BadFellas: A Tory gangster story

As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a Conservative. To me, being a Conservative was better than being president of the United States.

They weren’t like anybody else. They did whatever they wanted.

They partied during lockdown and never got a ticket. When they gave PPI contracts to the landlords of their local pub, nobody ever called the cops.

Boris was the boss of the neighbourhood. Boris might have moved slow, but that was only because Boris was lazy, complacent and useless.

Then there was Lizzie Pork Markets and Jacob The Fop. There was Little Rishi and Frosty The Socks. There was Priti No-Heart and Dominic No-Brains. There was Matty Two-Times, who was two-timing his wife. There was Grant Two-Names and Govey Two-Face.

We ran everything. To us, those goody-good people who worked shitty jobs for bum paycheques and took the bus to work every day, and worried about their bills, were dead. I mean, they were suckers. They had no balls. If we wanted something, we just took it.

Brexit whackings were the only way everybody stayed in line. You got out of line on Europe, you got whacked. Everybody knew the rules.

Davey The Cam got whacked, and so did Terri-May Wheatfields. David Davis whacked himself by mistake. Hits became a habit. We were shooting each other all the time.

We had a serious problem with Owen Patts. This was really a touchy thing. Patts thought he was a made guy. He was part of the ERG crew and considered himself untouchable. He wasn’t.

And we were worried about people talking to the FBI or the pigs. But the real trouble started when Boris talked to the CBI about Peppa Pig.

People said it was not funny. And Boris said: “I’m unfunny how, I don’t make you laugh, I don’t amuse you? What do you mean unfunny, unfunny how? How am I unfunny?” I could see for the first time that Boris was a nervous wreck. His mind was going in eight different directions at once, and so was his hair. That’s when we knew we had to turn our backs on him.

Little Rishi split for California, and Frosty The Socks disappeared after writing a resignation letter, then demanding to rewrite it. Boris thought he was being a wiseguy when he asked Lizzie Pork Markets to take over Frosty’s old beat, but she knew he was setting her up to be whacked by the Europeans.

And that’s when the media struck. They’d been on us the whole time. They had pictures, video, surveillance.

And now it’s all over. That’s the hardest part. Today everything is different. There’s no action. I have to wait around for a peerage like everyone else.

Can’t even get decent pizza and wine at a non-socially distanced gathering that breaks all the rules I’ve just announced.

I’m an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.

*With apologies to Nicholas Pileggi and Martin Scorsese.