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== 'So, what's the story sunshine?' ==
== 'So, what's the story sunshine?' ==
Prior to the out break.
Richie Taylor, or RichTee as in the popular biscuit is a Detective Constable in the 'Flying Squad' of London's Metropolitan Police Force.
He comes from a long line of policemen protecting London's inhabitants, right back to the Bow Street Runners.
Born in Bow, he was distracted from school and college by low level crime and misdemeanour’s, mainly rebelling against his father, DC Frank Taylor and the family history.  He also spent a fair amount of time at York Hall and Repton Boxing Club.
Following more than one close brush with the law and worrying connections to several crime families through school friends his desperate family gave him an ultimatum, leave the city with his family turning their back on him, or join the force and make amends.
Passing out of cadet school in the top five percent he spent three years as a beat booby in several London boroughs and Manchester.
While liking his time on the beat, he decided if he was going to make a go of his career he needed something with a higher pace. So followed two years of motorway patrol having excelled in high speed pursuit driving and four years in SO19 (now CO19) Specialist Firearms Unit.
With the retiring of his father an opening was made in the Flying Squad. With a sense of history leaning on him Richie requested to join, and was accepted attaining the rank of Detective Constable.
In his third year Richie was finding that the face of London crime was changing from his father and grandfathers day. Rumours of co-ordination amongst the now mainly foreign gangs and the new willingness to kill and intimidate law enforcement led to Richie and his father Frank doing some off the books investigating.
What they found was while many of the local crime families of old had gone quiet or simply moved away it was possible that just one could be responsible form bringing the new gangs together in cooperation.
Inevitably cages were rattled. Richie faced censure and reprimand from his superiors leading to suspicions of corruption in his squad, or even higher up.
On an hot afternoon July 2005 Frank called his son saying he had a break through from an old lag just released from prison and went to meet his father at The Approach pub next to Victoria Park.
The air was dry and humid as Richie walked up to the pub. Parking was always a nightmare in this part of town.
The usual noise of the city was all around, traffic, distant sirens and various music from open windows too loud and yet indistinct at the same time. Frank met his son on the street outside, he had a stride in his step and a glint in his eyes like Frank was back on the job.
Franks expression slipped from his face as the high pitched revving from a fast street bike echoed up the street between the tall Victorian houses.
Suddenly stepping into the road and putting himself between his son and the path of the now coasting bike Detective Frank Taylor, retired, twin explosions roared as he took both barrels from the sawn off shotgun in his raised arms and chest.
The biker hastily stopped and fumbled to reload as the air filled with screams. Richie snapped from the horror before him, with only one thing to do, close the distance. Swiping the barrels of the now loaded shotgun with his left and throwing a fast flat right hook to the back of the helmet the biker and he lost his grip as his head rocked forward. Sensing all was not going to plan the biker gripped the throttle,dumped the clutch and booted it. Richie's hands slipped on the leathers unable to find purchase. He screamed in frustration, turning to his stricken father he rushed to Franks side, cradling him. He pleaded to the remaining drinkers to call an ambulance then looked to his father.
'Dad.....dad...talk to me dad!'
Franks eyes blinked, the blue of his eyes shining in the sun contrasting against the all glistening blood.
'The......gun.....its a..a message son......'
'What dad? Save your strength....save your...'
'No...no time...the gun....old school....find..find the armourer.....find the....shooter....'
'I will, but you...'
'Listen.....Granger.....you knew his....his boy...he knows son, he.....knows!.....I sent him down.....
but....protected his boy, he owed.......me.....'
Franks blooded hands closed and griped. Richie felt paper crumple.
Frank coughed, his hands loosed their grip on his sons, his bloodied chest settled, the rasping ceased and the famed bright blue of Franks eyes narrowed and diminished as he died in Richie's arms as they lay together on one of the many streets they had patrolled.
A day later the bike was found abandoned, caked in blood. Forensics would later confirm not one, but two counts of DNA, that of Frank Taylor, and that of a known eastern European, and now suspected ex-trigger man. Price of failure is high in these circles.
Consumed with rage and not only barred from his own squad, not trusting his chain of command  and put on leave with an impending investigation, Richie was forced to take matters into his own hands. Finding old man Granger was no problem, a dog walker already had, supposedly mugged. It didn't matter, it wasn't the father that he wanted.
As Richie got off the train at Brownsell Plaza Railway Station he pulled the bloodied paper from his pocket, his dads writing, 'Johnny G, Malton'.
The apple didn't fall far from the tree after all Richie thought think if of his old school friend, the didn't he do well, the good job he never turned out like his dad, the one and only well to do made it in the city businessman Johnny Granger.
He crumpled the paper, and thought of the shotgun, stolen from evidence, in his bag. Johnny was going to get back, two barrels at a time.


