this; I intended to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse. The proposal I was going to make my gallant band of warriors was the chance to redeem themselves from their wicked and evil ways.

I thereby intended to offer them a position, working within the church. Just think of it. We’d have an assortment of burglars, con-men, pick-pockets and safe -blowers that would be the backbone of St Mary’s. Watch your jewellery and purses ladies!

‘Twas the day of the grand opening of St Mary’s church - and there I was fully rigged out in a vicars outfit and looking a right old twat if I must say so. With my new bucked teeth furiously clanking away together, I waited in nervous anticipation by the front entrance in readiness to meet my new parishioners, and I must say, the turn-out was indeed most commendable. One by one they strolled by the main entrance till finally the church was packed to the rafters. But there was one late arrival.

“Ah, good morning my son,” I said with a smile.

“Good morning vicar, sorry I’m late. What a lovely turn out. It’s so nice to meet you. Bye the way my names George. I’m a retired policeman.”

“Gulp!!”

As we stood there shaking hands George’s face suddenly turned to a look of shock- horror.

“Excuse me for saying this reverend but your face has a striking resemblance to a man I once arrested for armed robbery way back in 1959. Nasty bit of work if I may say so.”

“Good gord George, have I got a double lurking about? But I can assure you inspector I was cutting the cloth at that particular time.”

We both had a jolly good laugh at my silly little joke, but deep down I was shaking in my boots, for I knew he was one of the policeman who was on the case.

With the grace and the dignity of a true vicar I slowly but surely made my way down the aisle to the sound of an old fogey banging away on the organ, accompanied by the ghastly sound of choirboys singing for their supper. Holding a bible in one hand and a copy of the horse-racing journal in the other, I had I noted with some satisfaction the abundance of people who had come to see their new vicar in all his glory, and before I knew it I was standing on the pulpit about to address my congregation.

“Good morning everyone and I would like to welcome you to St Mary’s church. Glory be, for I am delighted to say I am your new vicar, Cyril Harold Crumpington, vicar of St Mary’s. My opening sermon is a text taken from the obscure book of nobbled horses and bent trainers, which is in parts has been written in Latin and Tongues, which some of you may not perhaps be too familiar with so I’ll let you have it in full verse.

“And so it came to pass in the stables of Babylon that was a handful of pedigree fillies owned by an unscrupulous king called Rectamous Nobyoulous. The king thus ordered that all his horses be trained by three foreign trainers who hailed from England, Ireland and Scotland. However, it was decreed by King Rectamous that all three foreigners were to be throw to the lions for their unscrupulous dealings with several members of the Jehovah Witness community, better known as the JW’s, as well as other more serious crimes, notably, for having placed bogus bets and doping horses, so as to lose the race. But just before the soldiers were about throw the first of the trainers into the coliseum there was a cry from the Englander, whereby he shouted, “Avalanche!” There was an immediate response among the soldiers of Babylon. In their panic to get away the Englander jumped over the wall and escaped to safety. However, the Scotsman and Irishman remained tied up ready to be eaten by the lions that were by this time getting very hungry. The soldiers soon realised they had been deceived so they returned to their positions and hence the second trainer was frogmarched before the king. The soldiers pointed their spears at the Scotsman and King Rectamous ordered him to be eaten by the lions, forthwith. But before being pushed over the side the Scotsman pointed to the skies and shouted “Flood.” To avoid being drowned the entire garrison of soldiers fled in panic, so the Scotsman jumpeth over the wall of Babylon and escaped. After much debate the soldiers returned to their posts, infuriated that they had been deceived for the second time by the fiendish cunningness of these people from far off lands. Hence, the Irishman was to have the full wroth of King Rectamous. Once again the soldiers were just about to push the Irishman over the top to the starving lions when the Irishman shouted in a strong Irish brogue, “fire you bloody heathens.” And so thereafter he created a reduction in the living population on the earth by one mortal soul.

