“Grabs your attention and pulls you into a world of intrigue and suspense” – Louise Burgess

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As the final book in the four part story of Jason Cook’s life is about to be published, if you’ve not already read the first three books, now is a great time to start at the very beginning, with…

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“This is a book about a man battling to keep his integrity intact in a world that doesn't care for it. It almost seems a shame that it's taken the author this long to realise it. But without his experiences, I would never have had the pleasure of reading the book! ...We could well have another Bruce Porter (author of Blow) on our hands!” – A Reader

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There's No Room for Jugglers in my Circus tells the tale of a young man's drug-addled youth misspent in Borehamwood and London, where cheap gossip was rife, ‘friends’ were just ships passing in the night, and dreams remained just that.

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Given the young man's drug habit, his involvement with gangsters, violence and prison seems inevitable.

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Cookster dissects the psyche of personalities fuelled by drink, drugs and power, and draws colourful sketches of the different types of gangster from ‘the Real McCoy’, a highly influential ‘gentleman’ who practises a code of honour among thieves, to the ‘plastic gangster’, a wannabe who has all the bluster but none of the power.

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Despite everything, there is light at the end of the tunnel for the narrator, as he retains his hopes for the future, and keeps his aspirations alive amid the chaos.

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And all the time the story is fuelled by cocaine, the devil's dandruff.

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CLICK HERE OR LEAVE US A COMMENT BELOW TO OBTAIN A REVIEW COPY OF BOOK ONE

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“This book is an honest, brutal fast paced trip into the world of drug dealers, gangland bosses and hardened criminals. Told in a no-nonsense easy to read autobiographical format, this tale pulls no punches. This is going to make a fantastic British gangster movie.” - TB

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EXCERPT

That’s when I first met this fella.

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He came across as a man of principles, fixed in his ways.  A smooth sort of James Bond looking character and a gangster by nature, as I was to find out. He dressed up in fine expensive clothes, all designer names, nothing less than Armani, Gucci and a few other suits that had been flown over from Milan for him. He looked as sharp, smart and as crisp as new bank notes, the day I had the pleasure of taking a bundle of them out of the Bank of England. He had a brand new polished executive motor that looked like James Bond’s M had handed it to him, with loads of gadgets and an in car-phone which would have been proper large on the barge back then…..

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We’ve all met some gangsters in our life, sometimes on good terms, and, those of us unlucky enough, on bad terms, and there’s a bundle of books written by them and about them. This book is not about them, but about the way it might have been or the way things might have gone. I’m far from being  any sort of gangster, but to be honest, I tried to play the game. But playing and being are like saying, ‘I live on Earth, not far from the Moon’! I was just a desperate boy in a man’s world, and I put myself in some desperate situations back then, or at least found myself in them. They weren’t all bad ones, though. Some were good and some were bad. That’s life. Sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down. You have to take the rough with the smooth.

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We’ll call this fella Mr. B. He was the sort of fella that oozed confidence in every situation he was in. A well built man, very stern and modest in his ways. And he was well liked, or seemed to be. He was an old timer. He’d done and seen a lot. He had many a story to tell of old that would make you unable to sleep at night and would put the frighteners on you, or scare you shitless till you filled your pants, but if he did tell you he’d probably have to kill you.  That’s if he was stupid enough to tell the tales in the first place. I doubt he would let them slip out because it would be more than his life he’d be giving away, more so his liberty banged up doing porridge somewhere. So there were some things that were best not asked or talked about, long done and long forgotten, but not by the people that had done the dirty deeds. They just pushed them to the back of their minds and went on with business as usual.

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Mr B was around 40; still looking as well as the Queen’s head does on a £50 note. He was very clean cut sort of fella. His hair always looked like he had just stepped out of a salon; he was always so neat and well groomed. I’d say he knew his stuff and was wise in his ways. He knew the crack, and he’d done the circuit many a time. There was no pulling the wool over his eyes. He knew all the tricks in the book, and had pulled a few tricks himself out of the hat. Deep down, though, it was who had the biggest bluff at the end of the day? Or who had the manpower and money to pull things off if the bluff was called?

He was the ticket to my new ways, or so I thought. He was everything my messed up head wanted to be. You could say I looked up to the fella. In my sick mind I thought he would be a true friend and maybe one day, I hoped he would take me on as a partner, and do for me what I did for him. Which was treating him with the upmost respect and showing him endless loyalty.  But that was just a big dream for a little boy.  In some ways he was like a father figure to me, or that’s how I looked up to him, but sometimes he even failed me too, as you’ll read later.

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Maybe I failed him when the devil’s dandruff started to take over and turned me into a liability as it has most players of this game, but I played the game the best I could and with the utmost respect and by the rules. He must have overlooked that, I guess. He had other things on his mind, like money. He had his mind on his money and his money on his mind you could say, or maybe he was too selfish to have noticed the respect I paid him.  Like most gangsters, they’re always connected, and he was so much so that he had more connections and customers than British Telecom, whether in England or abroad. He always had women falling at his feet and people showing him endless respect. It was like he had a sort of VIP everywhere he went which I guessed came with the job. This was soon to rub off on me as we were seen together in the manor. Manors plus clubs and the odd restaurant.   One in particular was the Indian in Leeming Road that served up top nosh to its customers and the utmost respect to us. Mr B never seemed to pay with cash or a credit card.  It seemed he had a golden handshake with the bouncers, and then you were in the clubs. No queue, no pay, no worries, and at the bars a round of drinks was always accompanied with a free bottle of champagne brought to his table. He wasn’t short of a few bob.

