Hooligan Nights

ᛮ

The Hooligan Nights
by Clarence Rook
1899
Being the Life and Opinions of a Young and Impertinent Criminal
Recounted by Himself and Set Forth by Clarence Rook
Introduction to the 1899 edition
This is neither a novel, nor in any sense a work of imagination. Whatever value or interest the following chapters possess must come from the fact that their hero has a real existence. I have tried to set forth, as far as possible in his own words, certain scenes from the life of a young criminal with whom I chanced to make acquaintance, a boy who has grown up in the midst of those who gain their living on the crooked, who takes life and its belongings as he finds them, and is not in the least ashamed of himself.
My introduction to young Alf came about in this wise: Mr Grant Richards, the publisher, one day showed me some sheets of manuscript which he said might interest me. They did. They contained certain confessions and revelations of a boy who professed to be a leader of Hooligans. But what interested me most was the engaging personality behind these confessions, and I asked Mr Richards to bring us together. A meeting was arranged, and I was not disappointed. This led to other meetings, during which I became so interested in young Alf that it occurred to me to place him on record, thinking that you would not be unwilling to have a photograph of the young man who walks to and fro in your midst, ready to pick your pocket, rifle your house, and even bash you in a dark corner if it is made worth his while. For young Alf is not unique. His views are the views of a section of Londoners that would suffice to people--say Canterbury. They live in certain more or less well-defined areas, but their business quarter is the metropolis with its suburbs, and the warfare that they wage is constant and pitiless.
I do not know that there is any particular moral to be drawn from this book, and in any case I shall leave you to draw it for yourself. But please do not accuse it of being immoral. When the Daily Chronicle published portions of the history of young Alf early in the year the editor received numerous complaints from well-meaning people who protested that I had painted the life of a criminal in alluring colours. They forgot, I presume, that young Alf was a study in reality, and that in real life the villain does not invariably come to grief before he has come of age. Poetic justice demands that young Alf should be very unhappy; as a matter of fact, he is nothing of the sort. And when you come to think of it, he has had a livelier time than the average clerk on a limited number of shillings a week. He does not know what it is to be bored. Every day has its interests, and every day has its possibility of the unexpected, which is just what the steady honest worker misses. He need not consider appearances, being indeed more concerned for his disappearances, he has ample leisure, and each job he undertakes has the excitement of novelty and the promise of immediate and usually generous reward. It would, I think, be very difficult to persuade young Alf that honesty is the best policy. I am not responsible for the constitution of the universe; and if under the present conditions of life a Lambeth boy can get more fun by going sideways than by going straight, I cannot help it. I do not commend the ways of my young friend, or even apologize for them. I simply set him before you as a fact that must be dealt with. Young Alf has interested me hugely, and I trust he will not bore you.
Clarence Rook

Chapter 1
Young Alf
On this particular occasion we met by appointment at the Elephant and Castle. He had a kip in the vicinity; that is, there was a bed, which was little better than a board, in one of those places where your welcome extends from sunset to sunrise; and to this he had recurred for some five nights in succession. For some reason or other he was unwilling to conduct me to his precise address for the current week. So we met, by appointment, where the omnibuses converge and separate to their destinations in all parts of South London, on the kerbstone at the Elephant.
I was in a sense a pilgrim. Good Americans, when they come to London, may be seen peering in Bolt Court and eating their dinner at the Cheshire Cheese. I was bound on an expedition to the haunts of a more recent celebrity than Dr Johnson. My destination was Irish Court and the Lamb and