Get Ahead By John Ritchie
I began modestly enough, a bell boy at the Grand on Brighton sea-front. A little pill box hat set jauntily on my head, my bum-freezer jacket and carefully tightened trousers giving interested parties a shop-window so to speak. I have always been open to experiences and that summer I was frequently opened and experienced.
Worthwhile? Most definitely. I learned what I could take in more ways than one. I left the Grand at the end of the Season with nearly twelve hundred quid. A King’s ransom in 1964. A tip. Only take about a third of the cash, it’s not so noticeable that way and get rid of the spoils as quickly as possible. I had eight different Post Office Savings accounts all in false names.
I went for a bowler next. Dark deeds in the corridors of power? You don’t know the half. At least not the half I was involved in. I got
myself one of those briefcases with the crest, amazing what you can pick up in toilets, and that was that. Pin stripe suit, tightly rolled
umbrella, The Times folded to show the crossword half-completed. Gave the required impression of a good education. Though the truth was one of my ‘friends’ from the Grand worked at Canary Wharf, and I had the proofs couriered over. There weren’t many places I didn’t get to and most of those were by direct invitation. Once word got around, mostly spread by myself, that I was something of a talent broker, doors opened and I, and the talent of choice, age and sex no object, slipped inside. I, of course, kept careful records and I soon had enough dirt to make a substantial estate for myself.
Such activity is, of course, not without risk and when both my look-a-like body guards came to sticky ends within a mere twenty-four
hours I switched to Plan B and left for foreign parts wearing a blazer, flannels and a new white Panama.
I wended my way Eest, supported by a simple statement. ‘I never remove my hat.’ Delivered carefully to a suitable lady, I usually got the required response. ‘What not even in bed/shower/etc?’ It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Well, if nothing else it kept me fit and in funds.
Middle-aged ladies can be very generous if they are rubbed-up the right way.
So that is how I came to be in this remote corner of West Africa. The natives here are a push-over and have taken to following me around and prostrating themselves at my feet. They have built me a hut, they bring me my food and drink and now and then I can hear them singing something vaguely like a hymn. I’ve almost lost all track of time, but I suspect it is around April.
There is a mad old missionary here who has told me the natives think I am divine and that they are preparing a crown for me, made from acacia, whatever that is?
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
Worthwhile? Most definitely. I learned what I could take in more ways than one. I left the Grand at the end of the Season with nearly twelve hundred quid. A King’s ransom in 1964. A tip. Only take about a third of the cash, it’s not so noticeable that way and get rid of the spoils as quickly as possible. I had eight different Post Office Savings accounts all in false names.
I went for a bowler next. Dark deeds in the corridors of power? You don’t know the half. At least not the half I was involved in. I got
myself one of those briefcases with the crest, amazing what you can pick up in toilets, and that was that. Pin stripe suit, tightly rolled
umbrella, The Times folded to show the crossword half-completed. Gave the required impression of a good education. Though the truth was one of my ‘friends’ from the Grand worked at Canary Wharf, and I had the proofs couriered over. There weren’t many places I didn’t get to and most of those were by direct invitation. Once word got around, mostly spread by myself, that I was something of a talent broker, doors opened and I, and the talent of choice, age and sex no object, slipped inside. I, of course, kept careful records and I soon had enough dirt to make a substantial estate for myself.
Such activity is, of course, not without risk and when both my look-a-like body guards came to sticky ends within a mere twenty-four
hours I switched to Plan B and left for foreign parts wearing a blazer, flannels and a new white Panama.
I wended my way Eest, supported by a simple statement. ‘I never remove my hat.’ Delivered carefully to a suitable lady, I usually got the required response. ‘What not even in bed/shower/etc?’ It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Well, if nothing else it kept me fit and in funds.
Middle-aged ladies can be very generous if they are rubbed-up the right way.
So that is how I came to be in this remote corner of West Africa. The natives here are a push-over and have taken to following me around and prostrating themselves at my feet. They have built me a hut, they bring me my food and drink and now and then I can hear them singing something vaguely like a hymn. I’ve almost lost all track of time, but I suspect it is around April.
There is a mad old missionary here who has told me the natives think I am divine and that they are preparing a crown for me, made from acacia, whatever that is?
Copyright John Ritchie 2012