Diary Entry: The Baron: Gangster Aspirations and Family Complications
Ah, The Baron—my beloved offspring, heir to my eccentricities, and, alas, a man whose criminal endeavors would struggle to impress even the most lenient of amateur dramatics clubs. His latest incarceration, while undoubtedly inconvenient, has offered me ample opportunity to reflect on his many peculiarities, not least of which is his unshakable belief that he is some sort of underworld kingpin.
The Cray Twin That Wasn’t
The Baron has always harbored a fascination with the notorious Cray twins, though his resemblance to them is purely aspirational. Where they were cunning and fearsome, The Baron is more... absent-minded. His latest escapade, which involved attempting to sell knock-off designer trainers from the boot of his car in a parking lot that happened to be directly opposite a police station, was a masterclass in criminal ineptitude.
“Mother,” he said on the phone this morning, his voice dripping with indignation, “it was a setup. The feds were waitingfor me.”
“Darling,” I replied, stifling a laugh, “you parked in front of their building. They didn’t need to wait—they just strolled out the door.”
Undeterred, he went on to describe his grand plans for a post-prison empire. “When I’m out, I’m going to build my crew. No one’s going to touch us.”
“Of course,” I said, indulging him. “And will this crew come with a better sense of parking?”
The Hood That Isn’t
The Baron’s other great delusion is his belief that he embodies the spirit of urban street culture. Despite his decidedly middle-class upbringing in Brighton and his inability to distinguish between grime and jazz, he insists on speaking in a hybrid dialect that can only be described as “posh-urban.” His sentences are peppered with phrases like “ya get me, yeah?” delivered in tones that suggest he is quoting a film he half-watched once.
He often tells me, with great solemnity, that he is “keeping it real.” Real what, I have yet to determine.
The Ghost of His Father
Of course, The Baron’s identity crisis may well be rooted in the enigma of his father, a figure who remains more legend than memory. The man—an Afrikaans businessman whose brief union with me was fueled by vodka and questionable judgment—disappeared from our lives long before The Baron’s first encounter with detention. I often wonder if this absence drives The Baron’s need to reinvent himself, though I would never say so aloud.
“What was he like?” The Baron asked me once, during a rare moment of vulnerability.
“Handsome,” I said, with a wistful sigh. “And terrible with money.”
“Sounds like me,” he said, his face lighting up. “I’m gonna live up to his name.”
“Well,” I replied, “perhaps leave the vodka and the disappearing act behind, darling. I think we’ve had enough of that legacy.”
A Mother’s Love
Despite his flaws—and there are many—The Baron is, in his own way, endearing. He approaches life with a reckless optimism that I can’t help but admire, even as it lands him in hot water. And though his ambitions may be misguided, they are undeniably ambitious. He doesn’t just want to be a criminal; he wants to be a legendary one. That level of commitment, however misplaced, deserves a certain amount of respect.
And so, as I sit here tonight, I raise my glass (filled with something far too strong for sensible mothers) to The Baron. May he one day find a path that suits him better—perhaps one that doesn’t involve polyester sheets or poorly executed heists. Until then, he’ll always have my love, my exasperation, and, when necessary, my bail money.