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He gave the impression that he was cake a boo and probably not far off it, if the truth be known. People would be handing him money here, there and everywhere, but not the tickers. They wouldn’t be because their debts were long overdue and most of them were now in hiding. They were under the illusion that once drugs or money was ticked or money was borrowed it didn’t have to come back.

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It’s amazing what people, especially women, will do for a free drug plus a bit of importance, but underneath it all people were only respecting the drugs, not the person.  Respect has to be earned and not through drugs. It comes with the person you are and the right sort of attitudes so there’s a little less for the bullies out there. It weren’t all what it was made to look like. If you opened your eyes

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wider and read between the lines, people were out to see what they could get for free, or how they could use you. It was hard to trust people ‘cause they always had hidden agendas or alternative motives. It was like you were used as a pawn in a chess game, but the game weren’t chess. It was real life. You’d have friends when you had powder around you but once it came on top and you were sent to jail and needed them, they seemed to disappear.

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Also, you know the women batting their eyelids, showing a bit of leg and nicely dressed up in such a tight little dress, when you looked at them it seemed like you had x-ray eyes because you could see every single curve of their sexy looking hour-glass figure, with their nipples poking through. Also the dress would be so short that their tits were nearly falling out all over the gaff. The make-up so well done you’d think Van Gogh had put it on for them.  They’d be going out of their way to walk in front of you, or past you and would be wiggling a cute looking botty in your direction for your eyes only. They’d wink, smile and giggle at you on passing, and then risk getting caught in the men’s toilets squashed up in a cubicle next to you. Then they’d be leaning over the toilet seat to powder their nose with what you’d kindly donated for their troubles, and whilst leaning over to Hoover every last crumb of powder up, they’d be flashing you a naked peach of an arse, with a thong that would be nicely, tightly wrapped around it. Then after that they’d give you a little cuddle or kiss or they’d be all over you all night for a little line here and there for them and their pals. Once you’d fallen for their charm, you’d hand them a free cheeky half, never to see them til the next night when the games would begin again.

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Then there was the geezers buying you drinks. They also thought that meant an invite to the toilets for a line or two here and there. Even they took liberties. The liberty takers, you know who you are! They’d keep the £50 note you had left rolled up for them in the toilets next to a big line of cocain that looked like a caterpillar and hope you had forgotten about it. A few times I had and they would try and swap the £50 for a £5 pound note and they or we wouldn’t remember as we would all be well sniffed up.  The liberty taking pals who when it was their time to show a little respect back, would whine, then put you out a line, not even big enough to give a hamster a headache. They never lost their notes because the amount of times they’d ask you for it, it might as well have been tied to their trousers with an elastic band, they were so scared of losing it. I’m not that sort of fella to take a man’s note after he’s had the decency to hand out a free bee line to me. That’s the difference between the no good and me.

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Then came the people who talked rubbish till you gave them what they’d bought or ordered and then went on their way. It was all small talk, really, all bollocks about how they liked you, sweet mate. It seemed that while they were sniffed up, the only thing that came out of their mouth was a load of false shit. The sort of people that wouldn’t give you the time of day if you didn’t have anything on you. There was the odd businessman or the odd banker who also liked the cocaine or a parcel of it here and there. Not forgetting the bent copper’s or the odd C.P.S. that when you got raided with ten kilos in your house and you were up in court it turned into three in front of the judge. You knew some thing weren’t right but what could you say? Just thank you, your honour The lawyers were in the game for some dirty money when they could get the offer. They knew what went on but it’s hard to see the truth when you’ve got a fifty pound note rolled up next to a line that had their name written all over it with the villain slapping you on the back when the deal was done, thanks very much.

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CLICK HERE OR LEAVE US A COMMENT BELOW TO OBTAIN A REVIEW COPY OF BOOK ONE

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“Knowing that the characters are real people makes you rethink the glamour of the 'Brit Gangster' and see the dark reality that this lifestyle brings. It SO deserves to be a movie and although it will draw comparisons to Lock Stock, this has more than enough original material to stand it apart and possibly better Guy Ritchie's effort!” – VegasRain

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AUTHOR BIO

Jason Cook is a single dad and loves to write, even though he has dyslexia.

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He grew up in London and Hertfordshire UK, where he struggled with school and was often in trouble with the police.

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He is a writer, a former prison con, an ex-court usher and was a gangster’s runner who, due to peer pressure, became a drug addict at the age of twelve.  Within five years he was a face in London’s underworld for all the wrong reasons.

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After a stint in prison and battling against his own addition, Jason went on to write four books based on the life he once lived.

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He now looks after his sons and works part time at a building supply store.  In his spare time he enjoys writing and helping to support local charities.

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His ambition is to become a full time writer, enabling him to fully support himself without the benefits that currently help him.

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Most recently, Jason has been working on a children’s book which is also based on true events.

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Author Web Site