A darkly comic reinterpretation of Janie Jones, exploring youthful rebellion, criminal incompetence and dreams of rock ’n’ roll.
Two bored teenage accountants, a punk gig, a Ford Cortina and a spectacularly stupid petrol station robbery.
by Chris Harris
Barry reflected on his situation.
Sitting at the desk of Burgess and Hills Charterd Accountants wasn’t where he’d hoped to be at eighteen. He’d dreamed of better things, playing for Chelsea, being in a famous band, just being important; anything other than being a trainee accountant. The sun poured in through the grimy window, flecks of dust accentuated by the glare, floating around, the only interest he had as he assisted his superior…I mean, his supposed superior; Paul Evans, he was only 23, nerdy and a fucking accountant, and he was Barry’s superior- how miserable, both dealing with the payola of Terry Grimes, the owner of some string of cheap petrol stations.
In the in-tray was receipt after receipt he had to tick off in his alphabetical file, just a relentless circle of figures punctuated by Evans telling him how crap he was, always rounded off with “You ugly bastard.” His life was so boring, meaningless and self loathing.
“Poxy roll-ups,” Jacko exclaimed as they sat in the backyard of the office on their lunch break.
“Ha ha!” Barry laughed.“When we get properly qualified, we’ll go for proper cigarettes.”
“That is, if we stick it that long,” Jacko replied.
Jacko and Barry had become close friends. They had both been right at the bottom of the pile for six months, although Jacko was still still vaguely enthralled by the whole thing, seeing the figures as puzzle whereas Barry saw them like the little buzzing flies in his bedroom that always seemed to outsmart him, he had already lost whatever enthusiasm he might once have possessed. His mother threatened to send him to live with his dad if he left the job or got sacked. He may have hated his job but he hated his dad more.
“What do you say we go and see that band tonight?” Barry suggested.
“Who’s that?”
“X-Ray Spex, up at the Hope and Anchor.”
“Oh yeah. They’ve got a right fit bird singing for them. Love to mate, but I haven’t got a pot to piss in.”
“Well, I’ve got a bit of money,” Barry said. “I’ll tell you what, you borrow your mum’s car and drive and I’ll pay for you to get in. They were both on bugger all wages as trainees, but his dad gave him ‘guilt’ money every month, for ruining his life, he always told him when they met up for a coffee once a month for an hour, a routine Barry only maintained for the cash handout.
Knowing there was some entertainment in the evening to break up the misery and inertia of the office cheered Barry up a bit. He even started to pay attention to the payola.
“Crikey, that Mr Grimes must make a packet. All that cash in those petrol stations. I bet he doesn’t declare half of it either.” He said to Paul.
“Fuck off ugly.” The worst thing was, he knew he was ugly, his complexion was oily and his hair greasy. The oil seemed to be a special substance that he secreted that seemed to fertilize the early teenage zits he had never been able to shake. His face was round, puffy and white.
Grimes would turn up every three months in his brand-new Jag to meet the senior partners, who also had a lovely array of flash cars in the office car park. Reginald Burgess was the senior partner. He hated Barry as much as Barry hated him, but he recognised the need for trainees at the bottom of the pile to do the banal work on the cheap. Barry would often enact the moment in his mind when he finally told Reginald to screw his job. He had rehearsed it as a well thought out series of events, especially when he couldn’t sleep, which was most of the time. Living at home with no money, stuck in the doldrums, and doing as little work as humanly possible being hardly supported a good sleep cycle.
His hour on getting home, normally an hour before him was his favourite. His ritual on returning home was to lie on his bed and perv over his collection of Janie Jones posters, which littered his bedroom walls. As he pleasured himself, his imagination ran riot with all the things he would do with Janie Jones. Sometimes he’d be leaving his accountancy practice where he was boss man, in his E-type Jag and pick her up from the studio for some fun. His delusions remained unabated, particularly when he was in the midst of battle with his hormones and desires. If he was lucky, his mum would tell him in the morning she’d be late as she was going to see her fancy man. He hated him too, so he never came to the house. He thought of them at it together, and began hating his mum too.
