The history of British crime is rich with types who, with their ``creations'', secured a place for themselves among pseudo-legends, semi-myths and local folklore. From Robin Hood to Ronnie Biggs (sung in the ballads of the Sex Pistols), among the multitude of colorful characters, Our mate Harry stands out.
Harry Roberts, a petty criminal from the London underworld, entered history a month after England's 1966 World Cup title. Just like Geoff Hurst, Harry was a marksman, but unlike Geoff, he did not shake nets but precisely shot uniformed people.
And three such people in a police car were patrolling the Wormwood Scrubs prison in London. Driving around at the taxpayer's expense, the three members of the security forces noticed a parked van with three, as it seemed to them - suspicious persons inside. And most frightening of all - the van did not have a paid registration sticker! Shocked and shaken by the crime, the uniformed officers immediately moved to identify and document the three men in the van. Later, stories emerged that the van had been parked near the prison in order to provide transportation for a prison escapee, apparently because the myths of brave law enforcement officers allegedly preventing prison escapes were needed to avoid the dry banality of the situation. There is no heroism in dying for checking an unregistered vehicle, is there?
The aforementioned banality of violent toll collection, mixed with the justifications devised by the van driver, was interrupted by a 9mm Luger shot and a direct hit on one of the cops in the eye, killing him on the spot. The second cop tried to escape to his car but was stopped by two shots from Harry Roberts, the second of which ended in the victim's head. The shocked third cop who remained in his vehicle tried to start the vehicle and escape, but Harry was faster and with four shots to the head and body, he also killed the third license plate guard and matching stickers.
Harry and his company fled the scene (Shepherd's Bush) and hid in different places. After three months of massive manhunt, Harry was caught and, as a result of the case, he did not receive the death penalty, which had been abolished only a few months before the incident - but was sentenced to thirty-to-life, the second most severe sentence in British justice after the life-for-life sentence, which, for example, the Yorkshire Ripper is still serving. The media and the official narrative tried to give the story a heroic spin in which the cops are heroes and Harry is a maniac, but miraculously after a while, the song Our mate Harry began to be sung among the crowd, which with its lyrics sends an unambiguous, albeit unpleasant message.
One Harry Roberts
There`s only one Harry Roberts
One Harry Roberts
There`s only one Harry Roberts
Harry Roberts is our friend
is our friend
is our friend
Harry Roberts is our friend, he kills coppers.
He lines them up two by two
two by two
two by two
Harry Roberts is our friend, he kills coppers.
Let him out to kill some more
kill some more
kill some more
let him out to kill some more, Harry Roberts
He shot three down in Shepherd's Bush
Shepherd's Bush
Shepherd's Bush
He shot three down in Shepherd's Bush, our mate Harry
Harry Roberts is our friend
is our friend
is our friend
Harry Roberts is our friend, he kills coppers.
This expression of urban folklore is sung to this day, less often in pubs and more often in the stands of football stadiums which in themselves have always been a microcosm of a society. The question remains why Harry did it. Maybe because of unresolved scores with the cops, maybe because of traumas from Kenya where he was sent as a late colonial soldier, maybe he simply hated the state racket, and maybe only Harry knows.
Finally, it should be noted that Harry did not serve thirty years but a full 48 and was finally released last year, at a time when England was experiencing its worst ever footballing slump. Wayne Rooney is not Geoff Hurst and the Maracana is not Wembley. Needless to say, the release from prison was met with a divided public response, ranging from utter disgust at the event to celebration among certain circles of London society.
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