The first one was with the SGP. Four or five of us went into a bank armed with pickaxe handles – I don’t even think we had a gun. We went in – masked up and wearing balaclavas and boiler suits – smashed the counters and robbed the money in broad daylight. Game over. Now, during that type of job, I always made sure I had a little trick up my sleeve – literally. I wore a jogger’s kit underneath my overalls: shorts, a vest and a pair of trainers. It was a simple stunt that saved my bacon on many occasions.

As we got in the car and pulled away from the scene of the crime, a police car suddenly appeared behind us. But it was just a coincidence, and they had no idea what they had stumbled into. All of a sudden, the people in the street who had just watched us run out of the bank started making signs to the policemen in the car, trying to get their attention. They were pointing at us and shouting, ‘Get on them, they’ve just robbed the bank.’

The alarms were going, and there we were, five gangsters with masks on in a high-performance car. The chorus of have-a-go heroes who wanted to get us nicked had now reached a crescendo. Twenty people were now shouting, ‘They’ve just robbed the bank.’

Our driver was called Val, a phenomenal jockey who did his stuff under pressure and got us away. Soon we ditched the car and found ourselves in a railway station. We got on our toes, and I ran down onto a railway embankment. By then, the bizzies had tippled and were in hot pursuit. All I was thinking was, ‘Where’s the best place to hide?’ So I jumped into a load of nettles – dense and jungle-like – thinking that there was no way the bizzies were going to follow me in. But when I rolled over and looked up, lo and behold, a police officer was standing there at no more than an arm’s length away. ‘How the fuck did he get there?’ I thought. Although he was onto me, he was stuck in the nettles, hassled and half-trapped, so I decided to put some space between me and him as quickly as I could. However, I was running out of options. The only way I could get away from him was literally to throw myself down the embankment. In one bound, the Frenchman was free.

I bumped into one of my crew called Peter Lair, who was also busily looking for an outro. Peter Lair was one of the main players in Curtis Warren’s crew. He was an incredibly violent street fighter, and though we had grown up together there was always a simmering rivalry between us. Other members of the gang were here and there, so I quickly rounded them up before confusion set in and said, ‘Look, gentlemen, it looks like it’s time to get off. We need to split up.’

Lair scrambled up the embankment, another lad called Nogger dipped into a tunnel and I ran up the line into a cargo station, hiding myself in a shed. I soon heard the cackle of police radios getting nearer and thought, ‘They’re going to search this shed, so I’ve got to get out of here.’ I took off my boiler suit, ditched my balaclava, climbed on top of a railway carriage, jumped a wall and landed on a main road.

This was where my little disguise came in. I began to run along the road wearing a red pair of Nike trainers, a red athlete’s vest and a bright-red pair of silky adidas shorts. Pure ‘Marathon Man’. By then, the police cars were flying past. But the fact that I was out of breath and sweating profusely from the armed robbery and my recent wrestle with the nettles didn’t mean anything to them. I was just a jogger. My cold, concentrated nerves of steel had kicked in and had given me the bottle to pretend that I was just out for a run – subterfuge and misdirection. The police posses were steaming towards me in a blaze of blue lights and noise in their riot vans, patrol cars and motorbikes, and I was just running past them in the opposite direction – sweating but calm as you like. In their urgency to get to the scene of the action, they had to give me a pass.

Later that day at about 5 p.m., I heard the customary whistle that we all used at the door of our gang’s HQ. I looked out and there was the rest of the gang. Edgar had got away, as had Peter Lair, but Val had the most interesting story to tell. During his Hoffman, he had found himself exposed, running along a deserted road with bizzies all around him. So, with lightning wit, he had climbed under an articulated lorry at a set of traffic lights and grabbed the axle, hiding in a box of dead space close to the exhaust. The truck had driven for several miles, and he had rolled out from underneath just as it had stopped at a junction – pure prisoner of war stuff. His face was covered in fumes from the exhaust. He reckoned he had looked like Sooty on his walk back home.

So, everybody escaped and we got about £20,000 in the robbery – £4,000 each. The story of the job was even on the telly, which was always a buzz. It described how we had all escaped, how much money we had nicked, how daring the raid had been and how close the police had come to catching us. It was a great thing at that time – if you were a firm – to appear on TV for something you’d done. We would all sit down afterwards, watch it, have a good laugh and say to each other, ‘Yeah, that’s our graft. We actually make the news in our graft.’