12th October 2009 - I am to embark on a tour of every pub in Malton to spread the word of The Rambling Drunks, could this be the longest Pub crawl in Maltons history?
12th October 2009 - I am to embark on a tour of every pub in Malton to spread the word of The Rambling Drunks, could this be the longest Pub crawl in Maltons history?
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Appointed 'Fearless Leader' of the Rambling Drunks 02/08 - It's an honor ladies n gents, Cheers!
Appointed 'Fearless Leader' of the Rambling Drunks 02/08 - It's an honor ladies n gents, Cheers!


A 70's Flying Squad officer from London following up an investigation in Malton the day the Zombie hordes came. It is not common knowledge Det Insp Jack Regan of 'The Sweeny' was based on myself, and I specialise in bending rules, drinking heavily, and being threatening to criminals, informants and zombies alike.
Whilst trying out the pubs, looking for my 'grass' and as a member of the 'Campaign for Real Ale' the undead turned up like the 'right proper ba****ds' they are. Too inebriated and angry to let the moans get to me, I can be found giving the zombies a mean stare and shouting 'SHUUUUUUT IIIIIIT!' in a strong London accent usually before downing a bottle of ale, shot of scotch and drawing my guns, and not always in that order. And I don't care if ya dead already, Ya NICKED my old son!
I'll provide assistance to survivors where I can. But especially if there's a drink involved, or a member of FANNY.
Right, I'm off to find a boozer.....
If you've anything of sense to say or just want to chin wag, please leave a message on me discussion page. Ta Ra me ole china...


I'm a Rambling Drunk! The Rambling Drunks, drinking till drunk today, for there may not come a tomorrow!


SUPPORTER OF THE ''' [[Biertag]]''' FESTIVAL!
SUPPORTER OF THE ''' [[Biertag]]''' FESTIVAL!

Revision as of 15:48, 13 May 2012

'So, what's the story sunshine?'

Prior to the out break.

Richie Taylor, or RichTee as in the popular biscuit is a Detective Constable in the 'Flying Squad' of London's Metropolitan Police Force.

He comes from a long line of policemen protecting London's inhabitants, right back to the Bow Street Runners.

Born in Bow, he was distracted from school and college by low level crime and misdemeanour’s, mainly rebelling against his father, DC Frank Taylor and the family history. He also spent a fair amount of time at York Hall and Repton Boxing Club. Following more than one close brush with the law and worrying connections to several crime families through school friends his desperate family gave him an ultimatum, leave the city with his family turning their back on him, or join the force and make amends. Passing out of cadet school in the top five percent he spent three years as a beat booby in several London boroughs and Manchester. While liking his time on the beat, he decided if he was going to make a go of his career he needed something with a higher pace. So followed two years of motorway patrol having excelled in high speed pursuit driving and four years in SO19 (now CO19) Specialist Firearms Unit.

