Dirty Deeds Done Cheap

by Peter Mercer

  I was just slowing down to come through a small village when I saw the dreaded blue lights behind. I pulled over, got off my bike and took off my helmet. ‘Good morning, sir. Do you know why I’ve pulled you over?’ the officer asked.

  ‘Well it’s probably not to compliment me on my riding,’ I replied. The copper gave a chuckle and asked me to get in the car. He showed me a reading of 92 m.p.h. in a 60 m.p.h. zone and promptly gave me a ticket. No bollocking, no nothing, just gave me the ticket and sent me on my way.

  Well, with all the rush and commotion of shipping out to Iraq I’d totally forgotten about this speeding ticket I’d been given and I hadn’t informed the police that I couldn’t make the court date. What a fuck-up! I’ve got a mate, whom I used to play rugby with, who is a copper back home, and he had told my mate Rodders that I now had a warrant out for my arrest. Fuck! Now I was in the shit!

  When we arrived home I had nowhere to stay after my split with my ex, so Rodders said I could have his spare room at his house. We’d made the decision that she was going to buy me out of the house, so I was effectively homeless. I wasn’t bothered by this, though, because in less than three weeks I’d be back in Iraq. I would worry about somewhere to live when I got back the next time – if I got back. I had enough dosh to set myself up for now. I unpacked my small selection of clothing, then went for a walk into town. I said hi to a few familiar faces, then went for a pint in the local. It felt as if I’d never been away. I just sat there and mulled over what an absurd experience I’d just been through.

  Over the next few days I did a bit of cycling through the local woods on my mountain bike, then decided to go to the cop shop to sort my motorbike thing out. The copper on the desk was a sound bloke and pretty understanding about the situation I had unfortunately found myself in. He promptly arrested me, then bailed me to appear in front of Swansea Magistrates’ Court at a later date. I explained that I would be away again in just under three weeks and he said he would try to get me a court date within my leave period. I was happy that I wasn’t going to jail and went back to Rodders’s house and booked a rail ticket to go up north to see my parents. I’d not seen them for such a long time.

  Now my mum and dad are really relaxed, chilled-out people, and it takes a lot to wind them up; and to put up with a son like me made them very special people in my eyes! I’d lied to start with about Iraq and I’m sure they understood why I’d done that. Mum was crapping herself, and I’m positive my old man was as well, but he just doesn’t show it. I was soon in York and caught a taxi to my parents’ place, but on the way I decided to stop at my sister’s. She was glad to see me and it was pretty emotional. She came with me to my parents’ and we had a great night in. I tried to keep the conversation away from Iraq.

  I stayed a week in York, then decided it was time to get back down south. Although I love my parents dearly, a week of just sitting around the house doing nothing can wear a bit thin – especially when you’ve got only about eighteen days left. So the next morning my old man said he’d drop me at the railway station because he had to drop my mum at Tesco, where she worked. As we pulled up at the supermarket, I got out and gave my mum a hug. She went to pieces, pleading with me not to go back. She was bawling her eyes out. I felt like the worst son in the world. I’d never seen my mum in this sort of state before. After my tearful goodbye, Dad dropped me at York railway station. Then, after another tearful goodbye – with my dad this time – I jumped on my train back down south.

  The evening I arrived back, a mate of mine, Mick, asked if I’d like to go to Alton Towers with him, his wife and kids. I thought it would be a laugh, so the next morning I got picked up around 06.00. Mick was a good mate from ages back. His wife was lovely and the kids (boys aged eleven and nine) were great. It took us about four hours to get there from Bristol. Once there we got the tickets and then there was no messing. The kids were off and running with me in tow!

  My plan was to chat with Mick and his missus all day, chill out, go for a walk, have a nice lunch, a few beers, you get the picture – a nice day. The kids were having none of it. I was dragged off to the Pirate Ship. This didn’t look too bad, and it wasn’t. Then on we went to the Black Hole. I went – I didn’t have a choice! – but you can’t see anything, so this ride wasn’t so bad, either. I’d never been to Alton Towers before, so I’d never seen rollercoasters like this. We came to one called the Corkscrew and I was challenged to ride it – it wasn’t even 11.00 yet. I climbed aboard with nervous laughter, leaving Mick and his missus on the side watching.

