Robbery

Graham had met Fitz when the once unique St.Johns Precinct was being promoted after being recently constructed; they had both been dragged there because of mutual business interests. They hit it off instantaneously, both being aware of an early ‘foot in the door’ opportunity to make loads of money. Because the precinct became effortlessly and typically an immediate shithole neither of them did, but they still remained good bedfellows. Fitz was no doubt in some small way involved with the Liverpool Mafia; he owned clubs, casinos plus a number of bars, dealing only ‘recreational’ drugs, having a posse of hookers but he, like Graham was escaping from the shifty side of his world into an environment that was more pleasant, one of seasoned history, social ritual, a country that promoted an open culture. I think not.

There was an additional English group at the celebration representing Birmingham Town hall. They were a mixed party of civil servants attending under the pretext of consolidating some dubious ‘freebee jumelage’ with the town of Beaune. The prospect of a quintessential French market town twinning with the industrial hub of England is at best a bizarre notion. At some point during the night they were proudly presented with two magnums of Nouveau Beaujolais. The bottles were to be ushered back to the black country, one being conveyed to the mayor of Birmingham the other one to be consumed at a special fund raising Charity Gala dinner. John Murphy had befriended one of the lowlier representatives during the meal; which he would later discover to his cost. Everyone in the room was having a ball. The wine continued to flow at a pace, the waiters were conscientiously removing any wine bottles that had lost their chill at the same time replacing them with freshly organically refrigerated, dripping alternatives. Midnight was approaching, the drivers with their co-drivers were asked to re-join their vehicles in preparation for the start of the race. But just before the church bell tolled signaling the countdown an extraordinary kerfuffle broke out adjoining the Birmingham corner. They had mysteriously misplaced their prized magnums. At the same time Murphy was ‘clocked’ running out of the room only to return a few minutes later grinning cheekily. He was, at once accused of robbing the wine. A search of the building ensued. John was in heavy denial but just as the clock ticked down the mayhem rapidly intensified. When the church bell did ring out Monsieur Pons issued the declaration that the race should begin. Graham, Jack, Fitz, Geoff as well as myself had seen nothing untoward but we were all quietly wetting ourselves knowing full well that Murphy had a direct connection with the growing chaos.
We had to go. We sped off, unashamedly pissed, towards the A6 northbound eventually the road taking us to Paris. The last sight of the civil servants was confusion, anger, faces utterly astonished as to when and how the wine had vanished, mischievously liberated from their custody. They swore that they would claim their revenge, limp fists loosely waving in our direction.