Britain’s Meanest Toughs: Terry Sleach

Britain’s Meanest Toughs: Terry Sleach

Satire

Brip Spears

 

 

 

As the host of “Extreme Wilderness Survival Affront with Brip Spears” as well as “Brip Spears: South American Death Life” and “Introducing:  Brip Spears – Explorer Extraordinaire presents”, I’ve faced some of the toughest and most unforgiving climes on the planet. I’ve scaled the peaks of Mount Jillibonzaro (where I was forced to extract nutrition from pearls of my own faeces to reach maximum fitness in advance of my bare-chested run to the bottom), I’ve swam the snake-infested waters of the Zamzo River and survived to tell the tale (with only minor bites to the surface of my scrotum and wider genital area—everywhere else was a mess), I’ve even battled scores of violently frenzied Sherpas in a group wrestle-to-the-death on the icy doom-slopes of Mount Makawaka, in the BBC special “Deathmatch with Brip Spears: Only One May Live”. I killed fifteen men in that one. Orphaned their children, made widows of their wives. Didn’t lose a wink of sleep about it after.

But now I’ll be facing my toughest challenge yet. I’ll be going inside some of Britain’s most hardcore prisons and interviewing some of Gangland’s most notorious, meanest toughs for my upcoming Channel 6 production: “Britain’s Meanest Toughs”. I’ve faced off with snakes, wolves, Sherpas and other savages, bears and lions—survived deathly, far-below-zero temperatures with only a camera team and a crew trailer to rely on (the toilets in those things don’t even go anywhere, they just load all the waste into a tank underneath)—but can I survive spending a night as an inmate alongside one of the cruellest, most dreadedly meanest bads on all of the planet? I think the answer is: Yes.

 

*

 

Terry Sleach, scourge of the streets of Bumpwickham. As a rising member of the Bumpwickham FC’s—the Bold Yellows’—hooligan football firm, he made himself known with a savagery unrivalled by any of his fellow thugs. Terry Sleach was the first hooligan to introduce the act of “spanching”—now regularly utilized and widely feared—whereby the thug hits his opponent on the head with the handle-end of a spanner repeatedly, until the other thug falls down, then the first thug sits on him, straddling his opponent at the waistline, and then attaches the working-end of the spanner tightly to the lobe of his opponent’s ear, so tight that it will soon require medical attention to remove. Ouch.

But spanching thugs on the streets of Bumpwickham wasn’t enough for a vicious tough like Terry Sleach. He soon moved on to burglaries with the other, rougher members of his firm, and then finally his crew got into drug dealing—introducing the European synthetic party drug “Brunch” to the streets of England for the first time. Since then, Brunch has been responsible for the deaths of 85 British citizens and the hospitalizations of many more. Kids, don’t ever do BRUNCH!

By the time Terry was nicked, his gang’s turf stretched all the way from Bumpwickham to Gankshire in the south and all the way up to Biffhull in the North, with connections to drug cartels in Europe and North Africa and even the Mexican bad hombres in North/South America. Yes, Terry was one mean tough. And now I’ll be bunking with him for the night and listening to his meanest, toughest stories. Could this be my MOST EXTREME adventure yet?

 

*

 

Billham Prison is a disgusting cesspit of poverty and disease. They book me in like a common crook, taking all my valuables and then stripping me naked and giving me a full delousing. I haven’t had one of these since I got back from the frozen, boreal forests of Golgastan. I was covered from head to toe in Black Ripper Tics. The medical team had never seen anything like it.

They give me new clothing—a grey and lifeless jumper and tracksuit bottoms—and escort me to my digs, while the other prisoners scream and jeer at me as I go past, but I don’t flinch in the slightest. I’m well used to jealous yobs coming up to me on the street and giving me an earful.

At last I’m in the belly of the beast, as they leave me by the door to my cell. Inside Terry Sleach casts an almost unassuming figure, lying back on his bed flicking through a tits-and-arse mag with casual disinterest—he’s probably wanked over it a thousand times by now. The tension in the room is palpable. Behind me, my cameraman holds his breath. Finally, I clear my throat and begin.

“Terry Sleach?” I say, “Hi, I’m Brip Spears. Tonight, I’ll be your new cellmate.”

He doesn’t bat an eye, just looks over from his magazine to me.

“Oh yeah,” he answers, “you’re that areshole from the telly, ain’t ya? The one who ate the gorilla’s meat and two biscuits camping on a mountain.”

