Just a taste.

Seems half the folks on Twitter, well the writer type folks at least, have this thing called 'Sample Sunday'. Wasn't sure what it meant really. I mean, I've sampled Sundays all over the Northern Hemisphere for the last bloody 62 years. What could possibly be different about about sampling a Twit Sunday? Turns out it's just a reason to get us to try and buy. Bit like wine merchants really. Only they just want us to buy cheap plonk at Champagne prices.   
          The good folks on Twitter though simply want us to recognise the talent, or lack of in some cases, employed in the art of writing a ripping, or possibly not so ripping, good yarn. Of course if you're a published writer without the backing of a major publishing company behind you, it's not a bad idea. A little exposure can't be bad. Providing it's not in public and nowhere near a policeman pounding a boring beat on a Sunday.
          Okay so I'm not a published writer but what the hell. I'm not going to let a little thing like that get in my way so, whether you like it or not, here's the opening of 'Why Danny'

There aren't many of us old school blaggers left now, it's all drugs, computer fraud and identity theft these days but Danny the Dip – pickpocket, burglar, safe cracker, small time tea leaf, snout, biggest bender of the truth in the East End – knew one. Not only knew one, but got on the wrong side of him, and the wrong side of Harry Chambers was usually the side pointing a pistol. Though if Harry happened to be sans pistolet, a baseball bat would do the job just as nicely, thank you very much. Fussy wasn't in his vocabulary when it came to making a statement. If you thought the Krays were bad –– well, let's just say, Harry was an evil bastard. Only been out myself two days, after doing a ten stretch; I didn't need to be getting grief, and standing at my door, Danny the Dip was telling me why I would.

          Strange really, because the three of us had gone to the same school, grown up together and, for a short while, we'd worked in the same team. But while the Dip, a couple of years younger than us, had always been the odd one out, me and Harry had stayed close friends –– until now.

         "It's still you 'e blames, Keef, an' you're out now while 'is bruvver is still banged up. If 'arry wasn't laid up wiv the flu you might 'ave copped it yesterday. You've 'elped me before so I thought I'd best give you the S.P. like, you know, tip you the wink."

         "Thanks. It wasn't me shot the copper though, Danny. All little brother Billy had to do was get his self into the bloody car, but no. He had to go all bloody macho and start shooting up the street with a Colt 45. It's a wonder that he only shot the copper. Always was two sandwiches short of a full bloody picnic. His bloody fault we got nicked. If he'd been around in the sixties same as us, either the Krays would have topped him or a bloody Judge would have hanged him. I'm surprised he didn't grass up his brother for sorting the job and supplying the shooters. He couldn't even spell loyalty let alone know the meaning of the word."

         "Wouldn't 'ave got 'im a lighter sentence anyway. Not after toppin' a scuffer it wouldn't."

         "Maybe, maybe not."

         "Right, I'll be orf then Keef. Don't want to 'ang around too long on your door step. Eyes everywhere an' all that. Watch yer back mate."

         With the collar of his jacket turned up, hands thrust deep in his pockets, and baseball cap shielding his eyes, he turned and slouched away, having said all he'd come to say. That was the last I ever saw of Danny the Dip.