The Edinburgh Fringe is a bubble.
Outside, real life goes on.
Life is not all about comedians.
Apparently, they had not met since the 1960s.
That previous 1960s occasion is described in Micky’s book Krayzy Days.
This is the way he describes it.
At the meeting I agreed to every detail for the killing of Billy Stayton.
Freddie Foreman said he would put a car in a certain location. The boot was to hold a sawn-off shotgun. Billy was to be driven to a pub on Hackney Marshes and we would be assisted by Albert Donoghue, a fella who some have said was given an initiation by the twins.
You can read elsewhere that they shot him in the leg to see if he’d go to the police and when he didn’t he was accepted.
Whoever wrote that needs to be shot in their own leg. It’s complete rubbish.
He was shot for sticking up for Lenny Hamilton and just another reason why I find it so hard to read some of those books.
We left the meet and I got into Freddie’s Citroën. He showed me how the suspension could be moved up and down to compensate for weight.
“Fred,” I said, once we pulled off, “don’t bother to put that gun in the boot. In fact, don’t bother with the car because I’m going. I’m finished. I don’t want to know. I’m off the firm.”
“Hmm,” was all he said.
I said: ‘I don’t want to know. All them fucking people they’ve got round them, I don’t know them, I don’t know their backgrounds. They’ll be putting it on them all eventually. This is ridiculous! Leave me out of it. I won’t be turning up. Drop me off.”
I got out in Cable Street and I went home and I forgot about them.