Londonstani

How gandah is that? The traffic warden was as ready to swallow this excuse as he was the stomachful a vomit Davinder went on to describe. My own stomach felt like it could offer the boy some inspiration, that’s how much I was dreadin the rinsin I’d just let myself in for. I turned back to face Amit to see whether it’d be a super-rinse with spin cycle or whether he’d just lay into me with a light-wash piss-take. I try an head him off either way by sayin,— Shit, Amit, I’m really, really sorry, man.

—Ohw, you’we weally weally sowwy, arwe you?

His Tweety Bird impression again. Bang outta order then, cos I never spoke like that. I never had a problem with my Rs. I never had no stutter an I never even had a lisp, I just had a problem speakin. An I hardly ever have that problem no more anyway. But none a this matters to Amit. I hate the way people bring up your fuck-ups from the past to make your fuck-ups in the present seem even worse. My mum does the exact same shit with my dad. They’ll be all luvvyduvvy n tight but then Dad’ll forget something or fuck up somehow an then it’s thapparh time. She’ll bring up beef she had with him from, like, before I was even born.

—I’m sow weally weally sowwy dat I tawlk n act like a woman tawlkin n actin like a batty boy, goes Amit again.— Wat’s da point in sittin in da car if you jus gonna let someone give Davinder a parkin ticket? Fuck’s sake, Jas, you give us all nuff grief by being such a sap.

Amit carries on layin into me for being dickless an also for being dickless to someone like Davinder, someone who was the opposite a dickless. So I’m sittin there wonderin whether that means Davinder’d got a big dick while Amit brings up things like how safe Davinder’d been to us all these years, how we’d already kept him waitin that afternoon, what a great customer he’d been, how he’d given us nuff business an even what a bling car he’d got.

—Him n Jaswinder bringin all their crew to Hardjit’s fight tomorrow, Amit goes on.— An you pay dem back by bein a sap n lettin em get a fuckin ticket. Fuckin dickless woman. You lucky dat traffic warden in’t got round to givin our own Beemer no ticket yet cos Hardjit’d break yo face. Fuck’s sake, Jas, why da fuck din’t you call us, you sala kutta?

—I, well, I, the traffic warden, I was kind a, I…er, I, you know, er, you know…

—For fuck’s sake, boy, how can anyone argue wid’chyu if you can’t fuckin talk?

—Well…I…I, er…

Remember that Fatboy Slim CD? The one that all the goras liked cos it mixed electric guitars with breakbeats. Remember what it was called? You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby.

—I…I, er, I did call you guys. I was shoutin for you lot to come.

—Wat’s da point in dat? How we meant to hear you holler from da muthafuckin car?

—No, I…I, er foned you, man. I was shoutin on the fone.

Rudeboy Rule #1:

My dad always said that you shouldn’t ever lie cos you’ll have to tell another ten lies to back it up. However, Hardjit’d taught me that if the back-up lies are good enough, then so fuckin what?

How to tell a good lie, though? Especially when sometimes you stammer even when you tellin the truth. Mr Ashwood taught us in History lessons that Hitler thought a good lie was a big lie.— He even had a minister for propaganda, Josef Goebbels. Jas, explain to the rest of the class what propaganda is. However, Hardjit’d taught me that a good lie is a lie with lots a detail in it. That’s why, right now, Davinder an Jaswinder were being even more gandah, listing the ingredients a Davinder’s imaginary vomit. Rice, daal, aaloo ki subjhi mixed in a base a bhindee an bile. If the back-up lies were detailed enough, then so fuckin what?

—I foned Davinder to warn him, innit, I say to Amit as I carefully reached for the Nokia 3510i in my back pocket an dialled Davinder’s number, stealth-style behind my back. Davinder an Jaswinder were frettin so much they probly wouldn’t hear the fone ring anyway. A long way indeed, baby. —Trust me, Amit, I din’t have time to come in an get you guys cos the traffic warden only just showed up. But I swear I foned Davinder though. Check his fone if you think I just be chattin shit. A hundred bucks says it shows a Missed Call.

