In early 1997, I resided with my father in a council bungalow located in Trimley. During an October Saturday, I was asked to run a music quiz for Walton United Football Club. I convinced my supervisor to let me to leave work a few hours. She reiterated the need for me to be there the following day. I assured her I would be there. Subsequently, I arrived at the labour club and the quiz was deemed a success. Following (and during) the competition, we consumed a few beverages before departing in different directions.
My initial plan was to head home, crack open a few cans, and tune in to Match Of The Day. Upon my arrival, it was clear that the old man wasn’t home. Around this time, I had a sneaking suspicion that he had been stealing from me. I had noticed that notes and coins had gone missing from my room, along with a few blank cheques from my cheque book. With the old man out of the house, I decided to conduct a search of his room. Unfortunately, the results of my search left me feeling uneasy. I lifted up his bed and stumbled upon a collection of letters. As I went to retrieve a beer from the fridge, I realized that something wasn’t right. Where had my six cans gone? As it turns out, that thieving bastard had gone ahead and drunk them all. Needless to say, I was beyond enraged.
Returning to his room, I resumed my search and stumbled upon a few bank statements – my own, to be precise. The sneaky bastard had embezzled £400 from me. With my beer and emergency funds gone, I thought things couldn’t get any worse. But boy, was I wrong. The next letter I found was from the housing association, addressed to both Mr. TJ and Mr. JS Versey – that’s the old man and myself, joint tenants. The letter informed us that we would be homeless as of a certain date in November. Well, those weren’t the exact words, but you catch my drift. As I continued to read, I discovered that we were nearly six months behind on rent payments and, despite several attempts by the association to contact us, they had no other choice but to repossess the property. I was beyond furious. As joint tenants, we had split the rent 50/50, and I had been paying my share via direct debit every month, leaving him to cover the rest.
It was clear that he had not paid his share. I left the house in a fit of rage and headed straight to the woman’s place he was seeing. I aggressively knocked on the door and she answered, allowing me to barge in. A physical altercation between the old man and myself erupted in her living room while she screamed in terror. My only intention was to get revenge for the emotional pain he had caused me over the past 27 years. The commotion attracted the attention of the police, who rushed into the home to restrain me whilst using tactics not found in PACE. However, it was too late as my anger had subsided. I fought back, but was ultimately overpowered by six officers who placed me in new plastic handcuffs and read me my rights. Unable to lash out, I hit one of the officers, resulting in a severe beating from the rest of the group. They transported me to the station and locked me up in a cell, assuming I was drunk. In reality, I was just furious.
At half seven in the morning, they finally arrived to start the interview. My heart sank as I realized I was already half an hour late for work. Fortunately, I was allowed to make one phone call and phoned my supervisor. I explained that I had been arrested and wouldn’t be able to come in. Despite my apologies, she was furious and berated me for letting her down after she had granted me some time off. I promised to keep in touch and hung up. The police then interviewed me and charged me with two counts of ABH, leaving me with a bleak outlook on the future. After being released, I headed home and collapsed into bed from exhaustion. A few hours later, my mother and old mate Ninky showed up, having heard about my situation through the grapevine. While my mother read letters from the Heritage, I had a beer with Ninky (we’d got more from the local shop).
Fortunately, I then had a four-day break from work, providing ample time to resolve the situation. The old man had relocated to his mother’s home, spreading rumours that I was a psychopath! With only two weeks remaining before eviction, I decided to visit my old mate, Roger. His spacious multi-level residence on The High Road was perfect for my needs. After a brief conversation, everything was arranged, and I could move in the following day. Delighted with the outcome, I returned to my bungalow and packed my belongings. Despite leaving earlier than necessary, I didn’t care. I was content to let the heritage have their property back. The next day, my good pal Smacker arrived with his van and assisted me in relocating my possessions to Roger’s abode, known as Rogering Hall.