Bad Boys

When I was 15, I was obsessed with the film ‘Bad Boys’. It was one of those VHS tapes we wore out to the point of no return. No amount of fiddling with tracking settings was going to restore the picture. Already, when it arrived mysteriously via one of my sister’s friends, its sound was a little dodgy.

Now, I’m hoping there’s a statute of limitations when it comes to video piracy. Because the copy of ‘Bad Boys’ we had was so hot it viewed more like a daily rush from the studio than a final product from the distributor. As such, the score wasn’t yet in place, making Will Smith’s climactic shirtless chase scene in the film’s final act weirdly anti-climactic – just long, slow-mo silence, save for the soft padding of our hero’s Air Jordans.

I mention this because the summer our ‘Bad Boys’ tape caught in the VCR for the last time was the summer I did work experience with my mum. Like Will Smith and Martin Lawrence in the film now resigned to my memory, we were partners for a week, driving around Miami-of-the-Midlands (Telford). Windows down, volume up.

We were officers of the law. Well, Community Liaison Officers for Telford and Wrekin Council. And the job, as far as I could tell, was to drive around, pop into community centres and homes, and ask Indian people, in Hindi, “you alright?”.

I’m pretty sure, for the rest of the year, it was more taxing than that. Mum was always filling out forms for members of the community who couldn’t read or write English, advising them on how to get work and keep it, sometimes even bringing lost souls home to stay with us for a little while.

But for that week, that summer, we took it easy. Me, sunglasses on (over my NHS prescription specs), hanging out the window, making wisecracks at honeys at the traffic lights – as they made their way over the road, to Mecca bingo.

“What are you doing, San?” mum would ask.
“Quoting ‘Bad Boys’, innit?”

But we weren’t on our way to a drug bust. We were delivering posters for the mela my mum had organised in the Town Park. Afterwards, we didn’t stop for donuts. We swung by the Wellington car boot sale, where I picked up a sweet, oversized waistcoat.

When these ‘bad boys’ came for you, they would likely stop for a samosa and a cup of chai. Help you get your road tax sorted. I moved a table from the back of a community hall to the front. It was high-octane stuff.

Looking back at it now, I was out of school and in my mum’s company – for a whole week – and that was thrilling enough for me.