To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

he can be persuaded of the error of his ways. Before you consider a custodial solution, I would urge you to put this unfortunate young victim of society first. His welfare and his future must be paramount.’

      ‘What, exactly, are you suggesting, Mr. Toynbee?’

      ‘The probation service, with the assistance of the local authority and the Victims’ Trust, have recently established a scheme aimed at broadening the horizons of offenders like Wayne. Under close supervision, young offenders are taken beyond their immediate environs and given a glimpse of the wider world which awaits them. We find it helps them confront their criminality and makes them feel valued. In turn, this will help them reject their previous behaviour and become valued members of the community.’

      ‘Very well, Mr Toynbee. This panel is always reluctant to impose a custodial sentence. Having read all the reports and having heard your submission, we are agreed that Wayne should be released into the supervision of the probation service. Wayne, stand up, please.’

      Wayne dragged himself to his feet and stared past the magistrates and out of the window.

      ‘Wayne, we have been persuaded by Mr. Toynbee that you deserve one more chance to take your rightful, and lawful, place in society. But if you don’t respond, you will find yourself locked up. You will report back here in three months. Do you understand?’

      Wayne farted.

       Eleven

      Ricky Sparke stumbled upstairs and, by placing one hand over his left eye, managed to locate the keyhole in the front door to his flat. He stepped over the pile of unopened mail on the doormat, threw his coat on the sofa and reached for the vodka bottle.

      He unscrewed the cap and turned it upside down. It was empty. He wrung the neck, like a man strangling a chicken, but the bottle was spent.

      Ricky retrieved another from the washing machine.

      Since he had a laundry service, he had no need of the Indesit combined washer/drier. So he used it as storage space. Every other surface was covered with old newspapers, magazines, CD cases and LP covers with coffee mug stains on them.

      Ricky picked up a dirty glass, wiped it on his shirt tail, poured a large slug of Smirnoff into it and topped it up with half a bottle of flat slimline tonic.

      By drinking slimline tonic, Ricky had convinced himself that it wasn’t really drinking at all.

      It was his concession to fitness. He was always trying fad diets, none of which worked, largely on account of the fact that he would insist on supplementing them with vodka and Guinness.

      He once went on a white wine only diet, after reading that Garry Glitter had lost three stone on it.

      Ricky lost three days.

      He devised his own version of the F-Plan diet. He called it the C-Plan. Ricky thought that if it worked he would market it and make his fortune.

      The principle was fairly simple. You could eat anything you wanted, provided it began with C.

      The diet started well on day one, Ricky eating nothing but cottage cheese and cabbage.

      On day two, he dined on corn on the cob and cucumber.

      Encouraged by the results, he extended the diet to his drinking habits. Two bottles of Chablis later, he moved onto Chartreuse and, eventually, Carlsberg Special Brew.

      Then came champagne, chicken tikka masala, chips, cheese and onion crisps and cognac. He had completely forgotten about the chicken tikka massala until he brought it up on the platform of Upminster tube station.

      Ricky had fallen asleep on the District Line, passed his stop at Westminster, slept all the way to Ealing Broadway, turned round and slept all the way back, past Westminster once more and onto Upminster at the eastern end of the line.

      He was woken by a guard, turfed off the train, threw up, slipped in his own sick, smashed his head on a bench and passed out.

      Ricky discovered a previously unidentified side effect of the C-Plan diet.

      Concussion.

      He slept the night on Upminster station and made his way back the following morning, breaking his journey at Aldgate East for an extremely painful and deeply unpleasant shit.

      Since then he’d stuck to vodka and the occasional can of Nigerian lager, which had been his first news editor’s pet name for Guinness.

      Ricky took a slug of his vodka and slim and retrieved a can of Guinness from the fridge to chase it down with.

      He made a mental note to go shopping the following morning, Saturday. He was down to his last bottle of vodka and five cans of Guinness. Oh, and some milk might come in handy, too.

      Ricky slumped back on the sofa and hunted for the remote. He located it under a pile of soft-porn magazines. He didn’t know why he bothered buying them any more. Half the time he was too pissed to toss himself off.

      Ricky laughed. It was true. He was the one sad bastard who really did buy Penthouse for the articles.

      Ricky hit the remote and the 33-inch Loewe TV in the corner came alive. Along with his Linn hi-fi, the state-of-the-art television was his pride and joy.

      He loved his home entertainment. He was a cable junkie. And his collection of CDs and LPs, which he still played on a 20-year-old Linn Sondek LP12 turntable, was larger and more comprehensive than the record library at Rocktalk 99FM. Ricky often took his music in with him.

      Charlie Lawrence didn’t believe in wasting money on immaterial software, such as records. He relied on freebies. And since all the popular stuff disappeared overnight, Ricky reckoned that the only way he’d get a decent show on the air was by supplying his own CDs. Otherwise he’d be reduced to playing Lena Zavarone, Kenneth McKellar and the crass soft rock no one even wanted to steal.

      Ricky flicked through the channels, hoping to stumble across some hard-core German channel.

      It was always more in hope than expectation. The only porn he ever found late at night seemed to have been made in the 1970s. Before they got their kit off, all the players looked like Abba, during their ‘Waterloo’ period.

      Ricky paused when he saw what looked like a game show come on. The spangled host grinned insincerely and introduced the programme.

       ‘Good evening and welcome to a brand-new edition of ASYLUM!’

       ‘Today’s programme features another chance to take part in our exciting competition: Hijack an airliner and win a council house.

       ‘We’ve already given away hundreds of millions of pounds and thousands of dream homes, courtesy of our sponsor, the British taxpayer.

       ‘And, don’t forget, we’re now the fastest-growing game on the planet.

       ‘Anyone can play, provided they don’t already hold a valid British passport. You only need one word of English:

       ‘ASYLUM!

       ‘Prizes include all-expenses-paid accommodation, cash benefits starting at £180 a week and the chance to earn thousands more begging, mugging and accosting drivers at traffic lights.

       ‘The competition is open to everyone buying a ticket or stowing away on one of our partner airlines, ferry companies or Eurostar.

       ‘No application ever refused, reasonable or unreasonable.

       ‘All you have to do is destroy all your papers and remember the magic password:

       ‘ASYLUM!

       ‘Only this week one hundred and