  I was strapped in and we were off. Fuck me backwards! I shat myself. I was so scared, I couldn’t even scream. It was hell. When we stopped I just sat there in silence. I thought they were going to have to pry my vicelike grip off the bars! Next came the Thunder Looper. These kids just wouldn’t let up. There was no escape! I was getting dragged around everything, like it or not. Trembling and cursing under my breath, I got on, bricking it again. Whoosh! ‘Aaaaaarrrgh!’ Upside down we went. ‘Noooo!’ I screamed – it was terrifying. What a wuss I was being!

  By lunch my nerves were shot and I was wandering around in silence, crapping myself at the thought of more rides. Ironic, really: the previous week I’d been in the most dangerous country in the world dodging bullets and bombs and I had felt good. Now two little kids had reduced me to a complete nervous wreck.

  We sat down for lunch and all of us looked around for a bar. A couple of shots of Dutch courage did nothing for me. In fact, I think it made me worse. Now, not only was I still shit scared but, to cap it all, off I was now feeling more than a little nauseous.

  Next was Nemesis. My nerves were still shot to pieces from the earlier experiences, and I’m sure that the attendant had to guide me to my seat a little. I’m not sure, but I think I was shaking. I was bad, but at least I didn’t have any tears running down my legs – well not so far, anyway! That was the last ride I went on and the last time I will go to Alton Towers. I felt ill and vowed never to go again. It’s strange: I’ve done hundreds of free-fall parachute jumps and have done six base jumps, but these roller coasters! Fuck that! You can keep them. They totally scare the shit out of me.

  After getting back from Alton Towers, I went around to my ex’s to see about getting my stuff. She was pleased to see me but not overecstatic. I decided to try to play it as nice as I could. After all, we’d been together for five years, but the relationship had run its course. She also got tearful when I said I was going back. Although we were now split up, she still had strong feelings for me, but I left on good terms and we still keep in touch to this day.

  My leave time was passing quickly, and the date of my court appearance was approaching. But that was not just yet. As I was walking up to Rodders’s house one day, with about a week left of my stay, I stopped for a pint in the local. As I was entering the boozer my mobile went off. It was a call from one of our guys in Iraq. What I was told next made me down a double vodka. Sixteen of the Gurkhas I’d worked with in Iraq had been killed by an RPG fired into their compound in Baghdad in the Green Zone. Later, I was to look at the pictures he sent me by email. It looked awful. The rocket had exploded and this had caused a big fire. The accommodation huts were just a burned-out mess. The Gurkhas who hadn’t been killed by the RPG had probably burned to death, unable to get out of their huts. I could, unfortunately, easily imagine what a truly horrific death that must have been.

  Not long after this incident, eight Nepalese security guys (nothing to do with us) were kidnapped by the insurgents and later beheaded. This was enough for the Nepalese government, and they put a ban on any of their nationals going to work in Iraq. This was a big blow to all the security companies working in the country, because a lot, if not most, of their troops came from Nepal and were ex-Gurkhas.

  Security companies had to do something drastic to avoid the ban, so basically what they started to do was bounce the Nepalese troops through varying different countries first, to camouflage their movements, then on
to Kuwait. Once these companies got these guys there, they were there to stay. The guys didn’t get leave, anyway. Most had to do at least a year before returning home.

  The weekend, anyway, was a bit of a mess. It was the last one of my leave, and I’d not really been out on a drinking session with my friends since I’d got back. It wasn’t a mental drinking frenzy that we went on, and a lot of my mates brought their partners, including my mate Phil, who, in his case, brought his boyfriend along. It was a great day and night.

  The wife of one of my mates said I was brave for working in Iraq. I said to her, ‘Look, I’m not over there for queen and country. Fuck that. I was there for my mates and money – cold hard cash. I’m not brave. Stupid, maybe, but not brave.’ I hope I didn’t offend her. Nobody spoke to me about Iraq much, which suited me fine. I think they all knew that I wouldn’t want to talk about it. I did get the occasional arsehole trying to give me shit for being an ‘invader’. I think they thought I was in the military. I just tried to ignore them. We were having a great night and the beer was flowing freely. Everyone had a right laugh.

