Helping You To Succeed

I make friends quite easily. Admittedly, they are not always on the kosher side of the law, and I tend to swing for the more eccentric beings that occupy the planet. The Two Jennies, like most eternal friends I developed in this life, were not chosen. These ladies were a gift from the God of mischief, sent to add some sparkle to my existence.

Despite their obvious charm, amazing beauty, and love for the London nightlife, the two jennies and liquor were not friends. But they were a pair of battle cruisers, and liquor just took them to that next level of bat-shit crazy. Tonight, they were on one of those benders, which had the coppers dodging handbags and uppercuts. It was a funny sight, made even more hysterical, because we were in the middle of London in the pouring rain at 11pm.

The old cows and kisses did not take too kindly to me hanging around the two Jennies. But my missus also did not like getting out of the house once she was in, if you know what I mean. Give her some East Enders, on the custard and jelly, and she was happy. That, along with me having the Duke of Kent available every month, meant my castle was always a peaceful home, and I could do whatever I wanted, within reason of course.

I slipped the copper a Lady Godiva, which had two ounces of something special rolled inside. Would have to slip him a lot more on account of him being kicked between the knees. It was the sweetest drop kick to his orchestra stalls, which made Sugars speak a couple of octaves higher and fold over like an ironing board. Sugars was another one of my misfits. His real name was James Picton, a constable in the police service for what seemed like an eternity. He would moonlight as a doorman at several nightclubs on his days off. Jimmy Picton got the name Sugars, because he had a fancying for the brown stuff; smack; skag; China white; dope; hero… you catch my drift. Jimmy was a crackhead in a uniform. His sweet tooth for heroin earned him the sobriquet, Sugars.

But Sugars, always high as a kite, was no match for my two Jennies. Brixton Jenny, who was really from Jamaica, but lived in Brixton, was busy fighting with another copper about twenty yards away when Sugars arrived on the scene. Her roommate, Jalalabad Jenny had already bottled another copper, and was running toward Tower Bridge, with a police minivan following closely behind. The latter Jenny was from Luton and was not even Muslim. Her boyfriend had once made the national news as a sponsor of the Taliban, and ever since, we had called her Jalalabad Jenny.

What had caused all this ruckus you ask? Well, the lads aren’t always keen to demonstrate the decorum necessary to dine at certain establishments. For one thing, they are loud. Like, walking under a tree full of parakeets kind of loud. The maître D had asked Brixton Jenny to be quiet, and her response… well, let me just say it was not something you’d be likely to hear reverberating in the corridors of Buckingham Palace. Secondly, they simply did not belong in public. They were a wild, uncouth, unapologetic bunch. But I loved them.

The old Bill was called, and my good mate Jimmy Picton was first on the scene. ‘This was a storm in a teacup’ I told myself. Jimmy would ask us to move on, and it would blow over. But Brixton Jenny had other ideas, and so too did her sidekick. They attacked the officers, like they were a tag team on Monday Night Raw. The other misfit, Polio Jackson – yes, his name really was Polio Jackson – and no, he did not have polio, stood like a deer caught in the headlights, and got smacked with a thigh high boot, thrown by Jalalabad Jenny.

The Old Bill nabbed him first and sat him on the sidewalk, handcuffed. He looked like a lost, wet, puppy. It was pure comedy watching the officer interrogate a gentleman with a diagnosed level eight stutter. Polio Jackson had made his highly qualified speech pathologist take an early retirement.

“Who was the girl who threw the stiletto?” The officer asked him, his little black notebook in hand.

Polio Jackson talked at the side of his mouth, blood streaming down his face. He struggled to start his sentence like a car with a dying battery. “We call her Jenny.” He finally said.

“Does she have a full name, and could you spell it for me?”

Bloody hell mate. The officer was about seven Jays into Jalalabad, before he threw his notebook at Jackson in exasperation.

“Don’t get smart with me lad.” His frustration was obvious, as he hauled Jackson up off the curb and threw him into the van.

Brixton Jenny took off after her roommate Jalalabad, and so did everyone. By the time we got to Tower Bridge, I was exhausted.

Without missing a step, Brixton Jenny leapt into the Thames, and everyone froze. Jalalabad Jenny seized the opportunity while everyone else was distracted, to follow in after her. This was now a search and rescue operation. While a swan dive into the Thames is the preferred method of suicide for Londoners, this was not the first time that the two Jennies had performed their Houdini impression. While all the officers and onlookers were scouring the waters for either lady, I quietly began to slip away.

“You ain’t just gonna leave your mates to drown now are ya?” Officer Sugars was suddenly quite coherent. Heroin shooting, high flying, Jimmy Picton was now the consummate exemplary officer in her majesty’s constabulary. He was having a laugh if he thought I was going to stick around to answer questions.

I ignored him and hustled into a cab. A handcuffed Polio Jackson shifted his weight to make room for me. I directed his attention to the opposite side of the bridge. There, two silhouettes could be seen scampering along the sidewalk, like rats after they’d raided a pantry, barely visible in the ambient light along the Thames.

“Just take us a couple blocks round the corner mate.” I informed the cabbie.

“Looks like we had a jumper.” He remarked casually.

“Two of them.” I responded to his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

“Must be them Two Jennies innit? They love going for a swim at night. I know em personally.”

“Oh, come off it mate. Next, you’d be telling me you once gave old Jack the Ripper a ride home.”

He tapped the side of his nose “I swear on me Nan’s grave.”

Within minutes, the girls, dripping wet, jumped into the cab laughing their bloody heads off.

Not a lot of people believe me when I tell them about Jalalabad and Brixton Jenny. I know one person who never doubts the retelling of the evening’s shenanigans though. My Missus. Bloody hell, wait till she heard this one.