Jacko tipped up at half past seven. “You make sure you put some petrol in the car for him, won’t you, love?” Barry’s mum said. He didn’t particularly like speaking to his mum, so he didn’t bother explaining the arrangement they had made. “Yeah, whatever,” he replied, and slunk off.
They felt cool as anything driving to a gig in the orangey brown heap, smoking cigarettes and shouting “wanker” at pedestrians.
The Hope and Anchor was packed. He spotted some members of the Damned, which briefly caught his interest, and beautiful young girls everywhere, adorned in their slinky punk gear. None of it interested Barry. None of them measured up to Janie Jones. He still couldn’t work out why everyone was pogoing about. He thought it was all a bit stupid. But somehow, watching all the energy and excitement struck a chord, and an idea came to him.
“Fuck it. Let’s go and rob one of Grime’s garages. All that cash would change our lives.”
They were walking back to the car.
“You are joking,” said Jacko. “We’ll go to prison if we’re caught.”
“Well, don’t you feel you’re in a prison anyway, in that bloody job,” Barry replied.
Jacko considered it for a minute and agreed. Perhaps it was worth a gamble. He didn’t mind the numerical figures, but he loathed the human figures that filled the office room and corridors, boring accountants, did he want to become one of those?
“We can’t just go in there and say, ‘Hand over the money.’” We need a plan Barry, and we’ll need a disguise.
“Let’s get the spanner out of the boot and pretend it’s a gun. Old Grimey’s got a dozen petrol stations. The furthest one away is in Aylesbury. Let’s go up there. We’ll stop off at mine, and I’ll get a couple of balaclavas”
His mother confronted him in the hallway, “Why are you going out again?”
This was easy. “Me and Jacko met some girls at the gig; we’re just gonna hand out for a bit.” He knew if he was showing an interest in dating his mother would never put an obstacle in his way, especially as she was the one who had to clear up his crumpled toilet roll after his sessions with Janie.
The funny thing was, neither of them was nervous. Dead-end jobs at eighteen and relatively friendless, they had nothing to lose if they were caught. “We can nick a load of proper cigarettes too, chuck the Golden ‘Ginia away at last.” Jacko observed.
“All great, but the most important thing is to get some petrol, you twat, we’re nearly out.”
“We’re raiding a fucking petrol station; I’ll get some whilst you’re doing it over, distract the attendant.”
“Oh right, so I do the dirty work?”
“Yeah, ‘course you do, I’m the getaway driver, you’re the hitman” Barry did not like the logic, but understood it.
They gingerly pulled into the forecourt, by now the adrenaline was pumping as the new dawn of crime broke in a depressingly dirty service station, As Barry
As Barry opened the door with one hand, he slipped the balaclava over his head with the other. Jacko fumbled at the pumps, nervous, and he couldn’t work out how to operate them. He’d only recently passed his test, and his mum always filled the car with petrol. Besides, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the old man attendant, who clearly wouldn’t give up the money in the till without a fight.
“You what, mate?” he said to Barry.”That’s just a spanner, you twat. Get away with ya or I’ll call the Ols Bill.” He was quite a timid-looking man, so Barry was slightly shocked by his aggression and instead started smashing up the display of confectionery and travel sweets at the front to show he meant business. But the old man was nonplussed. Well, he couldn’t attack him, could he? He was an old git. Fuck it. He was just gonna run.
As he was about to turn, he learnt about another side of Jacko, who came bounding in, kicked in the makeshift door behind the till and punched the old man in the face, grabbed his arm and held it behind his back, close to breaking it. “Get the fucking money, Barry.” The old man opened the till.
“Don’t break my arm. Please don’t break my arm!” he yelled
“Yeah, well you just tell me where the rest of it is.”
