I found – and, sadly, find – the whole situation totally frustrating. Ami helped me to start the Midas charity. She is also a patron of other charities, including a project in Birmingham which looks after young girls who’ve been on heroin. These girls became prostitutes through drug addiction, but now their lives are being turned round. It is a small project but a highly successful one. It wasn’t getting the support it deserved, and when Ami and I both visited the project, we saw what needed to be done. It required backers with higher profiles, so I agreed to join her as a patron. We are both really proud of the work being carried out there.
Ami also worked at a high street bank in the fraud section. At that time I was Chief Executive of Unlock, carrying out many television appearances and advising the government.
I have to tell you that I was unhappy with the way she was treated. Ami has a brilliant brain, and she is always coming up with great ideas. While she worked there, other people nicked those ideas, claiming them as their own when her brainwaves were put into practice.
So you can see why, with all of Ami’s qualities, I was pissed off because of the aggravation with her passport. She was working in England and helping charities, and yet having to return to Japan because of the balls-ups and delays with the UK Border Agency.
It is known that Japanese are hard-working, law-abiding and respectful people. My Ami is married to an Englishman. It should be, as previously, that there is an automatic right to citizenship. Nowadays, it is all about money, because you have to go to court to argue your case for citizenship and all that.
Because of the EU, gangsters from Eastern Europe can enter here freely, claim the same rights as a British citizen, and contribute nothing. I have the hump with all of that.
It is common knowledge that I am an out-and-out royalist, passionate about Queen and country. I find it really offensive that the woman I love is not being shown the respect that an Englishman’s wife deserves. My marriage is based on love, and not cash.
In the year 2013 I have seen my wife for only two weeks. I haven’t seen my son for a year. This is because of Ami’s passport saga and her fight for British citizenship. Every time she comes over here, and I go over there, it costs thousands of pounds.
The UK Border Agency and crazy laws are, basically, separating our family. I love my wife and kids more than I love anyone in this world. And yet we are separated by stupid laws laid down by Europe.
How sad is that?
On the Midas front, Paul and I kept going and, at the time of writing, we’re working hard to achieve all of our goals.
We believe that you can give someone the best re-education or training in the world, but if they don’t want to change they will go back into crime. You have to get them into the mindset that it’s better not to be a criminal than to be out there, robbing. Crime is so glamorised that it’s not an easy task.
We are trying to include disadvantaged kids, not just ex-offenders or people involved in crime. There are many charities out there working with kids and doing a fine job, but what is really needed is people who’ve been there, and who understand what is happening. Those people have the street cred that others don’t have. That is our powerful asset.
Midas gets right into the people themselves. It’s not about ‘talking’ shops – my charity is about ‘doing’ shops. We get people into higher education, and work out ways of including training all the way through to finding a job.
If you are a trainer and your training is good, you have to get the people employed at the end of it. It’s no good giving ex-offenders bits of paper while they play their part and build up their hopes, but then can’t get a job. If you are offering training you must offer hope of a job at the end of it.
I believe that expensive government contracts for rehabilitation are being abused and the money is not going into the right areas: I have watched small concerns in action and have been really impressed. Phoenix Training Services (Midlands) Ltd, Open Book at Goldsmiths College, First Personal in the Midlands and Noor for the Muslim community are prime examples.
Midas is working on a scheme to offer training and apprenticeships, and opportunities to disadvantaged groups. We are encouraging people to take part in sport and arts or enjoy a safe environment to provide relaxation.
We know that the majority of young people today are hopeful, eager to succeed, and more often aware of environmental issues than we adults realise – despite gang culture being hyped up and youths stereotyped by the media. Yet they receive little acknowledgement and encouragement for having good heads on their shoulders, and there are only a handful of opportunities to reward them for their excellence.
I want to give everyone the chance they deserve.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AN OBE FROM THE QUEEN
THE LETTER FROM the Central Chancery of the Orders of Knighthood told me that I was being considered for an honour. I thought someone had played a trick on me, so I phoned them to make sure it wasn’t a hoax!
The Chancery people assured me that it was no hoax and asked me to accept the honour in writing. They said I was receiving the award because I had identified obstacles that needed to be removed so that people – especially the young – could lead positive and crime-free lives. One condition: I could not breathe a word until the list was published on New Year’s Day, 2011.
The OBE caught me totally by surprise. I felt like one of those geezers on This Is Your Life who have no idea what is happening.
Maybe that shows my age. I used to watch Eamonn Andrews presenting This Is Your Life, when people were caught by surprise and their whole life story became public. That was in the early 1960s; Eamonn himself was awarded the CBE.
I was bursting with pride and joy but couldn’t tell a soul. I continued with my day job until New Year’s Day, sitting in my office under my picture of the Queen: that tradition had continued from my prison cells and my office at Unlock.
A quick look at Debrett’s told me that I was to be an Officer of the Order of the British Empire. The other alternatives were Commander and Member, so I was pleased to sit in the middle, with my Officer status. I read that the award recognised distinguished service in the arts and sciences, public services outside the Civil Service, and work with charitable welfare organisations.
