Monday, 6th April
My first day delivering food parcels for the local community support service. It's hard not to feel a bit like Jesus feeding the 5000, really. (Well, if he'd been cycling back and forth to Bethsaida with bags full of Tesco's own brand, that is, but the point still stands.)
Mrs Edgerton at No. 17 isn't happy she didn't get the grouse she asked for. I try to explain we are limited in terms of the food items we can supply, but it does little to placate her.
"I suppose veal's out of the question as well, is it?" she asks testily.
"...I can get you some liver-?" I offer somewhat feebly.
"Don't bother, I'll use that other delivery boy in future," she says before slamming the door in my face. This unfortunately turns out to be the pattern for every delivery I make today. If it's not grouse or veal they're expecting it's oysters or lobster, and each time there's a reference to this other volunteer they'd rather use instead of me. Mr Rayner at No. 37 mentioned the name Kevin, but told me to bugger off before I could ask any more.
I go home feeling deflated. Later I get a phone call from Keir Starmer, who begs me to reconsider taking him up on his offer of becoming Deputy Leader of the Labour Party. I tell him I'm not in the mood to discuss it right now and hang up.
Tuesday, 7th April
After yesterday's events I resolve that if I'm going to carry on volunteering I really need to up my game. Disregarding the list of food items recommended by the community support service, I head down to the supermarket as soon as it opens and buy up every piece of Kobe steak, Iberian ham, king salmon, etc that I can get my hands on. Altogether it comes to just over £13,000, but I figure what the hell: you can't put a price on charity. Besides, if my housemate doesn't want me to use his credit card he shouldn't leave it lying around.
Mr Nigmatulin at No. 43 is so delighted with his curried Moroccan lamb cutlets he asks me to shop for him again next week. It's the same story with Mrs Brand at No. 57, who's moved to tears by my Japanese cod filets. As the day goes on I receive more requests for future food drops, promises to recommend me to friends, and even the odd comment about the level of my service being far superior to Kevin's.
I get home and crack open a well-deserved bottle of Stella when the phone rings. It's Starmer again, and he wants to know if I'm ready to talk now. He butters me up by saying he needs a strong right-hand man to steer the Labour Party towards electability and heal the rift on the left (not to mention give him a few pointers on policy since he's hopelessly out of his depth). I politely decline, informing him I've found a greater, more worthwhile calling than anything Westminster has to offer. Plus I wouldn't be seen dead next to that tosser Ed Miliband.
Wednesday, 8th April
Just having breakfast when there's a knock at the door. I open it to discover a box of Sainsbury's Taste the Difference chocolate assortment with all but the bloody horrible coffee ones removed. Is this random happenstance, or is someone trying to give me a message? I ponder on this over my boiled egg, pausing only to change my shirt after spilling yoke down it.
I deliver food parcels to Mr Sanders (Colonel, retired) at No. 71 and Mr Nando at No. 73. When I arrive I hear loud, angry voices coming from the back garden. Out of concern I slip through the alley into the snicket, only to find Mr Sanders (Col., retired) and Mr Nando yelling at each other over the fence. I ask what this is all about, and Mr Nando informs me it's an ongoing disagreement they have about who's the best cook. I tell them there's a simple way of solving this and hand them both a food parcel containing a frozen Ayam Cemani chicken.
"Gentlemen, this is the best and most expensive breed of chicken in the world," I announce like a referee at a boxing match. "The man who cooks this to perfection without resorting to using peri-peri sauce or a deep fat fryer will earn his title as the greater gourmet..."
"Obrigado, Senhor!" Mr Nando shouts with an impish glee. "I'll make this clapped out cabron's tastebuds bitter with jealousy!"
"Bring it on, ya pixellated varmint!" Mr Sanders (Col., retired) hollers before firing his Smith & Wesson into the air. "YEE-HAW!"
When I get in I decide to have a shower. I'm about to get undressed when there's another knock at the door. I run to open it, only to discover my phantom visitor has scarpered once again. I look down at the doorstep, this time finding myself presented with the severed head of a My Little Pony doll and a note that reads:
'BACK OFF.
-K'
It looks like this Kevin means business.
Thursday, 9th April
I'm just about to leave Mrs Fulci's Wagyu rib-eye steak on her doorstep when a sack is suddenly placed over my head and I'm bundled into a van. After what feels like a half-hour drive we arrive at our destination. My abductors remove the sack to reveal we're at the local community centre, which is only a five-minute walk down the road. In the middle of the hall a plump man about my age is sat at a table eating a large plate of pasta. Light from one of the tall windows shines off the top of his bald head, giving him a strangely imposing look.
"You're Richard, right?" he says, motioning his henchmen to bring me closer. "The great humanitarian!"
"That's what they say," I shrug, puffing out my chest in a display of machismo. "And you must be Kevin, yeah? You know, you ought to give your goons a lesson in social distancing some time. I don't think forcibly abducting people off the street and shoving them into a dirty old van is recommended under current health guidelines..."
He glares at me for a moment before bursting into a huge belly laugh.
"You're a real funny guy, Rich!" he chuckles, wagging a finger at me. "But you want me to tell you what isn't funny? Some good-for-nothing mook muscling in on my territory. This street's mine, you hear? I deliver the food parcels in this district. And when this is all over, it's me who's gonna win the Community Spirit Award."