  I’d done a lot of parachuting when in the forces and quite a lot of civilian free fall also. Now my brother-in-law, Mark, used to be in the Dangerous Sports Club way back in the 1980s, so he had encouraged me into the sport of base jumping. He reasoned that, as I’d done so many freefall jumps in the past, I would be ready to have a go at it. So one night we’d driven over to Chepstow and found this massive electricity pylon. We’d climbed up the 550 feet of ladders and I had jumped off. What a laugh it was and a big adrenalin rush and, as everything went well, I couldn’t get the big stupid grin off my face for hours.

  So, now that I was back on leave, Mark challenged me to do another one. Call me stupid but I was well up for it. It would be only my second base jump, but the first one had been so much fun that I was eager to have another go.

  That second base jump has to be one of the most memorable (and probably stupid) things I’ve ever done. Mark had challenged me to jump off Bristol’s Clifton Suspension Bridge. We went up to Bristol to do a recce and, once standing on it, I kept asking Mark if he was sure it was high enough. He was very blasé about it and told me that he’d jumped off it about a dozen times. I remained a bit doubtful but, in the face of a bit of good-natured ribbing, I decided that, if he could do it, I certainly could. Mark reckoned the best time to do it and not get caught was a Sunday morning. So we decided to do it that weekend.

  What we did next was equally stupid. We went to the pub on the Saturday afternoon – it was a lovely sunny day and not really that cold for November, and while sat in the beer garden, drinking beer, we packed the parachute for the next day.

  Sunday morning came and Mark and Rodders picked me up at 07.00, which meant that I’d be jumping at around 08.00. Another mate in another car was going to be waiting for me on the Portway (the main road running below the bridge) to pick me up when I’d landed and enable us to get away before the police arrived to arrest us. I’d never actually met this guy (he was a friend of a friend) but he had volunteered to pick me up because he’d never seen a base jump before and was keen to see one.

  On the way up to the bridge, Mark was giving a briefing about my jump when I decided that if I was going to do such a ridiculous thing, I might as well do it naked – in for a penny, in for a pound. Mark thought I was fucking nuts and said so. So there I was, getting my kit off in the back of Rodders’s motor while trying my best not to be seen by passing cars. I was also trying to don my parachute as inconspicuously as I could. What a fucking laugh! As we approached the bridge I had to lie down as low as possible to avoid being spotted as we went through the toll booths. Rodders paid the 25p toll while I was lying in the back seriously reconsidering the whole naked thing. After all, a naked man in a parachute might draw a bit of attention.

  Mark announced that he had to check the wind speed and direction – fucking great! I didn’t even know where I was going to land. I felt like putting my kit back on and going home and forgetting about it. I was now bricking it and it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all, but I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, so, taking a deep breath, I started to go through my pre-jump checks. The plan was to land just beside the Portway on a small patch of grass. Mark suggested that maybe I should put my trainers back on because it could be a bit rough on my feet. I agreed – I really didn’t want to wreck my feet.

  We’d got through the tolls and screamed to a halt at my jumping point in the middle of the bridge. I scrambled out the car with Mark, just as a male jogger ran past. I said good morning and he nearly fell over, so gobsmacked was he. Obviously, a naked man with a parachute on is not something you see every day. We had to be quick, because the Clifton Suspension Bridge is a notorious suicide spot, which means that it’s covered with CCTV cameras and has anti-suicide barriers to put off at least the half-hearted attempts.

  Mark gave me a leg up over the wires but I still managed to catch my ball bag on the wire – which hurt like hell. I was wondering now if this was possibly the most stupid stunt I’d ever pulled in my life (with hindsight, I think it probably was). However I was up there now and ready for the off. I gave my tackle a loving rub and got ready to jump. Mark (who was standing behind me and who still denies admiring my arse) did some double checks on my chute. Everything was OK. We then saw the bridge security running towards us – it was a case of now or never.

