Andrew Pritchard (56) went from an Action Man kid and music-obsessed teenager to one of the UK's biggest drug smugglers, who served time in HMP Belmarsh. Now he's helping to guide at-risk young people away from a life of crime
MUM ARRIVED IN THE UK IN 1951 AS PART OF THE WINDRUSH GENERATION. Marion, or Mavis as she became known, was born in October 1930, in a small village called Alligator Pond, in the parish of St Elizabeth, Jamaica. In December 1951, at the age of 21, Mum flew from her native Jamaica to Canada, then boarded a boat to the UK.
DAD, RONNIE PRITCHARD, WAS A WHITE LOCAL EAST END BOY WHO STARTED OUT AS A BUILDER.
In the Fifties, he started delivering paraffin to West Indian customers, becoming friends with many. One of Dad’s new friends was a Jamaican called Bill Hill. Bill, something of a rogue, had the ambition to create the first Caribbean nightclub in London. Racism was rife in those days, so Dad agreed to help by becoming the secretary to Bill’s company. It would be easier for a white man to apply for a music licence. The Pepper Pot Club opened in 1958 at 60 Green Lanes, Haringey. Every weekend, smartly dressed West Indians would gather to listen to the latest tunes from Federal Records and the Blue Beat music labels.
ONE SATURDAY EVENING BACK IN 1958, Dad was invited to a blues party in North London. That’s where he met Mavis. Soon after, they got married and they didn’t spend a day apart for 60 years.
WHEN I WAS ABOUT FIVE, LIKE SO MANY OTHER KIDS, I WAS OBSESSED WITH ACTION MAN. The blond-haired, eagle-eyed action figure had a robust, articulated plastic body with elastic tendons. Mine had a desert camouflage uniform. They were marketed with a full range of accessories, such as different uniforms, weapons, vehicles… even a helicopter. The original form of pester power, it meant gullible kids like me would nag and pick the pockets of their long-suffering, loving parents. I would usually get some Action Man accessory every Sunday morning. One day, at the end of a financially hard month, I nagged to the point that Mum, a Jamaican disciplinarian, started looking for a belt to show me the error of my ways.
DAD, A KIND AND SALT-OF-THE-EARTH EAST ENDER WHO WANTED A QUIET LIFE, had a better solution. With very little petrol, and next-to-no money, he took us to see the Changing of the Guard at Horseman’s Parade on the Mall at the opposite end to Buckingham Palace. We marched alongside the regimental band and he bought me a Mr Whippy cone with a flake.
AMONG MUM’S MANY ENTERPRISES WAS A WOMEN'S CLOTHES BOUTIQUE IN THE BASEMENT OF OUR
