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Robber planning penultimate heist to evade justice


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Serial bank robber Danny ‘Fingers’ MacGregor is to carry out his penultimate bank job, a move described by police as “unsporting”.


‘As a police officer I live for final jobs’, DI Watkins told us. ‘Well, final jobs and doughnuts. With a blagger as careful as Fingers you only get one chance to nail him – his last job. The one he can retire on. Always make a mistake, see? Usually it’s a last-minute substitution because the wheelman has a dodgy tummy, sometimes they try to double cross Mr Big – doesn’t matter what it is, the gods are watching, and they know.


‘However, by planning his final two jobs but only carrying out the first, Fingers will miss all that bad luck. I had hoped to see him go down before I retired but this is my final week in the job. Hope it’s reasonably uneventful. For some reason the boss has partnered me with a psychopathic weirdo with a death wish, but I’m sure all will be well’.


Pie left in vehicle overnight

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Despite a window sticker declaring otherwise, a driver’s lovely steak and ale pie was left in his vehicle overnight and has now been stolen.


A strange sense of foreboding overwhelmed joiner Daz as he approached his van first thing in the morning. Something was wrong. The pie.


Daz confessed: “I knew it immediately, against my better instincts I’d left a pie in the vehicle overnight instead of taking it indoors. And now it’s gone.


“As a rule I never leave pastry-based food items in the van. They’re a magnet for hungry chancers, I have a ‘No pies left in this vehicle overnight’ passive-aggressive notice in the window informing opportunists to jog on. I thought I’d get away with it by hiding the steak and ale treat under a stack of valuable power tools, what a fool!"


At the scene Detective Frank Higson, commented: “I’ve been working patisserie on this patch for thirty years. It’s a situation I encounter all too frequently. A workman stops at the bakery on the way home, gets an extra pie and leaves it in the van for a pre-breakfast breakfast. Come the morning, it’s gone. The gangs responsible are organised and use a sophisticated setup of sniffer drunks after closing time. Those pissheads can pinpoint a pie in pig shit in the middle of a pyramid.


“Joiner Daz’s pie will be a thousand miles away by now, deconstructed and sold for parts. The case and crust will be split to form the bases of dozens of hor d’oeuvre and amuse bouche hits, scored in the shadowy, cobbled backstreets of middle-class, Tuscan villages.


“The meat? That will be dried and ground into a fine powder, and snorted by hedonistic businessmen as an aphrodisiac in the plush penthouse suites of opulent far east hotels.


“And the rich dark jus? My guess; right now it’s being seductively licked off the heaving bosom of a high-class hooker on the lip of a crystal blue infinity pool on an oligarch’s billion dollar luxury yacht … or, the thief scoffed it on the spot.”


Joiner Daz deflatedly added: “Well, at least there’s still a couple of mini scotch eggs in the exhaust pipe … what? Oh, great!”


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