MEAT MAN RELOADED

It’s late. Just finished breaking my neck at the gym. I love training. I love it. it keeps me sane and focused. I always feel the need to say that I’m shit at it though. Been Thai boxing 20 years now, but I say I’m no good still. “Too heavy these days… Not got the energy anymore… Always get smashed in sparring”. That’s not even true though. Not sure why I always caveat it with this, but i think it’s a British thing. You don’t wanna come across as a shit-house do you? I’m no tough guy, I just enjoy recreational violence and the tribal camaraderie that brings. If that means there’s something wrong with me, so what?

Recently I’ve been really “locking in” as they say. I’ve been getting high from my own drive to stick to discipline. I’ve been hitting it hard in a way that forces your body and mind to stay sharp. If you allow your shell to go to ruin, your soul will feel it too.

Trust me on this—some form of physical training will make anyone feel a bit better. I’m not saying be David Goggins (that guy is mentally ill) but it is good to be strictly disciplined. Control your emotions. Step out when you don’t want to. There’s nothing like that feeling. You can feel invincible if you try. The soft-bodied amongst us mock such a thing, but who cares. I’d rather be slurred as a “meat head” or a “bro” or a “thug” even, than be a bitter weakling peddling snark and cowardice.

I’m too full of energy after the gym to go home right away. My brain is on fire. It’s like a bullet fired inside a safe. I drive to get petrol at the Marks and Spencer’s stop-and-shop. I find this M&S spot very funny. It’s presented as the luxury petrol station. Refuelling for the upper-middle class. All the goods for sale inside are M&S branded too. Clones of Kit Kats and clones of Grenade shakes. They even sell Frazzles as “streaky bacon crisps with cracked pepper”. They’re just Frazzles. It’s all the same shit and the diesel is still diesel.

It’s 10pm though and M&S is the only petrol station near me where you don’t have to go to the hatch when it’s late. It’s just far enough outside of town that crackheads can’t walk to it, so the hatch isn’t needed. I hate the hatch. It’s like live action Pac-Man.

As I make my way through the sliding door, a man of about 50 strolls past me wearing a leather jacket with a few sewn in patches across the back. I didn’t get a good look but I think he’s a Hell’s Angel. We have quite a of them in the Midlands and they’re actually pretty dangerous. As a teenager two grown men from a local chapter fired rocks at me and my mates with a professional sling shot because we’d had a fight with their kids. Another friend of mine recently got ambushed by them at the traffic lights as they tried to rob his motorbike.

As I’m browsing a row of bootleg M&S Dairy Lea Dunkers, dazzled under a sky of nauseous halogen, a lad appears next to me in a face mask pulled up under his eyes. Unusual. He tucks his hands inside his jacket. For a second I think he might be about to pull out a gun and fully rob the shop. I’m kind of hoping for that to be honest. A bit of excitement on a Wednesday night.

Instead he pulls out two cotton bags and starts shovelling every packet of beef mince into it. A quick smash-and-grab style shoplift. This crackhead ventured out far.

This sort of thing is normal now in England—walking into somewhere brazen and stealing en masse. You won’t get arrested for it or anything. It’s not good obviously, but honestly I don’t really care about it either way. It’s just whatever. What does annoy me though, are the metropolitan-lefties who pretend this is some kind of virtuous act.

“So what if they’re shoplifting! It’s not their fault!” Sort of prat that thinks rich people should all be taxed at 100%. I’d love to see what they’d do if matey here strolled into their yard and robbed all the Shloer and Boursin from mummy and daddy’s Smeg.

The anon shoplifter has lifted half a dozen packets of beef mince in about five seconds. Fair play. Rapid. I’ve always felt that if someone is stealing food, it doesn’t really matter. It’s funny to see it in action like this though. I start to laugh at the idea of the thief going home to cook his family spaghetti bolognese for the next six months. Of course not. What he is, is a Meat Man.

When I was a kid I lived for a while on a council estate in a run-down area called Cedar Road. There was a Meat Man that serviced Cedar. It was his patch from the Glebe to the shops at North Park. One day he came knocking on our door and I answered it. The Meat Man had a huge bin bag full of stolen meat—fancy sausages, bacon rashers, 10% fat steak mince, seasoned chicken thighs. I called for my dad to come have a look and he bought some chicken and we had it for dinner that night.

The Meat Man eventually became redundant though when shoplifting-to-order started. One of our neighbours—a heavily pregnant woman named Mandy whose boyfriend would always sit at the table with a police scanner on full blast—got us to write out a list once. A shopping list, for stuff she’d go steal and then sell to everyone on the cheap.

I can’t remember if my dad went for it or not, but I do remember seeing Mandy waddle door-to-door on our estate. Later everyone would start to head over to her house to collect. She must’ve made a fortune.

The mince thief has two full bags now and a staff member is flying down the aisle. She’s short, trim, about 55, and definitely someone’s aunty.

“Are you having a fucking laugh?” she shouts at the thief.

The thief is startled and immediately sprints out the M&S. The staff looks at me as if to say why didn’t you do anything? Yeah right lady. If you think I’m gonna risk getting stabbed over some beef mince you’re dreaming.

I hear the shuffle of feet and a man shouting at the open doors of the M&S as the Meat Man disappears into the night. It’s the Hells Angel. Only now I can see his patches and he’s not a Hell’s Angel at all. The patches say

HARLEY DAVIDSON OWNER’S CLUB

NORTHAMPTON CHAPTER

Fuck me. I burst out laughing and the staff lady glares at me again. I shrug and just say: “Meat Man.”