(The congregation were in raptures with Cyril’s opening shot)

(Cyril continued) “The second part of my sermon is about the evils of betting and gambling. And I say unto you dear brethren, oh heavenly turf accountants, we thy servants of your mighty kingdom, sacrifice our praise and thanksgiving and most humbly beseech thee. Grant us the fruits and glory to be of your noble horse racing empire, and that we may indulge in the occasional flutter at the bookmakers. Go forth my children and may your wallets be filled with lots of lovely wedge. We the undersigned beseech thy oh mighty God. We plead with you that our lottery ticket will come up trumps on a Wednesday and Saturday. May a few of us be filled up with the joyous spirit of the duty free wine and baccy from across the channel? Give heed to our prayers dear lord for I say unto you dear brethren, may the Holy Scriptures lift us to great heights, and least we not forget one member of our church who goes by the name of Fred the Tread. I call upon him to come clean about the disgraceful practice of selling dodgy remoulds to the unexpected punter. And I say to this man repent your sins. He must enter the divine road to salvation and redeem himself. On a happier note, dearly beloved, I say unto you go forth and be blessed oh happy punters and rejoice: for the blinkers shall be worn at the 3.30pm at Aintree by Sir Galahad and hopefully fellow Christians may you come away with a Pony or indeed a Monkey. Oh great father in Broadmoor: may you be sectioned and strapped down in a straight jacket of that noble establishment. Forgive us oh father for we have sinned, for we look more favourably on thy whole church and let us enter the road to salvation.”

“And finally it gives me great pleasure that we are gathered here today to bring forth together two members of our congregation who wish to be joined together in holy matrimony, namely Julian the ladies hairdresser and Simon the transvestite ballet dancer.”

(A hushed silence fell as the bride and groom appeared)

“Dear Lord, I call upon you to commit this couple to a lifetime of vigour, strength and companionship, coupled with mature love. But I must stress to you dear parishioners that Julian wishes Simon to bear him a child, with some difficulty I might add. Lord, I call upon you to lift them to greater heights, and may the marriage be enriched by a forthcoming baby in the presence of the Lord.

Simon, do you promise faithfully, to have and to hold, to love and cherish Julian’s vital organs. And do you Julian swear by almighty God that you consume the marriage by giving Simon a baby.”

“I say this you Simon and Julian.” Cyril smiled, “May you filthy pair of cross-eyed shysters have your cherries popped in the most gruesome way possible, and may your giblets be squeezed through a mincing machine, at full speed with your unmentionables hanging on for dear life. Furthermore, your ring of confidence is to be filled up with a jagged toilet plunger, thereby, vigorously twisting it till you scream out in pain.”

“Are we ready to receive the rings? A bony hand slithered out from a finely cut jacket followed by a long scraggy finger that pointed out in readiness for the big occasion. Simon’s well-manicured hands had an almost a feminine look about them. Julian, do you take this queen, I mean queer, I mean man, to be your lawful bedded wife, and will you have and to hold, to love and cherish him, and do you faithfully promise to uphold his most precious organ so that it may fit into a nicely fitted jockstrap with reinforced gussets. Furthermore, do you also promise to keep his curly whirl’s in prime condition?”

“Oh, I do, I do, I do, I do, ducky.”

“I now pronounce you man and midwife.”

(Cyril mutters under his breath) “Cor blimey, I’ve got a right pair of ruddy whoofters on me hands, here. But I must confess Julian had quite an impressive piece of machinery protruding from the lower parts of his abdomen. Simon however seemingly a bit on the lameness side.”

All of a sudden a dirty bee manifested itself inside the church which was annoyingly hovering around the altar. Meanwhile deep down in the vaults of the crypt there was the delightful sound of corks being popped, and another and another. “Good gord that must be Snowy breaking into that case of champagne I bought last week.” Cyril chuckled.

(Cyril) “And so ladies and gentlemen our service reaches its climax and finishes on a high note. For you see the Lord God moves in mysterious ways in working his purpose for his beloved worshipers, but what is that purpose you may ask yourselves? For only the good Lord knows.”

The congregation rose to the occasion by giving their new vicar a thunderous good handclap, simply intoxicated by his new and exotic teachings, especially with his bazaar theme.

(Cyril) “And so brethren it is with great pleasure I leave you with one last thought. Go forth my children and do not forget to go strictly kosher on your next shopping trip.”

(The vicar, battle weary but highly intoxicated with his sermon gave his final thoughts and summing up which went something like this)

(Cyril) “The congregation incidentally, turned out to be a right queer lot, especially that gay couple I had just married, but overall things went magnificently well. Just after the service I was joined by the Millington’s and Mrs Rendersham who were both parish councillors. They had in fact laid on a splendid array of sandwiches, cakes and tea. In the far corner of the church stood the shadowy figure of our policeman friend, George, who by the look on face was still giving me the evil eye. Thus it seemed, he was still was not convinced about my authenticity. The burning question I had on my mind, would George through his many years on the force eventually find out about my true identity?

“For Gord’s sake leave it out squire.”