They went into a small dingy office and left running to the car with the spoils. They were absolutely euphoric, and as Jacko revved the car and they sped off. Barry started counting the pound notes, the fives and the occasional ten, up to the grand sum of £850, which is pretty much all they both got as trainees a year. They laughed at the fact that he’d given Barry’s name away, as had they told the old man they’d be back to do him again if he spilled the beans. “He nearly shat himself, he’ll keep schtum.”
With no CCTV and Aylesbury being so far away, they knew they’d be safe. They laughed over what they’d be spending the money on, and let’s face it, where they could go and do over next. For a few minutes, their lives were perfect and full of opportunities, before the car started to lose power. This was a particular worry because, down the dark country lane, it was easy to make out a flashing blue light about a mile behind them, and as it got closer, they could hear the siren.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. You didn’t fill it up, Jacko!”
The car came to a standstill. “Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I got so carried away while I saw you struggling in there, I forgot to put the bloody petrol in. Getting caught up in all the excitement.”
Barry’s mum sat across from him, stern faced.
“Fred’s going to move in; you needn’t think I’m running my life around your needs anymore. Normally he’d reply with something repellent, imagining the two of them at it at night, the sounds and the grunting.
“Yes, Mum.”
“You’re going to have to move in with your dad. He’s fixed you up with a van driving job; you’ll have to get a license, but nobody else will give you a job with a criminal record. You needn’t think he’ll clean up your toilet roll mess.”
“No, Mum, sorry, Mum.”
” You’ll be the death of me.” That can’t come quick enough, Barry thought to himself. But he smiled as the lecture went on.
He zoned out of the moaning and drifted into a reverie, the jobs he and Frank, his cell mate were planning to do when they both got out. He was going to lodge with Frank and his missus. Frank got caught only because the guy who walked into the shop during the heist was a boxer, and he knocked him out cold; it wasn’t Barry’s fault Jacko hadn’t put petrol in the car. What could go wrong?
It was a life of crime, rock n roll and getting stoned, and when they were stinking rich crime lords with the houses, clothes and cars, maybe the real Janie Jones too!
I’ve kept your original story, language, swearing, characterisation and punk attitude intact. I’ve corrected spelling, punctuation, quotation marks and obvious typing errors, without adding new material or rewriting it into conventional literary prose.
Proofread version
Barry reflected on his situation.
Sitting at the desk of Burgess and Tates Chartered Accountants wasn’t where he’d hoped to be at eighteen. He’d dreamed of better things, playing for Chelsea, being in a famous band, just being important; anything other than being a trainee accountant. The sun poured in through the grimy window, flecks of dust catching the glare as they floated around, the only interest he had as he assisted his superior… I mean, his supposed superior; Paul Evans depressingly worked there through the payola of Terry Grimes, the owner of a cheap string of self-service petrol stations. Evans was only 23, nerdy and a fucking accountant, and he was his superior. How miserable, Barry mused.
His in-tray was receipt after receipt he had to tick off in his alphabetical file, a relentless circle of figures punctuated by Evans telling him how crap he was at his job, always ending with “You ugly bastard.” His life was so boring, meaningless and full of self-loathing.
“Poxy roll-ups,” Jacko exclaimed as they sat in the backyard of the office on their lunch break.
“Ha ha!” Barry laughed. “When we get properly qualified, we’ll go for proper cigarettes.”
“That is, if we stick it that long,” Jacko replied.
Jacko and Barry had become close friends. They had both been at the bottom of the pecking order at the firm for six months, though Jacko was still vaguely enthralled by it, seeing the figures as a puzzle; Barry saw them like the little buzzing flies in his skanky bedroom that always seemed to outsmart him. He had already lost whatever enthusiasm he might once have possessed. His mother threatened to send him to live with his dad if he left the job or got sacked. He may have hated his job, but he hated his dad more.
“What do you say we go and see that band tonight?” Barry suggested.
“Who’s that?”
“X-Ray Spex, up at the Hope and Anchor.”
“Oh yeah. Love to, mate, but I haven’t got a pot to piss in.”