Amit walks over to Davinder an does that whole Chinese whispers thing in his ear. Sure enough, Davinder’s Sony Ericsson P800 colour display showed a Missed Call from me, prompting Davinder to hold his forehead as if to go, Shit, how could I be such a deaf khota? Amit held his palm out towards me, as if he was givin me blessings, though what he was really going was, Shit, sorry, Jas, my bad. Jaswinder held his own palm out to Davinder, though not in a givin blessings kind a way but stead pretendin like he was gonna give him a thapparh across the face for being deaf. All a them too vexed to check the exact time the Missed Call had been missed. Then there’s Hardjit givin me a proud grin as he gets in the car an silences the drama outside by shuttin his door.— U jus call’d Davinder now, din’t u, bruv? I always knew u could b nuff smart when u proply tryin.

Davinder’s leather rucksack had twenty fones inside it this time. I nearly dropped the thing when Ravi passed it to me, though obviously I din’t look like I nearly dropped it. Most customers usually give us bout two or three at a time but Davinder normly gave us more’n ten. That was why we bought him some Nando’s or kebabs or whatever whenever we did dealings with him. The bredren was our best customer, you see, an if a good desi knows anything, it’s how to look after their best customer.

I don’t even want to know where Davinder’d got all his merchandise from, but it kept us in business an you can’t be a businessman if you in’t in business, innit. Our business is reprogramming mobile fones, which basically means unblocking them or unlocking them so that they can be reconfigured. To unlock a fone, you change its security code so that the handset can be used on a different network from the one it was originally bought on. Most people came to us cos they wanted to swap fones with their dad or mum or sister or whoever but keep their own fone numbers an tariffs an stuff. After all, what’s the point in your dad havin a blinger fone than you when he probly can’t even use the thing proply. So say your dad gets a handset upgrade to some slick Samsung on his Orange network an you want to swap it with your Nokia 6610 that you got on a T-Mobile network. You can’t just stick the SIM chip carryin your fone number an tariff an stuff into your dad’s new handset. It won’t work cos most fones are locked to the network they were originally bought on. To switch networks you gotta unlock the handsets by changin the security code. For some reason, the fone companies din’t allow people to have their fones unlocked in proper fone shops. In business-speak, that meant the fone companies had gone an left a gap in the market.

Rudeboy Rule #2:

Havin the blingest mobile fone in the house is a rudeboy’s birthright. Not just for style, but also cos fones were invented for rudeboys. They free you from your mum an dad while still allowing your parents to keep tabs on you.

So any time anyone round here wanted to enforce Rudeboy Rule #2 by doing one a these family fone swaps while keepin their own fone number, all they had to do was dial our fone number. Easy. Except for one thing: Davinder may’ve had a lot a cousins an uncles an aunts an everything, but he din’t exactly have twenty relatives all wantin to swap their fones round all at the same time like unwanted mithai boxes being recycled at Diwali.

Customers like Davinder were different to our normal family fone swap customers cos there’s more to this business than just switchin fones between different networks. If a fone gets reported missin or stolen or whatever, the fone company blocks it so that it can’t be used no more. They do this by deactivating a 14-17 digit code called the IMEI number. To unblock a fone (stead a just unlocking it) you gotta change the IMEI number. This code also makes it easier for the police to trace the thing, so if you ever find or jack some fones an want to use them you first gotta change the codes or find someone who can change them for you. Davinder an his crew had found us. Every couple a weeks we’d hook up with him an he’d give us this black leather rucksack full a fones. Fuck knows how he got them an how he never got caught gettin them. But he got them. An Amit’d got all the software an hardware for changin the IMEI numbers.

Don’t get me wrong, we in’t wannabe badass gangstas or someshit. We din’t jack no fones or sell no jacked fones or nothin. We just provided a service. We’re businessmen, innit. Our business dealings with Davinder just meant that he could guarantee to whoever he sold the fones to that they’d work an that they’d never be identified as being jacked. People keep sayin it’s becoming illegal or someshit to tamper with a fone’s codes, but, let’s face it, the cops would only round up all the little dodgy corner shops that offer this service, they’d never get round to little people like us. The feds were such pehndus they thought the little shops were the little people.

Rudeboy Rule #3:

My dad always told me to stay outta trouble. However, Hardjit’d told me to stay outta trouble with the police. After all, while the law is for goras, so is Feltham Young Offenders Institute. An while the police may be a bunch a pehndus, so are those who end up in prison.

