I Spend 48 Hours Undercover With The ‘Mozarts’ – The Golden Triangle’s Notorious Youth Gang
I’ve been told that a ‘fixer‘ can set me up with an interview with ‘H‘ (Hector Frinton-Smith). And so with my heart pounding, I venture through the Mozart’s ‘turf‘ towards Portersfield Road.
Friday 18:10 – I get a Snapchat message from the gang’s second in command “I” (Imogen). A rendevous has been arranged at The Lincoln Shopper.
The rest of the ‘crew‘ are already there. It’s easy to spot H; taller than the rest, blond curly hair, a swaggering self-assurance . . .
At that moment, H’s phone buzzes. It’s a Show My Homework notification, and almost without looking, he casually marks it as ‘DONE‘ without even opening the attachment. The arrogance is breathtaking. All the rest of us can do is stare open-mouthed in awe . . .
We file into the shop 4 at a time, (due to Mr Singh’s pragmatic “Big Groups” rule).
‘H’ saunters up to the counter and to everyone’s horror, he gestures towards the tobacco display.
We hold our breath. Surely at 14 years old ‘H‘ is not going to attempt to buy . . . .
Err . . . It’s not quite closed
‘H‘ points . . .
The display screen . . . .
Mr Singh has forgotten to fully close the tobacco display screen in contravention of the 2010 Tobacco Promotions Act. A close call . . . . we gasp with relief . . .
We exit as casually as we arrived, and as if to demonstrate exactly who’s in charge, we leave the rattly door slightly ajar.
Outside I try to ‘break the ice’ with ‘H‘ , and offer him a sip of my Happy Shopper Cola. He politely refuses. I learn later that he’s already had a double cone with sprinkles today and with a history of type 2 diabetes in the family type he probably doesn’t want to jeopardise his long-term health. Despite his outward exterior, even Hector’s not that stupid.
18:30 We move move off nonchalantly up College Road – But our casual demeanour masks a darker purpose . . . for I am told by another member of the crew, Issac, that we have ‘business‘. We are about to something so audacious that even he feels compelled to tell me in a low whisper.
We’re going to sit in the Tennis Hut in Heigham Park . . . . but in the dark . . . AFTER the park has actually closed.
Another member of our crew instinctively reaches for his phone to tell his friends what’s happening. . . but it’s too late; He’s already used his daily 2 hours allocation of ‘screen time’ . . .
It’s a very bad swear. We stare in disbelief. We’re in virgin territory now. There’s no going back . . . the line has been crossed . . .
I get to stand on the roof of the Gent’s toilets in Heigham Park and for the first time in nearly forty years, I feel truly ALIVE . . .