With the retiring of his father an opening was made in the Flying Squad. With a sense of history leaning on him Richie requested to join, and was accepted attaining the rank of Detective Constable. In his third year Richie was finding that the face of London crime was changing from his father and grandfathers day. Rumours of co-ordination amongst the now mainly foreign gangs and the new willingness to kill and intimidate law enforcement led to Richie and his father Frank doing some off the books investigating. What they found was while many of the local crime families of old had gone quiet or simply moved away it was possible that just one could be responsible form bringing the new gangs together in cooperation. Inevitably cages were rattled. Richie faced censure and reprimand from his superiors leading to suspicions of corruption in his squad, or even higher up. On an hot afternoon July 2005 Frank called his son saying he had a break through from an old lag just released from prison and went to meet his father at The Approach pub next to Victoria Park. The air was dry and humid as Richie walked up to the pub. Parking was always a nightmare in this part of town. The usual noise of the city was all around, traffic, distant sirens and various music from open windows too loud and yet indistinct at the same time. Frank met his son on the street outside, he had a stride in his step and a glint in his eyes like Frank was back on the job. Franks expression slipped from his face as the high pitched revving from a fast street bike echoed up the street between the tall Victorian houses. Suddenly stepping into the road and putting himself between his son and the path of the now coasting bike Detective Frank Taylor, retired, twin explosions roared as he took both barrels from the sawn off shotgun in his raised arms and chest. The biker hastily stopped and fumbled to reload as the air filled with screams. Richie snapped from the horror before him, with only one thing to do, close the distance. Swiping the barrels of the now loaded shotgun with his left and throwing a fast flat right hook to the back of the helmet the biker and he lost his grip as his head rocked forward. Sensing all was not going to plan the biker gripped the throttle,dumped the clutch and booted it. Richie's hands slipped on the leathers unable to find purchase. He screamed in frustration, turning to his stricken father he rushed to Franks side, cradling him. He pleaded to the remaining drinkers to call an ambulance then looked to his father. 'Dad.....dad...talk to me dad!' Franks eyes blinked, the blue of his eyes shining in the sun contrasting against the all glistening blood. 'The......gun.....its a..a message son......' 'What dad? Save your strength....save your...' 'No...no time...the gun....old school....find..find the armourer.....find the....shooter....' 'I will, but you...' 'Listen.....Granger.....you knew his....his boy...he knows son, he.....knows!.....I sent him down..... but....protected his boy, he owed.......me.....' Franks blooded hands closed and griped. Richie felt paper crumple. Frank coughed, his hands loosed their grip on his sons, his bloodied chest settled, the rasping ceased and the famed bright blue of Franks eyes narrowed and diminished as he died in Richie's arms as they lay together on one of the many streets they had patrolled.

A day later the bike was found abandoned, caked in blood. Forensics would later confirm not one, but two counts of DNA, that of Frank Taylor, and that of a known eastern European, and now suspected ex-trigger man. Price of failure is high in these circles.

Consumed with rage and not only barred from his own squad, not trusting his chain of command and put on leave with an impending investigation, Richie was forced to take matters into his own hands. Finding old man Granger was no problem, a dog walker already had, supposedly mugged. It didn't matter, it wasn't the father that he wanted.

As Richie got off the train at Brownsell Plaza Railway Station he pulled the bloodied paper from his pocket, his dads writing, 'Johnny G, Malton'. The apple didn't fall far from the tree after all Richie thought think if of his old school friend, the didn't he do well, the good job he never turned out like his dad, the one and only well to do made it in the city businessman Johnny Granger. He crumpled the paper, and thought of the shotgun, stolen from evidence, in his bag. Johnny was going to get back, two barrels at a time.

12th October 2009 - I am to embark on a tour of every pub in Malton to spread the word of The Rambling Drunks, could this be the longest Pub crawl in Maltons history?

Standing down as leader of The Drunks 10/09

Appointed 'Fearless Leader' of the Rambling Drunks 02/08 - It's an honor ladies n gents, Cheers!


SUPPORTER OF THE Biertag FESTIVAL!

I can recommend McCloud's Pub for quality hospitality and beer!


The Rambling Drunks copy.jpg The Rambling Drunks!!!
This user enjoys a good drink with The Rambling Drunks

RambDrunkSig.JPG

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