Only last week we’d helped Amit swap fones with his dad. We did that job for free a course, even though Amit’s dad wanted to pay us anyway cos he said he admired our business skills.— Give me invoice minus VAT and I pay you boys cash, he’d said.— No use making taxman richer so he can give to bloody Somali asylum seekers. When we told his dad that we din’t have any a that VAT thing going on in the first place he got even more excited. Said he’d send more business our way. So let’s face it, we’d be gimps not to play this game. It’s what our A-level Economics retake teacher calls the informal economy. There was demand for a service out there an we could supply it. An it was all cash, so why not? Amit had the tools, Ravi had the transport, Hardjit had the contacts an I did what I was asked an din’t ask no questions.

Actually I did bring something to this gig: market information. As our A-level Economics retake teacher always said, markets can’t work proply without information. That’s why, before the Internet, they invented pigeons an newspapers. I got my information from my dad. After all, he’s a businessman too. He’s in the mobile-fone business, though it in’t like I’m tryin to copy him or nothin. He’s got a warehouse an office near the airport that sells handsets an accessories. He only sells stuff to all them small, independent mobilefone shops though, cos all the big high street chains have got their own supply networks. Anyway, thanks to all a Dad’s catalogues an magazines an leaflets an shit that the fone companies keep givin him, I could provide our own business with all kindsa info bout all the different fones that were on the market already or coming onto the market soon. I in’t exactly sure how much a this info we actually needed to do our business dealings, but we figured when you’re chattin to customers it’s best to sound like you know what the fuck you’re chattin bout. All I had to do was ask Dad for all the stuff when he’d finished readin them. Said it was for my Economics coursework. The old man was so happy his son was takin an interest in his shit, thinkin maybe I might even work with him one day. He probly even messed up the bed sheets dreamin bout havin some big family business. Wake the fuck up, I felt like sayin. It might’ve been like that in your generation, but why’d anyone want to work for their dad nowdays? I mean, what the fuck were you s’posed to do with your own plans? An how the fuck would you ever really know if you were really any good? Only fuckin reason I can see for joining my dad’s business is maybe that way I’d get to have a proper converfuckinsation with the man. Matter a fact, stead a gettin me ready to work with my dad, our business was actually competing with him, puttin him outta business. After all, if people round here couldn’t come to us to get their fones unlocked they’d probly end up buyin new ones from shops supplied by my dad. Serve him right.

I’d never told my dad bout our unblocking operation. Not just cos he was allergic to conversation an so I never told him much bout anything, but also cos he’d know our fone operation weren’t totally, 100 per cent legal. So stead he thought we made all our extra bucks by DJing. The man was probly proud I din’t spend Saturdays being another fast-food or supermarket pleb, I guess. Probly proud a the fact that he bought my first record player. That’s my dad: the man might not talk much or do much when it comes to me, but when it comes to tellin other people how proud he is a the way I turned out, the man’ll open his gob quick time, soakin up the credit like it was fuckin coconut butter.

We did in fact actually do some DJing one time. We used Hardjit’s Technic turntable an Amit’s Jamo speakers. Ravi was a pretty fly MC, probly cos he talked so much shit all the time anyway. I was crap at all that stuff a course so I just handed out the flyers. We don’t do DJing nowdays cos there in’t as much bucks in it no more. In business-speak it’s called price deflation prompted by oversupply. Too many other desi kids round here set up their own sound systems an there just weren’t enough bhangra, RnB gigs an wedding receptions to go round. Back before the market got too crowded you could get four hundred bucks just doing a big shaadi reception in a hotel ballroom near Heathrow. Also, as Ravi kept pointing out, being a DJ meant it was practically your job to flirt with fit, tipsy ladies. But when the usual Saturday-nite shaadi rate fell to, like, two hundred bucks, we decided unblocking mobiles would be better business an so now it was fones for us.

Here’s hoping fones don’t give you radiation when they’re switched off cos otherwise there’ll be no grandchildren for my dad to be proud bout. I had to move the rucksack onto my lap when Amit got back inside the Beemer, givin me another silent apology as he did so by tapping his left shoulder with his fist an then givin me a high-five with it. As if that were some kind a signal, Ravi turned the key in the ignition. But before revving, he waited for Hardjit to finish callin out to Davinder an Jaswinder,— Relax, blud, it’s all good. Jus let da traffic-wallah do his shit n we’ll settle da ticket wid’chyu later, a’ight.

