The Long Firm Thing

28.09.14 (Day 280)


A long firm (also known as a consumer credit fraud) is a trading company set up for fraudulent purposes; the basic operation is to run the company as an apparently legitimate business by buying goods and paying suppliers promptly to secure a good credit record; Once they are sufficiently well-established, the perpetrators then purchase the next round of goods on credit and decamp with both the goods and profits from previous sales. The goods can then be sold elsewhere. The procedure needs a certain amount of money to set up, often the proceeds from another crime or a previous long firm.

I never ran a long firm but when I was in business, it was common (and necessary) practice to build up credit with a supplier when initial capital was low or cash flow was tight, by placing small orders, paying invoices on time, then gaining a position wherein the size of the deals traded could be increased, credit terms made more favorable, buying leverage increased and margins improved. It was playing the long game: one I continue to play. Relationships failed, alcohol took over (I’m always honest, as I was for the most part in business), the companies collapsed and now I’m here.

Five days since the last blog entry. Not much to tell as not a lot has happened, or rather not a lot has changed.

Three days since the last entry in fact: a poem and a story, both published on here and pretty obvious to those in the know to whom they were dedicated. And she’s been away for the weekend. I was encouraged to receive encouragement (encouragement does tend to encourage one) from my writing mentor from RSA (Royal Society of Arts), in which she said, “Keep writing.” So I will. There are lots of notes: sleeve notes but I’ll keep those up my sleeve and stick to the more salient points.

Besides writing, I’ve nothing much else to do today, apart from cook a family lunch and dinner, read yesterday’s Guardian supplements and possibly The Observer. I have to keep distracted and keep my brain working, then I’ll hit “The Wall” later, collapse exhausted and fall asleep for a couple of hours before waking up with that fucking thing in my head still ticking away. So I’ll get up, smoke one or two of my 50-60 cigarettes a day, make some notes, then go back to bed for another couple of hours. I had a particularly early night last night and managed eight hours’ sleep in total but it was even more broken than usual as I have a cold. And everyone knows that the common cold can kill a man.

I’m due to see a doctor in the next couple of weeks, as I spoke to a particularly good one in the week who issued the latest extension to my sick note for alcohol dependency. I must admit that yesterday I felt more of a fraud than usual as a combination of tiredness, brought on by insomnia (it’s an amazing fact that one of the most common signs and symptoms of insomnia is tiredness: news to me when some clever cunt pointed it out) and the man cold, dictated that I consumed hardly any alcohol (by my standards). Then there’s the depression. With alcohol and insomnia, the three form an unholy trinity. This particular doctor is confident that the correct cocktail of drugs can be prescribed to bring all three demons under control, whereas previous advice was to address the alcohol first. This doctor recognises that depression and insomnia, although caused and aggravated by alcohol, can increase alcohol consumption. I thought this was a known fact (I knew it) but assumed that the cost of a cocktail of drugs might be against NHS guidelines on cost grounds. It seems I’ve found a doctor who is particularly dedicated and perhaps a bit of a rebel. Perhaps he plays poker in his spare time: takes a calculated gamble and plays the long game. So that’s only taken nine months to sort out.

85 days short of being out here for one year. The price I pay for being ill and largely thanks to my biobollical sister. Thanks to her though, it’s during the last 280 days that I’ve learned who really cares, understands, wants and gets me. And among others, I met the wife and the one I consider to be my real sister.

Everything else is still up in the air in in other people’s courts. I’ve done all that I can to move on from here, as I have over the last nine months. Although I’ve admitted before and will again (for the satisfaction of those who blame me) that I did bury my head in the sand and created positive ruts for myself, this was for a reason: I grew frustrated. A frustration compounded by the fact that I had no address thanks in part to my biobollical family. Well, they’ve disowned me and I have a real family now. A family who help me, accommodate me and provided moral and practical support in getting my life back on track, including the means to do so via simple means. They play the long game. They’re the ones who’ll benefit in the end as they’re the ones due my love and gratitude. And it will come. They don’t give up on me and because of them, neither shall I. And the extended family is one which I started when I had the intelligence, wherewithal, resourcefulness, charm and character (I still have those) to take over and run the squat; become friends with the property owner, even joking with him in court and garnering a wink from a County Court judge who I also charmed, simply by being me. I helped people and they helped me. It’s me who the people around me want to be around. It’s me who broke the mold, found an ambitious bone in my body, ran a business, fucked up, got up, rebelled and kept on fighting. It’s me who is the black sheep of the old family. I’m in a new field now and the grass is definitely greener on this side. I’ve grown and learn; done things that many on the other side wouldn’t have the balls of granite to do. In ten years time, the successful me with the model wife, thriving business and comfortable life will look back and laugh. I’ll still help people but not those who didn’t help me. Fuck you, very, very much.

The relationships I’m in now are the long game, including the future wife and what we have between us: the long firm thing.

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