Stealing Back My Stolen Camera

The mugger becomes the mug

New Year’s Eve is a weird day for everyone, and I’d happily let it pass like any other. Sure, I’ll watch the Hootenanny, but on catch-up. I refuse to believe anyone spends New Years Eve reflecting over their year just gone. And those that do, clearly haven’t made enough mistakes. To me, New Year’s Eve is like a gay orgy; it’s underwhelming, messy and not enough people bring poppers.

This New Year’s Eve was especially bad. Around midday, I learnt, to my dismay, that my camera and audio equipment had been stolen from my car. How will I record my interaction with Tom, the one-word answer and vague project manager, at my, undoubtedly, sparsely attended and ill-lit show now? As much as I’d like to say that my career is off the back of my killer joke writing and plethora of memorable television appearance, it is instead due to me recording myself at club gigs either telling knob gags or accusing someone in the front row of nonceing. So this theft hit like a loss of a family member.

The karma of the situation hit me immediately; it was stupid of me to have left the equipment in the car. In moments of self-inflicted crisis, rather than hearing a voice of reason, I only hear the voice of my parents. “Don’t leave anything in the car you don’t want to get stolen”. My parents only every offer good advice, but because it comes out of mouth of a parent, my brain’s synapses log it immediately as just nagging. Sorry parents, it’s not your fault, it’s biology’s. During the prehistoric era, I bet there was so many teenagers returning to their cave with a bloody stump because they didn’t listen to their parents saying “Don’t feed the Sabertooth Tiger”.

Along with my career in a National Geographic protective case, the thieves also took a 8 foot roller banner with my face on it, three books on late-diagnosed autism and two Habitat baking trays. I think it’s safe to say this wasn’t a targeted crime. Unless the criminal was a neurodivergent superfan with a side business in sticky toffee puddings.

“Should we call the -” Janak, my boyfriend, began to suggest before the futility of involving the police had sunk in. “Actually, umm, never mind”. The idea of ever getting the camera back was swiftly decreed to be a lost cause. Already filed in my ‘Not a Fucking Chance’ folder, tucked between the ‘Threesome with Channing Tatum’ and ‘Playing for Wales’ case files.

In my head, I delude myself that I take bad news well. Complaining about it won’t fix it is my motto. A page taken from the Stiff Upper Lip textbook. I must admit, I do take a sick pleasure in how, in crises, I don’t resort to whining or throwing a tantrum, where others might. Instead, I proceed with the rest of my day with the heavy handedness of the Iron Giant, and ruthless efficiency that would make even the Nazi’s take note. I’m a delight.

Eventually, I did log a crime report. But within an hour, I’d received an email essentially saying “No can do. Sorry that sucks. Here’s a number for our Cry Baby Helpline.” Undeterred, and prompted by numerous well meaning Reddit suggestions, I then resorted to going to local pawn shops. Up to that point, I’d never been to a Cash Converters. It was like walking into an Evidence locker, because clearly everything in there is stolen. Still, no luck.

Deflated but not beaten, I kept scouring online marketplaces to see if my equipment had appeared. Nothing. Until the following Tuesday night, while lying in bed, doing my last-ditch doomscroll through Facebook Market Place, a picture in the bottom right corner grabbed my eye. Laid bare on a thick grey woolen carpet, a Sony camera with a very similar lens to mine. Not to sound like a Lensist but they all look the same to me.

Fortunately, I still had the original boxes of the equipment, which crucially had the unique, thus identifiably, serial number printed on it. This hadn’t been a calculated failsafe procedure, I was just too lazy to throw them in the recycling. It’s this same laziness which means that most of my underpants looks like it’s been subject to a lion attack.

Two other things that struck a chord of suspicion was the product’s listing and price. Unlike the other listings which were incredibly involved, teetering on jargon overkill, this product simply stated “Sony Camera with Lens”.

Also, the asking price was £510, about £700 less than the equipment’s worth. Two reasons immediately came to mind. Either the seller knows absolutely nothing about cameras or they know that it’s stolen goods and just wants rid of them.

Each element in isolation meant nothing: same camera, same lens, ridiculously low asking price, suspiciously simple listing, hard cash please. But all together? That’s my fucking camera.

