The Bloodhound: A Day in the Life of Vinnie Jones

Vinnie Jones; leader, fighter, gangster. And now, apparently, fox hunter. Not that we can picture him in tweeds on horseback with the other country chaps.

The former AFC Wimbledon enforcer and Hollywood movie-star has chosen to take up a rather disturbing past-time. It transpires that Mr Jones also has a posher side to him, one that settles him in alongside the tough-talking toffs of the Sussex elite, the old boys and jolly good fellows who impersonate the sort of tools you’d expect to find at a 1950s Royal Garden Party.

Among them now is Vinnie Jones; Bullet-Tooth Tony himself; Wimbledon’s answer to Al Capone: a hard-talking, hard-hitting thug… especially if you’re a fox.

Jones, naturally, has since denied he made that tweet but has been well known for his love of hunting. Amid the furore over Jones’ latest scandal, we caught up with the fella; in order to develop a real image of the man.

Walking into a dingy East End bar, we noticed a large figure sitting by the window in the corner. Rough hands grasped a pint of the black stuff and a broad mouth suffocated the base of a cigarette that painted the air around it with a ghostly white veil.

At first only a dark, mysterious shadow; the man in the corner then grunted, “Over ‘ere, lads” and we followed suit. Of course, the man was Vinnie Jones. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, his knuckles were scarred and worn and his face looked weary, beaten and wrinkled into lines that cut deep in his skin like unforgiving daggers.

Vinnie Jones looked like the ultimate gangster. But we wanted to get under that image and uncover the real man.

So we spent a day with him. And this is how it went. He started us off with some very honest admissions.

“You know what, boys, let’s get this out there plain ‘n’ simple. Yeah I done the foxes. I lamped ’em, good ‘n’ propa. Gave ’em a right good go. I’m a straight talker, no mincing from me. You know. I shoot straight. Tell it how it is. Simple, ain’t it? I done ’em.”

We asked straight shootin’ Vinnie for some more answers, then. What’s an average day like?

“My days are very varied, gents. Some mornings I’ll go for a run. Others I’ll enjoy me breakfast down the cafe. Others I’ll kick-bash someone’s canister in for looking at me funny.”

“This particular morning I had to nut a journo for asking me fox-based questions. Nutted ‘im. Straight on the nose. ‘I’m Bullet-Tooth Tony you jumped up sonofa’…”

Jones stopped. He took out a little, soft red ball and began to squeeze it. He counted up to ten, taking long drawn-out breaths whilst closing his eyes. Then he began to relax a little. “Calm it, Jonesy. You know what the doc said”, he muttered. “Bad for your blood-pressure, son.”

“Sorry, gents. Where was I? Right, so I kick-bashed the geeza. Yeah, what next? Of course, I come by here to meet you fellas. Nice little boozer, ain’t it? I once socked a bloke and sent him flying through that window. Good times, them was.”

Jones necked his pint.

“Come on, boys, we’re going out. Out-out.”

So off we went. Outside, a man struggled for air as he leant awkwardly towards an old Jag. It turns out Jones had trapped the guy’s tie in his car window. With the former ‘Crazy Gang’ member starting to drive off, the poor bloke had to begin running.

Eventually, after a mile or so, Jones slipped his window down a notch and watched as the man tumbled off behind him.

“Said I was crap on Big Brother. Mug.”

“Hang on, chaps.”

We found that Jones took regular breaks from our drive and would leave us in the car for a minute or two as we waited for his return. He’d come back, brown paper bag in hand, with a big grin on his face. After giving his knuckles a quick suck, Jones would drive off again.

At one point, he went veering up off the kerb and onto the pavement.

“Gotcha, ya little spanner!”

We heard the faint squeal of a squirrel as Jones crashed back onto the road. A flick of blood splashed onto the windscreen.

“Add that bad boy to the list.”

“See the thing is, chaps, when I kill the animals, I’m doing the country a favour. Because what I’m doing is making sure that good, British food and animals is being used up. I’m stopping all this foreign crap like pizza and that and I’m putting Blighty back on the map.”

“The way I see it, foxes and them like are born ‘n’ bred ‘ere, right? They never come over from no where else. So, good ol’ born and bred Brits eat the dead born and bred foxes and we keep the country pure. Don’t tell no one though, coz they’ll start comin’ over ‘ere, taking our foxes.”

Jones headbutt his steering wheel.

“Sorry, anyway, moving on. Tell you what, lads, I got some life advice for you. Brexit means Brexit, am I right?”

He then went on a politicised rant. We don’t want to write it up, however, because Jones’ agent told us not to make a fool of him.

“So, bring back fox hunting? Hell to the yeah, boys. That’s why I voted for her. Diamond bloody bird she is. Not too happy with a woman telling me what to do, though. Unless it’s the Queen, of course. That’s why I don’t use no sat-nav.”

And with that, Jones pulled up his car.

“We’re done now, boys. I got business to attend to. Off you pop.”

We’d stopped outside a Union Jack clad Wetherspoons. Jones shook our hands, did up his suit and went to the boot of his car. Out came a big, black bag.

“Don’t mind me, chaps. Just a bit of business.”

So off we went. Though, as we turned around, we saw Jones enter the pub with a newfound swagger. We headed off.

Smash. Crash. Thud. Jones was bent over a squirming pile on the floor.

“I’M BULLET-TOOTH TONY YOU LITTLE RAT.”

We left him to it.