5

I was secretly lookin forward to our Economics lesson today. I guess I hadn’t openly looked forward to a lesson in years, not since we were back at school an Mr Ashwood showed us Schindler’s List to help us understand the Second World War.

—I’ma take da short cut back to college, goes Ravi,— othawise we b headed for traffic, innit, Hardj?

—Nah, man, it gettin late an we gots twenty fuckin fones in da bag. Fuck college, let’s take em straight 2 my yard.

Rudeboy Rule #4:

According to Hardjit, it don’t matter if the proper word for something sounds fuckin ridiculous. If it’s the proper word then it’s the proper word.

Yard is one a them words. If it was me who was the American hiphop G or whoever the fuck it was who invented all this proper speak, no way the proper word for house’d be yard. That’s the garden, for fuck’s sake. I in’t feelin the word crib either cos that’s what American babies sleep in. Also, I wouldn’t decide that the proper word for wikid is heavy. Why they decided that The Shit should mean The Greatest I got no idea, maybe cos bad’s always meant good. But more than all a this, if I was the Proper Word Inventor I’d do two things differently. I wouldn’t decide that the proper word for a deep an dickless poncey sap is a gay batty boy or that the proper word for women is bitches. That shit in’t right. I know what other poncey words like homophobic an misogynist mean an I know that shit in’t right. But what am I s’posed to do bout it? If I don’t speak proply using the proper words then these guys’d say I was actin like a batty boy or a woman or a woman actin like a batty boy. One good thing though: now that I use all these proper words I’m hardly ever stuck for words. I just chuck in a bit a proper speak an I sound like I’m talkin proper, talkin like Hardjit. I just wish I was the Proper Word Inventor so I could pick different proper words, that’s all. But, seeing as how I in’t that person, we were cruisin to Hardjit’s yard in Ravi’s ride, checkin out the bitches round the high street. We nod at some bredren we know from Hounslow Manor School as we turned off the London Road. We pass some G drivin a red Pharrell Williams with a number plate that says D3S1, which we figure is meant to mean DESI. We talk bout how you never see a car like that without a personalised number plate. We turn up DMX again as we drive up alongside some ladies in a little convertible Justin Timberlake who’re waitin to turn into the Treaty Centre car park. We see some Somali kids makin mischief near some other car park by the Yates pub. We see Deepak Gill an his crew hangin outside the car park by Hounslow West tube station an normly we’d’ve shouted Kiddaan at them but we din’t this time cos he’d got some beef with Amit’s older brother’s fiancée’s brother-in-law’s nephew. We din’t shout Muthfuckin bhanchods either, though, cos Amit’s brother’s shaadi was only a few months away an we din’t want to fuck things up for him by causing some complicated, family-related shit. Ravi slid down from fourth to second an tried to pull away from the station, partly to make a loud, angry noise at Deepak Gill an partly to try an overtake this pain-in-the-butt H91 bus in front. But the oncoming lane in’t clear an so we’re fuckin stuck. Right behind the rear end a some fuckin Grampa Simpson when we could be chasing the rear end a some J-Lo or Beyoncé instead.

—Fuckin plebs, Ravi keeps shoutin at the Grampa Simpson in front. Then,— Oi, you gandah fucker, every time it, like, farts at us. We couldn’t squeeze past it cos the dickless driver din’t pull into the bus stop proply cos there was another bus in front a him. That bus was a H91 as well. Now that we cleaned these streets a saps, coconuts an Paki-bashing skinheads, we gotta do something bout all these buses. Even with a special slip road for them outside Hounslow West tube station, they always managed to cause chaos there. It was the same near Hounslow East tube, Hounslow Central tube, Hounslow railway station an Hounslow bus station (though I in’t sure it’s fair for us to have beef with buses hangin round at that last one).

The oncoming lane finally clears up, but we still don’t overtake the buses in front cos suddenly one a the H91s opens its doors again to let out a bunch a sixth-formers from the Green School. The Green School for Girls, that is. An even more accurate name would be the Green School for Fit Girls. They were upper sixth-formers, meanin they’d binned their dark green school uniforms a couple a years back an were now struttin around in their best casual garms. Good desi girls, though, so no fuck-me clothes. Jeans an jumpers mostly, but with enough Lycra to make you glad it weren’t cold enough for coats. Hardjit leaned out the window an did whatever it is that he does so well. I couldn’t hear exactly how he was chirpsin them over the CD, but I caught him givin it the line:— Oye oye sohni kurhiyo! The girls did that giggle-disguised-as-a-smile thing an Hardjit was out the door, escorting them to the tube station before you could say, Dude, the station’s only five metres away.