I scanned the internet and was amazed at the variety of people who’d received the OBE. There were those from the most humble beginnings up to James Bond star, Pierce Brosnan; veteran actor, Eric Sykes; and the comedians, The Goodies. Other recipients ranged from David Beckham to Kylie Minogue. I also noted that John Cleese had turned down a CBE in 1996 because he thought they were silly. I thought his Ministry of Silly Walks sketch was hilarious, but disagreed about his view of the awards.
John Winston Lennon returned his MBE to the Queen in 1969, along with a protest letter. He wasn’t happy about Britain’s support for America’s war in Vietnam and returned the award to make his point.
I saw that Gary Barlow received the OBE. I didn’t have his X-Factor and all that, but I must have done something right. At the other end of the scale, I read that a street cleaner had been awarded the British Empire Medal. I liked the sound of that.
And then there was me – a reformed armed robber! I felt a sudden surge of pride as I realised that even an ex-criminal with a dodgy background could turn things around and receive an honour from the Queen.
On 1 January 2011 the announcement was officially made. Now it was no secret, and I could tell my friends and family. I received cards and emails from politicians, judges, police officers and schools where I’d been spreading my anti-crime messages.
On the day, Ami, Kai and my god-daughter Charlotte Baden – daughter of Joe Baden, one of my best friends – booked in to stay in the five-star Royal Horseguards Hotel. That place is the real deal. It is modelled on a French château and has Grade 1 listed building status. The place was originally built as a block of luxury residential departments and it has links to MI5 and MI6.
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p; I woke up on the big day, pinching myself because I was about to head off to Buckingham Palace in my top hat and tails. Professional Japanese dressers kitted Ami out in her kimono. She stood on a little white cloth, as is the tradition, while they dressed her. They worked on her hair and everything very carefully, and I became more and more worried about the time!
And so, on 1 June 2011 – twenty years to the day since my release from prison – we arrived at Buckingham Palace. There was not one cloud in the sky and the palace was bathed in brilliant sunshine. Ami looked absolutely stunning in her national costume. I felt that I looked the part in my top hat and tails.
I saw state rooms the like of which I had never even dreamed of. Priceless paintings were hanging everywhere, while the carpets and furnishings oozed so much class that I was gobsmacked.
We were taken to the most beautiful ballroom I’d seen in my life. I chatted to other recipients, including a soldier who was receiving the Military Cross for bravery. It was a privilege to be in such company. The band played, everyone stood to attention, and the Queen arrived in what appeared to me as a blaze of glory. The place was brimming with colour, palace officials, Yeomen of the Guard and the most ornate decorations I had ever seen.
Names were called, and I was a bit nervous waiting for mine to be read out. I’d thought of what to say, but I was worried that my mind might go blank.
Then an announcement: ‘Robert Cummines, to receive the OBE for his work with reformed offenders.’
I marched forward, stood before my Queen and bowed. She pinned the medal on my left breast. I had forgotten what to say. I looked at Her Majesty and said: ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
When you meet the Queen, it’s as if she is twenty feet tall. I know she is a tiny lady, but she has an aura about her. I could detect strength, kindness, compassion and total authority. It’s like being a naughty boy standing in front of your mum and you are waiting to see if you’ll be told off. I looked at her and wondered how she could live her life, having to be so perfect all the time.
She helped me to feel calm. I felt so humble. I realised that I respected the monarch so much that I would have happily taken a bullet to save her life.
She had done her research and knew all about me: ‘It gives me great pleasure to give you this award. The way you have turned your life around is amazing. You have a very colourful background. You’ve come a long way. Well done, I’m very pleased for you.’
We had a short chat about my charity, and working with naughty kids and all that. Then we shook hands and I stepped back a couple of paces. You never turn your back on the Queen. I turned to my right, left the hall and walked along to an up-market desk where they placed the OBE in a box for me. Then I returned to the hall, at the back, to join my family.
After the ceremony, we all stood to attention and the Queen left the ballroom, maintaining her incredible level of grace and dignity. After they played ‘God Save the Queen’ we walked down the enormous hallway to pick up our top hats and everything.
We went outside to have our photographs taken. Although I had the OBE, most of the tourists wanted to take pictures of Ami in her kimono.
I spotted a little boy with his head pushed through the railings. It reminded me of the day my dad took me to Buckingham Palace to see a ceremony. My dad had pointed to men with tops hats on, and told me: ‘See those people – they are the toffs. When you go through that gate with that top hat on, you know you’ve made it.’
I told the little boy that, one day a long time ago, I had also looked through those railings, full of wonder. I said that one day his dream might become a reality.
I was like a little boy myself as I marvelled at the shiny, gold-coloured medal. It had four arms with three points on each arm. In the centre were King George V and his consort, Queen Mary, surrounded by the words, ‘For God and the Empire’. I admired the rose-coloured ribbon with its grey edges.
