Memoirs – A Life of Crime

These are the stories that shaped my life, these are my memoirs


Joe Hoover is the highly regarded author of “Current account cheque book” published by Barclays Bank.   He will soon be launching a Stateside book tour reading excerpts and signing copies.

Reviews for Current Account Cheque Book:

“It grips you from the first page,  ‘Account Payee Only’ resonated with me,  his words are life affirming”

“I couldn’t put this down, a fantastic debut”

“An absorbing and interactive novel, cleverly inviting the reader to insert their own comments in the ‘Pay to’ and ‘For the sum of’ segments, leading you to create your own adventure in his fantastical world”


Slowly I unclasped my mother purse and shielded my eyes from the explosion of moths that burst from within.   There gleaming was a shiny new 50 pence piece.  I had never seen such riches.

I slid my fingers in and grabbed the coin, screwed my fist around it and ran out of the kitchen.

Later that day at the local shopping centre, a tawdry place it was.  I had become lost in the branch of Tesco’s many years prior, doomed to walk the aisles forever -and this was long before supermarkets sold food that was edible.

It was all row upon row of faggots and tinned peas back then.   (For the benefit of my American readers by faggot I don’t mean it was where neighbourhood gays frequented to cast furtive glances over the Spam.  Faggots are congealed balls of unidentifiable meats stuffs which gave variety to the UK diet of tinned corned beef and boiled cabbage)

It was at this same shopping centre that I spied a drugstore, my mother would often go in here for cotton buds to prod our ears with, Nit lotion to burn the bodies of head lice along with our scalps, cough mixture to boil our insides.

They also sold a range of sweets but not the garishly child baiting packaging of your normal confectionary.  This looked altogether different, it had words like nougat, honeycomb and coconut ice.   I recall the bar of honeycomb which resembled a gold ingot to my eyes.   I retrieved my carefully hidden 50p from my sock and bought the treat stashing it in my shorts to indulge in later from the sanctuary of my bedroom.

My glee was short-lived, my mother had spotted me and I caved under interrogation, I was sentenced to a brash smack on the legs and threatened with those chilling words “Wait until your father gets home”


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