"Is that what this is about?" I ask incredulously. "Delivering expensive goods to vulnerable people just so you can win a prize?"
"You got it," he says, rising from his chair and walking towards me. "And I was doing real well till you poked your nose in. You're a real nosey fella, Rich. Do you know what happens to nosey fellas? They lose their noses..."
He suddenly tweaks my nose, squeezing it so hard it starts to bleed.
"Now, I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse," he says, wiping the blood off his hand with a tissue. "Either join my outfit and help me win that trophy, or hang up your bicycle clips."
"And if I carry on?"
"Then you won't like the look of your face no more."
One of his goons hands me a card with a mobile number on it.
"Think about it," Kevin says, returning to his pasta. "But not for too long. I got mouths to feed..."
Friday, 10th April
I receive call after call from irate residents demanding to know what's happened to their food parcels. I lie that I'm out of action for a few days because I've twisted my ankle. That should buy me some time until I decide what to do. Who thought charity could be so dangerous?
I call an old friend for advice. Someone with inside knowledge of the criminal underworld.
[Dialling tone, then-]
"'Ello. My name is Michael Caine. And if you're from the bleedin' HMRC the cheque's in the post."
"No, Michael - it's Richard."
"All right, son? Long time no rabbit! You still knockin' about wiv that Emma Watson bird?"
"No, she's 'self-partnered' now."
"What's that? Code for being left on the shelf?"
"...Kinda. Listen, Michael: I need your help."
"What's the matter? You ain't Pat and Mick, are ya? 'Cos I'd love to help, but y'know - extradition and all that..."
"No, I've been volunteering for this community scheme delivering food parcels. It was going pretty well at first, but it turns out I've been muscling in on this local gangster's patch."
"'Ere, you wanna stay away from them fellas, son. If you're not careful you could end up brown bread."
"That's just it, they're forcing my hand. Either I go in with them or I end up looking like Andrew Lloyd Webber. And I don't just want to give up. This feels like a real calling."
"So what exactly is it they're runnin' down there? An extortion racket or summink?"
"No, the boss wants to win a Community Spirit Award."
"Farkin' ell! This geezer sounds proper mum and dad if you ask me."
"What do you think I should do, Michael? I mean, you know these people."
"Yeah, well... That was a long time ago, son. Besides, it was never proved. But if I was you I'd ask meself if it really is a sense of community spirit that's givin' me the hump about this nutjob, or if it's pride. 'Cos if that's what it is you've gotta man up, Rich, and hit this bastard right where it hurts. You hear what I'm sayin'?"
"I think so... Cheers, Michael."
"Don't mention it, son. 'Ere, listen, I've gotta go: the old cows and kisses is puttin' me Yul Brynner out. Stay lucky, okay?"
With Michael's words still ringing in my ear I call Kevin and tell him I've made my decision. I ask to meet him on his own in the park at 2pm tomorrow to discuss it. He seems happy with the arrangement. Afterwards I crack open a bottle of Stella and stare moodily out the window for several hours, each minute counting down towards my destiny.
Saturday, 11th April
Kevin arrives bang on time and we take a stroll along the canal.
"I knew you'd come to your senses," he says, beaming in apparent triumph. "I mean, that was a smart idea buying all that expensive food and trying to cut me out of the market, but in the end it's just not a sustainable business model."
"Well, that was before I realised what I was up against," I reply, smiling at my own dumb luck. "But I see now going it alone would never have worked out. You need a network of people for an operation like that. Not to mention someone ruthless and single-minded acting as the brains, of course..."
He stops walking and holds out his hand.
"Welcome to the family, Rich," he says warmly. We shake on it.
"No hard feelings?" I ask.
"None. That's not the way I do business!"
"It's the way I do it, though," I reply, raising myself up to my full height.
"Sorry, what-?" he says, genuinely taken back.
"Here's how it's going to be, Kevin. Your fat arse works for me now, okay? You and your goons, the food parcels, the van, the community centre: all of it. I'll cut you in at, say, five percent? And if I get the Community Spirit Award I might even consider raising it to seven or eight..."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" he says with a bemused smile. "This is my business, that's my award, and no man is gonna take them away from me! Especially not a furloughed bum like you."
"Well, I suppose we'll just have to settle this the old-fashioned way," I sigh, discreetly slipping a hand into my coat pocket. "Where's your tool?"
"Wh- What tool?" he says, eyes widening with alarm.
"This fucking tool," I snarl, pulling out a tennis ball in a sock and smacking it in his face. He falls to the ground, dazed and confused, whimpering like a dog with toothache.
"Right, Kevin, you bastard!" I shout, standing over him like a colossus. "I'm the fucking daddy in this street now, see? Tell your goons to meet me at the community centre first thing on Monday morning to sort out the new arrangements, or next time it'll be a fucking snooker ball, pal..."
Back at home I crack open a celebratory bottle of Mer Soleil (courtesy of my housemate's credit card) and put my feet up in front of the TV. It suddenly dawns on me it's Easter weekend, and I find myself thinking what a mug Jesus was not charging people for the loaves and fishes.