Admittedly, I narrow my brow at that. As everybody well knows, I was forced to eat the gorilla’s penis having run out of all other food on my expedition to the heights of the jungle-mountain KikiKakoopuh. The penis and testicles of the gorilla were simply the most nutritious aspects of the beast and I didn’t have time to eat the whole thing—defurring it alone would have taken forever. No, I made my choice and to this day I stand by it.

“You’re one of Britain’s meanest toughs,” I say. “What’s the toughest, meanest score you ever pulled with the meanest, baddest, tough consequences…”

“Well,” Terry says, gaining interest as he sits up from the bed and folds his flick magazine away, “once I was out at the boozer with Gary Juicer and Jeb Frasier and we got into an argument over who was the meanest bad boy amongst our bunch. We decided to settle it by starting a brawler with one of the coppers in town—a real arsehole by the name of Jenkin Jones…”

I know this is going to be good—real television gold—so I sit down on the bunk opposite his, giving him my full attention to go on.

“So we goes out on the street, roaring and shouting and starting to try and attract the fuzz. Needless to say, it don’t take ’em long to come by, and our boy Jenkin is among them…”

“And what happened then?” I ask.

“Well Jenkin Jones got out of the motor and I immediately charged towards him, head down like a bull, didn’t I? Problem was Jones and the other peelers had all just been out for a curry. So what happened when I hit him is Jenkin spewed that mess up all over us! We all thought it was so funny that eventually, after cleaning ourselves up of the vindaloo, we all went back to the boozer, coppers and all. After that they joined my gang. Jenkin started running illegal prostitutes for us from Eastern Europe back to England. He did a great job. Good lad all round. Course, I had to shoot him in the head in the end up anyway, didn’t I? What could I do? The lad was a copper…”

This stuff is fascinating. Sleach, more like a caged beast in the wild than a man, has my full attention. I’ve survived months in the subterranean bat-infested caverns of Kai To Lu in Thailand, but I think truly this is my most dangerous expedition yet. With my fingers crossed and resting beneath my chin, I will him to go on.

“That was truly some mean, hard, tough, activity there for sure. But tell me Terry, what is it like for you now that it’s all out of your hands, now that your empire has finally crumbled?”

“Well it’s agony, innit?” Terry confides, “I feel like a bird whose wings have been clipped, or a painter who’s had someone take a piss in all of his paints so now he can’t paint no more and has to go bash someone’s head in. It’s a living hell is what it is. I know I done wrong and I am what I am. But now all I can do is take it.”

Truly, truly fascinating. Once we edit it down it will make great television. I continue to push Terry for more.

“Terry, you were once known as the undefeated champion of headbutting in all of England. Who was the hardest tough that you ever headbutted?”

Terry smiles, almost wistfully, as he recalls some halcyon past. His head—shaved and mottled with years of force, having taken fists and boots and batons to the noggin countless times—looks like an ugly heap of unsliced deli meat, one that someone let fall to the floor and then forgot about, allowing it to gather dust and lint and discarded chewing gum, as well as the nibbles of visiting rodents passing by. Yes, he’s one EXTREMELY ugly person.

“Well,” Terry says, “that would have to be the time I nutted Timothy Hammond. Hammond was a banker in London, that we’d been looking to do over for a kidnapping job. We’d been following him around for weeks until finally I’d had enough of him. So finally I just ran up to him in the middle of Princhard Street and nutted him. I nutted the wanker so hard he got knocked into traffic. A lorry went right over him, crushing his skull into marmite! Must have cost ourselves a few thousand quid missing the kidnapping job on that one, but he was such a bloody plonker it was worth it. Can still see the sight of his head turning into blackberry jam…”

 

*

 

We continue talking as I skilfully elicit the most-toughest, screen-worthiest stories from this savage animal and then finally the screw comes by and announces lights out.

“Ok,” Terry says, “I’m an early sleeper so if you ask me any more questions I’ll stick this shiv in your eye, you understand me?”

“Yes Terry, I understand,” I smile in return, thinking of the wonderful ratings we’ll almost certainly get.

As the door shuts for the final time, I feel glad to have the cameraman sleeping on his bedroll on the floor between me and Terry Sleach. If the fucker goes off, he’ll take the cameraman first, giving me time to make my escape. Once again, I—Brip Spears—have survived a night in the face of deadly savagery. Top class performance, I must say.

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