“Well, I’ve got a bit of money,” Barry said. “I’ll tell you what, you borrow your mum’s car and drive, and I’ll pay for you to get in.”
They were both on bugger all wages as trainees, but his dad gave him ‘guilt’ money every month, penance for ruining his life. Barry never failed to remind him when they met up for an hour of coffee once a month, a routine Barry maintained only for the cash handout.
Knowing there was some entertainment in the evening to break up the misery and inertia of office life cheered Barry up a bit. He even started to pay attention to the payola.
“Crikey, that Mr Grimes must make a packet. All that cash in those petrol stations. I bet he doesn’t declare half of it either,” he said to Paul.
“Fuck off, ugly.”
The worst thing was, he knew he was ugly; his complexion was oily and his hair greasy. The oil seemed to be a special substance that he secreted that seemed to fertilise the early teenage zits he had never been able to shake. His face was round, puffy and white. Let’s face it, his personality wasn’t much better.
Grimes would turn up every three months in his brand-new Jag to meet the senior partners, who also had a lovely array of flash cars in the office car park. Reginald Burgess was the Big Cheese. He hated Barry as much as Barry hated him, but he recognised the need for trainees at the bottom of the pile to do the banal work on the cheap. Barry would often enact the moment in his mind when he finally told Reginald to screw his job. He had rehearsed it as a well thought out series of events, especially when he couldn’t sleep, which was most of the time. Living at home with no money, stuck in the doldrums, and doing as little work as humanly possible hardly supported a good sleep cycle.
His hour on getting home, normally an hour before his mum, was his favourite. When he got home, he’d lie on his bed and perv over his collection of Janie Jones posters, which littered his bedroom walls. As he pleasured himself, his imagination ran riot with all the things he would do with Janie Jones. Sometimes he’d leave his accountancy practice, where he was boss, in his E-type Jag, and pick her up from the studio for some fun. His delusions remained unabated, particularly when he was in the midst of battle with his hormones and desires.
If he was lucky, his mum would tell him in the morning she’d be late as she was going to see her fancy man. He’d have a mammoth session with himself then. He hated her man, so he never came to the house. He thought of them at it together, repulsed, began hating his mum too.
Jacko tipped up at half past seven.
“You make sure you put some petrol in the car for him, won’t you, love?” Barry’s mum said.
He didn’t particularly like speaking to his mum, so he didn’t bother explaining the arrangement they had made.
“Yeah, whatever,” he replied, and slunk off.
They felt cool as anything driving to a gig in the orangey-brown Cortina , smoking cigarettes and shouting “wanker” at pedestrians.
The Hope and Anchor was packed. He spotted some members of the Damned, which briefly caught his interest, and beautiful young girls everywhere, adorned in their slinky punk gear. None of it interested Barry. None of them measured up to Janie Jones. He still couldn’t work out why everyone was pogoing about. He thought it was all a bit stupid. But somehow, watching all the energy and excitement struck a chord, and an idea came to him.
“Fuck it. Let’s go and rob one of Grimes’s garages. All that cash would change our lives.”
They were walking back to the car.
“You are joking,” said Jacko. “We’ll go to prison if we’re caught.”
“Well, don’t you feel you’re in a prison anyway, in that bloody job?” Barry replied.
Jacko considered it for a minute and agreed. Perhaps it was worth a gamble. He didn’t mind the numerical figures, but he loathed the human figures that filled the office room and corridors. Boring accountants. Did he want to become one of those?
“We can’t just go in there and say, ‘Hand over the money.’ We need a plan, Barry, and we’ll need a disguise.”
“Let’s get the spanner out of the boot and pretend it’s a gun. Old Grimey’s got a dozen petrol stations. The furthest one away is in Aylesbury. Let’s go up there. We’ll stop off at mine, and I’ll get a couple of balaclavas.”
His mother confronted him in the hallway.
“Why are you going out again?”
This was easy.
“Me and Jacko met some girls at the gig; we’re just gonna hang out for a bit.”