Our reception at the National Liberal Club was attended by an impressive selection of judges, MPs, senior police officers and ex-villains. Important coppers, who would have been trying to nick me a few years ago, shared stories from the past and enthused about the future for reformed offenders. The judges who would have confronted me in the dock were now eager to learn about my schemes to keep crime off the streets.
Trevor Cox, who runs a training company in Birmingham, brought his young son, William, along. Trevor works with underprivileged people and ex-offenders. William had brought his swimming medal and gave me a little note wishing me good luck. I presented him with a miniature OBE to wear with pride, and said I wanted him to aim for the bigger version.
I want to use William Cox as a role model for young people to focus on. If you want a young person to succeed, you have to invest in that child. William is twelve years of age and goes to a good school that gives its pupils quality education and support. He also has loving parents who play an active role in his education and social life, and show him good family values and manners.
William is a success and has a positive mental attitude. This shows me that, when schools and parents invest in our kids, we can turn out solid citizens for the years ahead. These children are our future and, if we don’t invest in them, then we will become the victims in a few years’ time.
The day after the ceremony we arrived home, weary but delirious with pride. Halfway through my second cup of tea, the postman arrived with a fancy-looking package. Instead of a warrant for my arrest, it was a Royal Warrant announcing to the rest of the world that I had been awarded the OBE.
The document said that I was an Officer of the British Empire, and it was signed by Her Majesty the Queen. As I read it, I thought about my extraordinary life and the dramatic change in my circumstances: from holding a prison governor hostage to receiving the OBE from the Queen.
My entire life flashed through my head. I thought about those early days, in our ragamuffin gang with Maltese Tony and Silly Billy. I remembered the dramatic day involving ‘the stinger’. I recalled when things went right and when they backfired completely.
I pondered for a few moments on all of those years in prison, and how I had realised that crime was not the way forward. I had an image of Charlie Richardson in my mind, telling me to push hard for my education. I smiled as I thought about all the people in the Open University who had recognised my potential, and made sure that I came to the fore.
As I scanned the OBE documents, I said to myself, ‘Crime is a mug’s game. I am nothing special. If I can turn things around, anyone can. I’m small and wiry, just a tiny guy, and people keep saying there is more fat on a greasy chip. The strength is all inside me.’
I walked over to my desk and flicked through a list of ex-offenders who had gone straight and turned things around. I punched the air when I opened a letter to find out that yet another villain had passed his exams with the promise of a good job.
And, a final message: I’m not going to stop. More and more lives can be turned around. Please, please, kids, stay away from knives and guns and all that, and stay as straight-goers. Look at the difference it has made to my life.
Let’s do it!
AFTERWORD FROM FRED DINENAGE: RIGHT, BOBBY, SAID FRED…
I’ve been working closely with Fred Dinenage, who used to present World of Sport in the 1970s. He has worked on news programmes in the South of England for nearly half a century. His latest project, Murder Casebook, did what it said on the tin. Fred and I really bounced off each other and became very good friends. Fred wrote a book about the Krays, helped with the Charlie Richardson autobiography and presented countless TV programmes about crime. I asked him to write a section for the end of this book, to get that vital ‘outside’ view:
I FIRST HEARD the name Bobby Cummines some twenty-five years ago in the human hell-hole that masqueraded as the visiting hall at Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight. I was with Reggie Kray, gathering material for Our Story, the autobiography I was writing with Reg and his twin brother, Ron.
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��d reached the point in the twins’ story where Reg was awaiting the arrival at Parkhurst of his long-time archenemy, Charlie Richardson, from Durham jail.
Parkhurst’s governor had objected to Richardson being moved to the prison because he feared violence between the two London gang bosses – violence that could spill over into other parts of the prison. There was, as they say, ‘history’ between Reg and Charlie.
The Krays had been at loggerheads with Charlie and Eddie Richardson for many years. The Krays controlled the East End of London, while the Richardsons bossed South London. And never the twain should meet – because when they did, there were bloody results.
Before both Reggie and Charlie found themselves banged up – for unrelated offences – there’d been a violent confrontation in March 1966 at a club called Mr Smith’s at Rushey Green, Catford. Members of the Kray gang, including a lad called Richard Hart, a cousin of the Krays, were enjoying a drink at the club when they were attacked by members of the Richardson gang, including Eddie Richardson and the infamous ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser.
Hart was shot dead, and the Krays vowed revenge. Days later, George Cornell, an enforcer with the Richardson gang, was shot dead at point-blank range by Ronnie Kray in the Blind Beggar public house. Folklore has it that the brutal assassination was carried out to the strains of the Walker Brothers singing ‘The Sun Ain’t Going to Shine Any More’ on the jukebox. It was good night to George, that was for sure.
These two attacks, even more than the battles that had gone on before, ensured that the Krays and the Richardsons wouldn’t be on each other’s Christmas card lists. Both sets of brothers had vowed revenge, which was precisely why the governor and the warders at Parkhurst were dreading the arrival of one Charles Richardson.
Even Reggie was dreading it. I remember him telling me: ‘I thought there would be trouble. I knew everyone expected me to “do” Charlie. But I also knew he could fucking handle himself in a scrap.’
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