—What the fuck’s he gonna do? Buy their tube tickets for them? I asked the other guys. No answer.

—Or does he reckon he’s gonna get off with one a them in the photo booth?

Still no answer. So I look at whatever it is Amit an Ravi are busy lookin at. An suddenly I’m thinkin Cheers God for makin us bunk off lesson.

—Phwoar! Gimme some air, goes Ravi as another Green School girl steps off the bus.— Wat da fuck is Samira Ahmed doing ridin on a bus?

— I dunno, man, maybe her Beemer broke down, goes Amit.

—But ridin on a bus wid all dem plebs, man. She is so fit, she should b in my Beemer ridin wid me. Actually, scrap dat, she should b ridin me.

—Or maybe even me, goes a voice that sounds a lot like mine. Shit. I covered my mouth as I realised I’d just said that out loud. I apologise to my mind even before it starts givin me a bollocking, but it’s too late to apologise to Amit an Ravi. It weren’t my fault though. I mean, just look over there. Just look at Samira Ahmed. She was the reason guys round Hounslow’d bothered learnin how to spell the word Beautiful stead a just writin the word Fit inside their valentine cards. She was beautiful like them models in make-up ads, the ones where they’re so fit they don’t even look like they’re wearin any makeup. Unlike any a the other desi girls that’d got off the bus before her, Samira Ahmed weren’t even wearin no jewellery either. That’s how fit she was. I in’t lyin. She made you realise how some desi princesses were lookin more an more like clowns dressed up like Christmas trees with all their bling-bling Tiffany tinsel an Mac masks. It was like as if they were tryin to distract your attention from other shit on their faces, like their noses, mouths an eyes. Like they’d got so hooked on who’d got more bling that they’d forgot what jewellery was originally for, same way some desis keep complaining bout non-spicy food cos they forget the original reason for drowning food in chillies was cos the desis in the pinds were so skint they could only afford off meat an so wanted to hide the taste. In business-speak it’s called overinvesting in marketing stead a product development, an sometimes overstating the value a your assets as a result. Soon as the customer’s focus shifts back to the product again your business is fucked cos the whole demand curve, like, shifts inwards. That’s why fizzy soft drinks in’t sellin so well no more now that people know they should be drinkin pani an fruit juice stead a all them artificial flavourings an colouring s an all that other shit desi princesses slap on their faces. But not Samira Ahmed. No marketing, no make-up, no sodium benzoate, no jewellery, no aspartame an none a that potassium sorbate shit. Multiply her usual fitness by ten the way she was lookin today, dressed in that tight black polo neck that stretched round her chest an that khaki skirt - shiny, soft, slinky. Satin, probly. What is it bout shiny skirts that let you see a lady’s curves even better than you’d be able to if she was wearin no skirt, no nothin? All a that Heaven held together by this thin brown leather belt fastened diagonally across Samira’s butt an matchin her boots.

—Yeh, right, goes Ravi.— Why’d she go for a deep n meaningful gimp like you when she cud wrap dem legs round a stud like me?

But Amit is less willin to just roll with my comment bout wantin Samira to ride me.— Easy now, Jas, he goes.— Ravi here jus b chattin bout how fit she is. Da way you say it, it soundin like you onto her. Samira outta bounds for all a us bredrens an you know it. She Muslim, innit. We best all stick to our own kinds, boy, don’t b playin wid fire. An you best not b chattin like dat in front a Hardjit.

Amit had a point a course. If any a us ever got with Samira, her mum an dad’d probly kill her and then try an kill us. That’s if our own mums an dads din’t kill us first. An then that’s if Hardjit din’t kill us before they did. Mr Ashwood had taught us bout the bloody partition a India an Pakistan during History lessons. What we din’t learn, though, was how some people who weren’t even born when it happened or awake during History lessons remembered the bloodshed better than the people who were.

—Relax, Amit, I jus be jokin, innit. I jus be chattin shit, checkin her out same way Ravi is, I go, tryin to sound casual but not managing to sound casual enough. Not nearly casual enough.— But it in’t as if she’s like a strict Muslim, is it?