He knew that if he showed interest in dating, his mother would never put an obstacle in his way, especially since she was the one who had to clear up his crumpled toilet roll after his sessions with Janie.
The funny thing was, neither of them was nervous. Dead-end jobs at eighteen and relatively friendless, they had nothing to lose if they were caught.
“We can nick a load of proper cigarettes too, chuck the Golden Virginia away at last,” Jacko observed.
“All great, but the most important thing is to get some petrol, you twat, we’re nearly out.”
“We’re raiding a fucking petrol station; I’ll get some whilst you’re doing it over. Distract the attendant.”
“Oh right, so I do the dirty work?”
“Yeah, ’course you do, I’m the getaway driver, you’re the hitman.”
Barry did not like the logic but understood it.
They gingerly pulled into the forecourt. By now, adrenaline was pumping as a new criminal career tantalisingly loomed over a depressingly dirty service station.
As Barry opened the door with one hand, he slipped the balaclava over his head with the other. Jacko fumbled at the pumps, nervous, and he couldn’t work out how to operate them. He’d only recently passed his test, and his mum always filled the car with petrol. Besides, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the old man attendant, who clearly wouldn’t give up the money in the till without a fight.
“You what, mate?” he said to Barry. “That’s just a spanner, you twat. Get away with ya or I’ll call the Old Bill.”
He was quite a timid-looking man, so Barry was slightly shocked by his aggression and instead started smashing up the display of confectionery and travel sweets at the front to show he meant business. But the old man was nonplussed. Well, he couldn’t attack him, could he? He was an old git. Fuck it. He was just going to run.
As he was about to turn, he learnt about another side of Jacko, who came bounding in, kicked in the makeshift door behind the till and punched the old man in the face, grabbed his arm and held it behind his back, close to breaking it.
“Get the fucking money, Barry.”
The old man opened the till.
“Don’t break my arm. Please don’t break my arm!” he yelled.
“Yeah, well, you just tell me where the rest of it is.”
They went into a small, dingy office and left running to the car with the spoils. They were absolutely euphoric, and as Jacko revved the car and they sped off, Barry started counting the pound notes, the fives and the occasional ten, up to the grand sum of £850, which is pretty much all they both got as trainees in a year. They laughed at the fact that he’d given Barry’s name away, as they’d told the old man they’d be back to do him again if he spilt the beans.
“He nearly shat himself; he’ll keep schtum.”
With no CCTV and Aylesbury being so far away, they knew they’d be safe. They laughed over what they’d spend the money on, and, let’s face it, where they could go and do over next. For a few minutes, their lives were perfect and full of opportunities, before the car started to lose power. This was especially worrying because, down the dark country lane, they could make out a flashing blue light about a mile behind them, and as it got closer, they could hear the siren.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You didn’t fill it up, Jacko!”
The car came to a standstill.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I got so carried away seeing you struggle in there that I forgot to put the bloody petrol in.”
Barry’s mum sat across from him, stern-faced.
“Fred’s going to move in; you needn’t think I’m running my life around your needs anymore.”
Normally he’d reply with something repellent, imagining the two of them at it at night, the sounds and the grunting.
“Yes, Mum.”
“You’re going to have to move in with your dad. He’s fixed you up with a van-driving job; you’ll have to get a licence, but nobody else will give you a job with a criminal record. You needn’t think he’ll clean up your toilet roll mess either.”
“No, Mum, sorry, Mum.”
“You’ll be the death of me.”
That can’t come soon enough, Barry thought. But he smiled as the lecture went on.
He zoned out of the moaning and drifted into a reverie, the jobs he and Frank, his cellmate, were planning to do when they both got out. He was going to lodge with Frank and his missus. Frank got caught only because the guy who walked into the shop during the heist was a boxer, and he knocked him out cold; it wasn’t Barry’s fault Jacko hadn’t put petrol in the car. What could go wrong?
It was a life of crime, rock ’n’ roll and getting stoned, and when they were stinking rich crime lords with the houses, clothes and cars, maybe he could pull the real Janie Jones too!
