HAVE A DRINK ON ME : THE TIME WHEN FLY PITCHERS AT CAMDEN CHUCKED THE BRIBES TAKING STREET TRADING INSPECTOR INTO THE CANAL

This story is an epic. Almost biblical you might say. It comes in two parts. The first tells a tale of long suffering street traders into whose midst one day far back in time comes…

PART THE FIRST…

AND SO IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING… And God made heaven and earth and he said, let there be light. And there was light. And upon the Earth he put creatures, one in his own image, and he commanded him to go forth and prosper… Then it was that he gave him a companion to warm his bed and bear his children, and he said to this being whom he called ‘man’, whither goest thou… and the being said, I will meet with my fellow creatures, and I will exchange with them… they will bring honey and to them we will give the fruit of the vine. And where is the place you do this thing, God asked? And his image the man said, we will go forth into the streets so that we may prosper all the days of our life...

Fly pitching, for those who aren’t in the know, isn’t about flicking dead bluebottles out of your window at teenagers passing by below in the street, although come to think of it there’s something really satisfying about the idea. No, fly pitching is about trading illegally, without a licence or permit from the local authority where you’re doing it, usually on some thoroughfare close to a street market or sometimes even on a vacant space in the market itself. It takes real balls to perform such a caper and fly pitchers are genuine chancers. It’s a desperate activity with very real risks and you certainly need to be mobile.

There’s no rent involved. You just turn up at a spot you’ve sussed out with a folding paste table, black cloth and the gear you intend flogging in a holdall or two. It’s usually light portable stuff like jewellery or ornaments, sometimes clothing, but never dry goods or fruit and veg. Mobility is key. You need to make a quick getaway when you see the law approaching or stay and brazen it out. If it’s the law with a street trading inspector - and a fly-boy can spot a Toby a mile off - it’s usually trouble.

The police can be very phlegmatic. The old ones have seen it all before and won’t come down heavy. They appreciate a man making his living and a bit of jack the lad enterprise. Either tell you to sling yer ook there and then or walk on. Depends where you’re doing it. If it’s on a market itself and they’ve got Street Trading up their arse with the licenced traders all indignant and precious, then its buzz off with a warning. Licenced traders pay for their pitch and don’t like freelancers. They’re respectable. Fly pitchers are not! The younger John Q’s or trainees, on the other hand, are quick to get out a notebook. You’re an easy caution or nick on the way up the long greasy pole to The Yard so its name, address and piss off. At worst down to the Station.     

Fly pitching spots are often the best in the street. They can be very close to a market. Somewhere people get funnelled in from a tube station or bus stop near the official drag so that they hit your pitch first before anything else up front and licenced. There you are with your paste table and cloth. Your gear neatly laid out without prices. No protection if it pisses with rain. No protection from wind, drunks, troublemakers or fast moving thieves. The law certainly won’t help if you’re turned over. You just stand there looking cheerful with hundreds, often thousands of people passing you by. You’re always ready to be helpful and pleasant, though sharp and on the lookout. You soak in street cred by the second. Yeah, it takes real nerve and time back I did it a lot.

It brought back memories, all that long time ago… We’d just returned home after eight years in Africa. Me  a head teacher and lecturer, my wife employed as a mining and exploration geologist and our daughter a bright young student attending an excellent school. Earlier I’d spent seven years at university as a mature student, gained a first class honours degree then a Master of Letters from Oxford. I’d published academic papers and book reviews but couldn’t get a full time job in academia so I took up secondary school teaching. At first I enjoyed it and bought a house, but after three years found I was in a career going nowhere. We needed adventure. Something more than you got in suburbia so six months later we sold up and left for Zimbabwe. My wife had finished her studies. We both got jobs and made good. I soon became head of a large private school, she ran a mine. We travelled everywhere together. Saw much and did much. Then we came home. We’d had enough of lions and elephants. After having had some of my science fiction short stories published I decided to become a writer and my wife wanted to return to her studies. We had ten years savings intact but still had to earn money. In our last six months we worked out a plan. We’d bring back ornaments and curios we could buy cheaply and sell them to shops in the UK. We made many contacts and bought many things which we then freighted home.

During the first three months we tried many shops in London and small market towns. We sold stuff all right but not as much as we’d hoped. The buyers at all the big stores wanted heavy backhanders so we began thinking of street markets. Two years earlier we’d returned for a Christmas vacation and visited Camden Lock market. The whole area was a revelation. Money flowing all over the place! Right, when we finally  got back we’d get a stall there! Easier said than done! Back at Camden we began making enquiries. To our dismay none of the main markets would give us a chance. All we got were a load of excuses, nothing more.    