  I jumped out and arched my back to get as stable as I could very fast. After a couple of seconds of freefall I threw my drogue parachute (this is a small parachute designed to inflate, then drag your main parachute out). As soon as I’d deployed my drogue, out came my main canopy, which opened with a thwack, but I was still heading to earth at an alarming rate. My parachute was a seven-cell (this means that it has seven air pockets that need to be inflated to operate efficiently). I looked up quickly and saw that only five of the cells had opened this time and I was falling a lot more rapidly than I’d hoped, and I was also losing my steering. This was great: bollock naked (regretting that now) and with a duff parachute.

  Well I totally fucked it down and within seconds I knew I was going to miss my landing target. I ended up splatting down in the estuary itself, waist deep in its stinking mud. I grabbed at the parachute and hauled it in towards me and struggled to get out of the mud. I scrambled and crawled and eventually managed to climb out of the mud and over the rail and up onto the road. I was feeling an immense sense of relief that I’d made it down and not been killed or even hurt myself, when I noticed that several cars had stopped. I think I would have stopped, too, if I had seen a person parachuting off that bridge – and there were now several carloads of people gawping at me, covered almost head to toe in mud. The only advantage of landing in the mud was that at least I wasn’t really naked any more.

  As I staggered up onto the main road, trying not to notice all those people gawping at me, but also looking around for my getaway driver, I spotted the car and, carrying my parachute, ran over to him. I was a couple of yards from the car when I stopped, horror-struck. Oh, no! The guy had brought his wife and kids with him to watch. So there I was, parachute in hands, totally naked and covered in mud – I’d definitely been in better situations. I frantically covered myself up with my parachute while this wife of a friend of a friend was screeching, ‘He’s not getting in the car like that!’ They managed to find some bin liners to cover the seats and I got in with the parachute wrapped around me feeling badly self-conscious. I sat down next to the kids, who were round-eyed and fascinated by it all. I smiled nervously and said hello to them.

  Once I was in the car we sped away from the scene hoping the police wouldn’t come and catch us. We shot down the M5 southwards and it wasn’t long before we were home. It was now only about 08.45 and, as we pulled up, I thanked my new friend and apologised again to his missus and kids. If I’d known that they were going to be there I would never have jumped in the buff, but hopefully my parachute had cover
ed most of my embarrassment.

  As I legged it out of the car carrying all my shit with me, it dawned on me that I’d left my house keys in my jeans, which I’d left in Rodders’s Audi. So there I was, naked and carrying a parachute outside Rodders’s house, on a Sunday morning and hoping and praying that none of the neighbours were up. Rodders’s car wasn’t back and, after I’d pounded the door for several minutes, Rodders’s wife answered holding a copy of the News of the World. Now this was fucking amazing. Most of my mates are used to seeing me do crazy shit but she didn’t even bat an eyelid when she saw me. All she said was, ‘Good night, was it, Pete?’ and let me in. I just walked straight past her through the house and put the parachute rig on the washing line and turned on the hose to wash it down. After a while I hid behind my parachute and I turned the hose on myself in an effort to get off most of the mud, which had started to dry and crack on my skin. God, it was freezing, but I stayed under the jet until I’d managed to get most of it off, and then ran inside to jump under a hot shower.

  After my nice hot shower and some breakfast I decided that, since it was my last weekend of freedom, I should really spend some more time in the pub. I rang up Rodders to see where he was and arranged to meet him at the local for lunch. We spent the afternoon going over my jump in great detail and with much laughter. Mark turned up later looking a bit sheepish, since he’d packed the parachute for me, and he kept apologising about its not having opened fully – he swore it had never happened to him before. Oh well, I’d survived it, that was the main thing, and he had packed it when we’d both been drinking.

  Monday morning came and I rang up and spoke to the lawyer who was representing me in my court case. The Crown Prosecution Service were doing me for no licence, no insurance and failing to turn up in court. Well there would be no problem with licence and insurance – I had those. It was just the failure to turn up at court that was the problem. I had a quiet night and left early for Swansea Magistrates’ Court. I was up before the magistrates at 11.00. I just hoped this little escapade wouldn’t affect my going back to Iraq or get me banned from driving. I nailed it to court at breakneck speed on my bike, yet again breaking the speed limit – a bit naughty I know, but I was late. I met my brief outside and he didn’t think there would be too much of a problem. I had a rock-solid reason for not being able to turn up. What the hell – footballers do it all the time!