Londonstani. Gautam Malkani

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