The point of the armed robberies was that they provided the little bit of wealth you needed to start off your drug kitties. But apart from the business purpose, they were always intensely emotional experiences as well. Let me just outline the process we went through when we committed a robbery. To begin with, we would have a designated area where we were going to meet before the job. When we all met up, everybody would have their own ritual that they went through. I always went very quiet and very insular before kick-off. There was a possibility that we could get caught and killed, and all kinds of different scenarios went through our minds. But one thing you can be sure of, everybody was there for the same reason – the money.

Let’s say we were doing a job for Edgar. We’d go to the house where we were supposed to meet. Edgar always took charge from the outset, always knew how to calm people down. He’d say, ‘Come on, time to put your kit on.’ This meant it was time to put your boiler suit on, your boots, your trainers, whatever you were wearing underneath, get your clothes on and get your bally in your pocket. There might be four or five of you. If there was five, that meant there was a driver and four of you in the car who were going over the pavement.

The car was always stolen, and there were sometimes two. We might drive from the robbery to a second prearranged stashed car and drive away in it, because we knew that the first car we were in was going to be on top. It would have been outside, revving up waiting for us to run in and out. All hands will have had a good vidi at it – all these things are smash and grab raids.

So, we’d be in the vehicle on the way to the job, and when we got to within 100 yards of where the work was going to take place, the order would be given: ‘Mask up.’ We were now in game, because we were five guys driving along the road with masks on. There was no turning back, and we were all on offer. The adrenalin would begin to pump. The best way I can describe it is to compare it to the moment just before you start a fight. Your heart’s pounding, your palms are sweaty and you don’t know what way it’s going to go. But when it actually kicked off, it was surreal. Sometimes things moved in slow motion. Then other factors would start to come into play – the buzz of knowing what we were about to do when nobody else in the street did. The pack mentality would kick in, together with a desire not to let any of our comrades down. We would begin to move swiftly and panther-like, and crash the gaff, making as much noise as we could, because noise frightens people. We’d bark instructions at the terrified staff, ‘Nobody fucking move. This is a robbery,’ and lace it with as much aggression and power that we could muster. If it was my job to smash the glass counter, then I’d do it like the SAS bursting a ken.

This was the early 1980s. There were screens in banks at the time, but they weren’t bulletproof, reinforced or shatterproof. If I had a good heavy tool, I could fucking smash them to pieces. The adrenalin rush I got was phenomenal in these types of robberies; concentration in the extreme was required, enough to create a ballistic force to remove any obstacle between you and the prize.

I remember one robbery carried out by some of the boys of a rival crew, who were later convicted for it. At the time, they had their own little firm doing the same kind of robberies as us. They just drove a lorry into the wall of the bank, smashed the concrete, made a hole, ran through the hole, grabbed the money and ran out. It wasn’t rocket science. Smash and grab – same methodology, different application. Later, the police said that Curtis Warren was involved.

After the screen went in, we’d go over the counter first, ignoring all the staff and not looking at anybody so as to avoid eye contact. We had a job to do: to fill our bags, taking the path of least resistance.

In those days, there’d be about four or five tellers, and they’d have the day’s money in their tills. So we would smash into the bank, grab the money and load it into our bags. There was no feeling in the world like that moment. This was the actual fight taking place. It’s like when you hear boxers talk and say, ‘I was nervous, but when the bell sounded I was all right.’ Once we’d gone over the counter, the bell had sounded. We’d rehearsed enough, and we were determined. We’d done this a million times before in our minds. We’d go on autopilot, just looking for pound notes. We’d be running along the counter from till to till, looking for those nice bundles with the pink wrappers on them that say £1,000 or £5,000. We’d bundle as many of these as we could see into the bags we were carrying. I usually used a kit bag or an adidas bag, one with a big flap on it, so I could fold it back and just throw everything in without trying too hard, throwing the flap over quickly again once I was done. It was important to have the right kind of equipment for this purpose. I saw many a robber lose all their loot on the jump back over the counter because they were using the wrong kind of bag. Then they had to waste precious seconds picking it all up again.

The alarms would now be going off, ringing in our ears. There would be people screaming and women would be lying on the floor – bloody, fucking mayhem. But if we could remain calm, we would win. How right Rudyard Kipling was. That was my forte – being cool under pressure. That’s why Edgar had chosen me.