That brings me full circle, where I began on this post. Fly Pitching… Time to give you the story! Three months treading water going nowhere. I didn’t know anything about street trading, I mean like you needed   a permit or licence. I thought I could turn up just about anywhere and sell, just as long as it wasn’t Whitehall or The Mall. Honest! I was green as a gherkin. Never sold anything on a street in my life but I was keen. Yeah, turn up just about anywhere and lay out our gear!

Surely you couldn’t have been that stupid you’d have every justification to ask, what with all those degrees… You being at university and all... Surprise! I really was that stupid! Early one Saturday morning we pitched up at Camden Lock. There was a perfect spot on the Bridge thirty yards short of the market. We were alone, no-one else there. Looking good! Looking good! My wife helped me set up the paste table we’d bought then laid out the cloth and our stock. She’d be back late afternoon after meeting some old friends from schooldays. So there I was, seven in the morning and waiting for trade. I learned what was what an hour later when two big guys arrived with bags full of gear.

Who the fuck are you? They looked at me hard. What the fuck are you doing here?

I was on their pitch so fuck off and fast. They’d give me two minutes!

There was something I didn’t like. I mean them speaking to me like that! I was there first. Far as I was concerned it was first come first served.

“Are you fucking stupid?” one of them asked. They’d been setting up there for years.  If I didn’t get the fuck out I’d go into the canal.

“That’s you and your shit,” they drummed home the point.

Now these were mean looking guys. Bigger than me and no-one was smiling. I shook my head. No, I was staying. If they wanted trouble I’d give them trouble alright! I didn’t know why I said it, even now when I look back. I must have been mad. Even so I was a strong lad. Been a boxer years back.

They looked at each other for a moment then me. “Greek?” I asked, cutting into their thoughts with a question. It must have interrupted their plans. Yes, they were Greek.

“Nice to meet you guys,” I said quickly. “I knew a very famous Greek years back. An old friend of mine. Manos Glezos, the Greek national hero.”

There was a shaking of heads. Who? They’d never heard of the fucker.

I repeated. Manos Glezos! He’d climbed the Acropolis and pulled down the Nazi flag during the war. I’d met him in Athens. It had been a great honour for me.

They seemed bemused. Wait a moment. Yes, now they had it. They’d heard the name from their parents.

Now it was my turn. I looked at them straight. It was my fault and I wanted to apologise. I didn’t know they’d been there before. This was my first time. I’d never done this sort of thing. I thought if I came along early enough and put out a table I’d be okay. I wouldn’t have any trouble. I wasn’t scared of them I said, I only wanted to try and sell my stuff but if I was taking something that was theirs I’d back down.

They talked between themselves again then gave me a stare, only this time they were smiling. Tough guy eh! one of them said. Well let’s see. Three of us… Just about room for another table. They’d shift left a fraction so I could squeeze in. I fervently shook both by the hand. I was deeply grateful to them, I said earnestly.

Over the coming weeks I had good reason to be grateful. The two guys taught me the trade and they were nice fellows besides. I soon got to like them and they me. They were brothers, selling stuff cheap out of Greece. They made sure I kept my regular place at the end and I offered them sandwiches. On that first week I did great that Saturday and had a blinder on Sunday; elephant hair bangles, little gem trees, African art jewellery, quartz crystals, you name it. The stuff flowed out and the money rolled in. My pitch was perfect and at the end of the day I offered both guys a gift. Elephant hair bangles for their girlfriends. They took them, both smiling big. I was alright. We’d be friends from now on.

When we counted our takings Sunday night we couldn’t believe it. One pile of notes after another. A year of that and we’d be rich! We were still very naïve. We hadn’t fully worked out our expenses. I’d learned about one of these earlier that Sunday. Lissos, the elder brother, took me aside in the morning and explained what was what. There were hundreds of traders both sides of the street from the tube station all the way up to the market. Everyone there was illegal. It was all unofficial. No-one had any permit, everyone worked on the fly. There was a street trading inspector he said. The man knew every fly pitcher there. Made more money weekends than most put together. I looked at him naively. I wasn’t sure what he meant.

“Idiot!” he snapped, smiling broadly. “You can’t be that dumb. We all have to pay. He takes money from everyone. It’s like paying a rent.”

“You mean? …” I didn’t have time to finish.

“I mean you lay out a tenner,” he said slowly. “It’s the same for all of us. Just like paying rent in a market. A tenner, no questions asked. I’ll let you know when he comes.”

Well he did. “New man,” I was asked? I didn’t say anything, just nodded and smiled. He picked up my note from the table and wandered down to the Greeks. Good, another ten quid in his pocket!

Right, that was the rent for trading illegally. So now I knew. I was a fly pitcher. All the way from Oxford University and Africa to the mean streets of London, but, and here was the point, if the money I was making was the same every week I’d have serious dosh coming in. It would give me the time I needed to write and pay for my wife’s studies. It was only the start. Once we’d got going we’d eventually get into the markets. Have people working for us all over the place. First things first! We had to keep our end up at Camden.