Now to arrange the meet. Unfortunately, my SD card was in the camera when it was stolen, so if the 8 foot roller banner with my face on it hadn’t given it away, the footage of my Hackney Empire tour show might have given away my identity. I’d have love to be a fly on the wall when the thief realised that they’d stolen hours of bumming jokes. So it couldn’t be me to arrange the meet, I needed third party. And what are partners for if not to arrange a vigilante sting.

However at the time, my partner was absolutely battered, having been surprised by a work’s belated birthday drinks. Nevertheless, this worked entirely in my favour. Because there is no one better at arranging to meet with a dodgy stranger at 2am, than a drunk horny gay.

After what felt like 6 months, Janak finally came home. “We need to haggle” Janak slurs, tackling the bedroom door. “That way they’ll know we’re real”. I’ve leant to never underestimate his ability of making good points while 10 Aperol Spritz deep. Then he flops open spread into the bed like a toppling Christ The Redeemer.

Perhaps it’s my upbringing or non-confrontational nature, but I have no experience with haggling. To me a price is a price. Whereas to my gujarati boyfriend, it’s a starting point. Watching two hagglers haggle, it’s like watching two Jedi fight; it only ends until one of them loses their head. I’m so bad at negotiating that I’ve been known to haggle down my own price. I’m essentially an unwitting not-for-profit business but without the morales.

“£470 for the camera and lens?” Janak suggests. Moments later, “Yeah sure. Pick up tomorrow? Cash” the ‘seller’ replies. Janak and I lock eyes. That’s my/your fucking camera.

I struggled to sleep that night, my mind acting as it’s own multiverse, throwing out every possible way the meet might go. I’m going to keep this brief here because it’s something that I am still awaiting confirmation on, but I am in testing for Level 1 Autism, otherwise known as Aspergers. One of the symptoms that I strongly suspect have is Justice Sensitivity. For years, I used to have anger management because the way that I would flip out when I met rude people or witnessed any form of bullying. (Is this something you’d want to hear more about?). Safe to say, I was fuming.

The agreed plan with the seller was to meet outside their apartment block in Leyton that evening. The agreed plan with Janak, however, was to memorise the stolen serial numbers and if they matched the presented camera’s, carry on as normal because we’re cowards. We arrived at the agreed spot at the agreed time, and then up bundled a white middle-aged man, medium height, bald and portly. Dressed as if he’d been painting and decorating. In one hand, he was swinging a Sainsbury Bag For Life with dense object sinking through it’s bottom. So they’re not camera people then.

“Hey guys, thanks for coming, let’s get out this rain. Should we go into one of these shops”. He gleams, grinning ear to ear, in a thick eastern european accent. He’s a bit jolly for a thief, isn’t he? I didn’t realise that we were meeting up with the Polish Fagin. We make pleasant idle chit chat all to a local Turkish takeaway, where we scurry into the back. Is it pathetic to admit that I felt bad for using their table without buying anything? “Hey boss man, can I get a chicken doner and the police please?”.

The camera was handed to us, and after a quick scan, yes, they were both my camera and my lens. Still now, I don’t know where this came from, whether it was the familiar fumes of trans fats or unspoken calculation that we could take this fucker, I just snapped into a Hannibal Lecture level of calm menace. “So here’s what’s going to happen” I found myself saying, laying my interlocked hands on the table, as though I was judge about to read someone’s sentence. “This camera here is two thing: stolen and more, importantly mine. And not only that there is a crime report regarding these and I have the receipts and original packaging.” It was going well.

Either this criminal was the London’s ditziest ne’er-do-well or they were a fantastic actor. Though checking most actors’ self assessments, I would argue that it’s not mutual exclusion. He threw his hands up in a surrender, eyes wide, his face stricken with disbelief. “Stolen. But my friend bought this from the market”. Next up, we have the award for Best Supporting Crook.

He reaches for his phone. “Please. Please. I call. I call”, the middle age man pants, frantically dialing. Janak and I exchange a look, perfected over many drinks with strangers, that says “not long now, and then we can go”. A much younger man, early 20s is shown to us on FaceTime, who seems to have attended the same acting classes as his friend.

“I..I..bought from market. Vauxhall. Only this Sunday. I no idea if stolen. I pay £500” the lad sputters. This goes on and go, the conversation circulating like buffering icon. Before we know it, the young lad starts blubbering and hyperventilating. And I’m ashamed to admit this. But it worked. He could have been putting the performance all on, but sue me, I love a show.

And that’s how I paid £300 to get my stolen camera back from, possibly, the very thief that took it. All because I made them cry.