So, we’ve crashed the gaff with no ifs or buts, just speed, aggression and mobility, like in the paras. We’ve got the money, so it’s time for the outro. We’ve got a guy sitting outside revving the car with a mask on. Next, we’d pile back into the car and drive away from the scene, looking behind to check that nobody was following. We’re away, and from then on it would all be at high speed. We were hardly going to observe the speed limits, were we? We’d want to get away as quickly as possible. We’d have a predetermined route to follow and would know where we were going to get out of the car and what we were going to do with the stuff. It was all sorted out in advance.

So we’d be in the car, rallying along the planned route – left, right, left, U-turn – along backstreets and one ways, the works, losing any cars that might be on our case. At the point when we realised we were not being followed, we could take our masks off. Then everybody in the car would begin to laugh. Whether it was nerves, success, tension or whatever, it was funny. It was a relief. We’d got the money, and it was over. The feeling was euphoric. If you’re a footballer, it’s like scoring a goal. If you’re a boxer, it’s like knocking out a guy and winning a title fight. If you’re in a nightclub, it’s like chatting up Beyonce Knowles and you’re on the way to the hotel room. It doesn’t get any better. We’d done what we set out to do, and we’d got our bacon. We were on our way home.

If the job was a switcher – when you swap into a second car – then there would be a clean-up operation in which every piece of clothing would be put into a bag and set on fire, something that was usually sorted by a pre-elected clean-up man. This sort of thing is pretty run of the mill now – you see it all on TV programmes, clothes getting covered in petrol and torched – but back then it was the difference between success and 12 years in the jug. It was all about not giving away any forensic evidence. When we’d smashed a counter, there would be fragments all over us. All the police needed was one piece of debris to match to the scene and that would be enough to put a bloke in prison. Kids’ stuff. Even schoolgirls know about all this now, because they’ve seen it on some crime programme on Five. But I’ve seen hardened villains get slovenly.

For instance, one of the lads got a piece of glass caught in his trainers on one job, but he wouldn’t throw them away because a pair of trainers to a Scouser is like the Victoria Cross to a war hero. He ended up doing six years for a £90 pair of adidas. Fucking six years. What’s that? Fifteen quid a year? Come on, let’s have it real, use your fucking brain.

The very best part of an armed robbery was when it was time to count the spoils. I’d usually know exactly what my end was going to be in advance, cos Edgar’s intel was mostly spot on. But let’s say I was expecting 20 grand and I ended up with 38 or 39 grand, it was brilliant. However, if I was expecting twenty grand and only ended up with fucking three grand, it was anticlimactic to say the least. It’s like scoring an own goal or winning a fight by disqualification. It sullied the feeling; it emptied me. I’d take my share, but it wasn’t what I was expecting. It was not what I was prepared to take all that risk for. Of course, there’s the steward’s and all that. The whys and wherefores would be debated and blame would be apportioned if someone had fucked up. The research was wrong, but the job was done and the crew would be sad.

That was when everyone would start looking at each other, getting bitter and twisted, wanting to search everybody. It was the old ‘stick down’ syndrome. Members of the crew would start to think that there must be some devilment to explain why the take was down. Someone would then turn and blame someone else for creaming a bit off the top. The actual phrase was, ‘Do you know what? I’m sure that cunt’s stuck down on me.’

If you were supposed to get thirty grand and there was only twenty-four grand, then it stands to reason that six grand has gone missing somewhere, and someone would be suspected of hiding it by sticking it down their kecks. The stick down would usually happen as the guys were getting into the van after the robbery. During the confusion, when all eyes were distracted, someone might use this opportunity to put a bit of the winnings away on the sly.

I remember coming back from one robbery to the rendezvous point – after we’d all had to split up during the getaway – and the first thing my mate Peter Lair did was put his hand in my pocket to see if I was hiding something.

I said to him, ‘You know what, you’re just not that bright, are you? If I was sticking down on you, do you think I’d come into this meeting with it on me? Let’s have it real, now. What do you want to search me for? Cos I would have stashed it before coming here.’ Peter Lair resented me for my intelligence, like a lot of people do, because I point things out that are basic common sense. I continued, ‘If I want to stick down on you, I’m not going to come to you knowing that you’re going to search me. I’d leave it outside, wouldn’t I? So what are you searching me for? Do you think I’m stupid?’

And that’s the way I talk to people. I don’t suffer fools, and I don’t suffer them long. Sometimes it can get up people’s noses.