westhammerer
2:46 Sun May 17
Re: Essex Boys the Truth ......
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I spent just over 76 years studying the so-called Kennedy assassination, and I am convinced that several thousand 'nano-bullets' were fired from no less than 34 assassins. It explains everything we can see on the Zapruder Film. After I published my Kennedy findings on my blog, to a warm reception of two 'likes' I tuned my attention to the so-called Rettendon Killings.
I recall the times quite well. We were speculating at the spanking new police station in South Woodham Ferrers. It had a lovely new incident room and, as the officers moved out after investigating the death of teenager Leah Betts, who died after taking an Ecstasy tablet at a Basildon nightclub, it seemed only right my old pal DCI Ivan Dibley and his squad of 40 should move in. Of course, those in the know, know that there is a connection. Say no more.
The station was officially opened three weeks after their murder inquiry got under way. Some of my mates recokoned the gunman / or gunwoman was in the Range Rover with his or her victims, his or her three-shot pump action 12-bore shotgun, a little sawn off perhaps, picked up at the murder spot as he or her clambered out, ostensibly to open a gate. Others think he or she stepped out of the shadows after the Range Rovers occupants were lured to Workhouse Lane, regular home to courting couples and a well known and much adored dogging hot spot. Others still favour a hybrid - the gunman or gunwoman was indeed waiting, but the man or woman who ordered the murders had hired a professional hitman or hitwoman, and arrived with the others in the backseat, a trusted colleague or friend or woman.
They died in under two seconds propbably, and only one, Tate, seemed to know anything about it. How much, as almost everything in this case, is conjecture. A post-mortem examination highlighted a combination in his bloodstream of heroin, cocaine, aspirin, vitamin C, sarsaparilla, broccoli, tandoori chicken, mint chip choc ice cream, tictacs, cannabis, and enough winegums to put him several times over the drink drive limit. And steroids. He was, after all, a 78-stone body builder. Some people may, or may not, know that Nigel Benn, the boxer, was an associate of Tate. I think I'm gonna leave it there. Say no more. Youtube it, you’ll see Tate at Benn’s fights. Did they have a falling out over something? A woman perchance? And is the Dark Destroyer really a murdered? My lips are sealed. (But I explain more on my blog.)
In any case, my nan was a cleaner for the Krays. Not cleaner in the clean up a body, clean the scene of crime, but cleaner for their dear old mums flat in Vallence Road. Shes wash up, do the laundry and hoover and dust. My mum left my dad in the early 50s, she'd fallen for a German POW, and I was just left with my dad who had to work. So my nan would often take me on her rounds. The twins loved their dear old mum and were very often round Vallence Street. I liked the twins and got to hang out with them a bit. They'd be making tea and smoking all the time, bantering, and for some reason Ron took a right shining to me, and had me sit on his lap all the time, though I found Charlie, the older brother, the more friendly to be honest. One afternoon my nan left me there while she took the washing to the launderette. I didn’t know it at the time but she got knocked down by a Morris minor speeding out down Commercial Street and ended up a few minutes away at the London hospital. So I was there with the twins and they didn't seem to mind too much.
Associates, geezers, spivs and slags all popped in and out. Dusk came and went and it got darker as the tea turned to whisky and talk turned to what I now recognise as long firm fraud, but it just seemed boring at the time. I must have dozed off a few times in Ron's lap but vividly remember waking as the lazy morning Bethnal Green sun slipped seamlessly into the Vallence Gardens basement. It must have been about 5am and the boys were having another cockney singsong. Reg noticed my bleary eyes wakening and said to me join us in a song boy. So, me and Ron and Reg did this amazing slow acapella 'Lambeth Walk' as the sun rays crept like a thief in the night into Vallence Parade basement. Ron sang beautifully and could really have been a successful countertenor, or mezzo-soprano at the least. If he'd put his mind to it. Reg was, let's just say, a bit blunt and bassy vocally.
Any time you're Lambeth way
Any evening, any day
You'll find us all
Doin' the Lambeth walk
Little did I know that as I was harmonising that with Ren and Rog my dear old nan was slipping away just down the road. I like to think she could hear us as she shuffled off this mortal coil. My dad later had his scrotum nailed to the floor by the twins for a perceived slight, but I still kept in contact and visited them a few times when they were in the nick. I'm just behind Dave Courtney – another great mate of mine – in some of the photos of Ron’s funeral. What a lovely day that was – great sendoff.
Sorry for the brevity, I'm on my phone in the loo.
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