Cars, Stars and... Behind Bars

Think crime might pay for that supercar lifestyle? James Munroe's been there...

James Munroe (left of pic) and the fruits of his crime spree...

Around ten years ago, I hit the headlines of the national media as a convicted thief of some largesse. A fraudster. It was not the usual tale of someone wandering around with a pocketful of someone else's cash, acquiring the usual list of a Range Rover and a couple of other exotics for the driveway. No. This was something on a considerably larger scale. (Writes James Munroe.)

...next stop - the 'sweat box'.

This was my flawed odyssey into the world of supercar ownership and professional motor racing. It may have been the dream for many. It proved to be a nightmare for the countless victims, all of whom became unwittingly dragged into my life. It all climaxed in my eventual downfall and an inevitable spell behind bars, courtesy of Her Majesty.

I am not going to deny that, for the most part, I had the time of my life. But at what cost? It did not even register that what I was perpetrating was wrong in any way. I had no concept of the eventual consequences. I simply became lost in my own twisted world - driven on by a ferocious and ravenous ego; deluded and amoral. I ruined so many lives and that will stay with me for years to come, if not forever. A few may empathise with my story. Many more will criticise, no doubt. Read on and judge for yourself...

Part 1 - How it began:

Athena posters have inspired many...

To the age of around 30, I had been as law abiding as the next man, following the usual route of the aspirational classes of the 1990's. Married; fledgling fatherhood underway; regulation 'executive home' in the leafy Thames Valley and stuttering towards the dizzy heights of the anonymous echelons of middle management within the finance profession.

The seeds of my enduring passion for cars were sown early. The odd 'Athena' poster of a Lambo or a Testarossa adorning a teenage bedroom wall. Watching in awe as something red, loud and very Italian rumbled along the street. Dreaming that would be me, sometime. Tyres were kicked aplenty as I became a regular visitor at many of the local dealerships, peddling this tale or that just for a whiff of a test drive. Yet it started to grow into something more. I was allowing myself to be seduced by all that these cars represented. I wanted what I thought the drivers had - the power, the success and, most of all, the image. They became a symbol of something that I felt was missing in my life and had to attain; regardless of the cost.

But a Mk II Golf GTi 16valve came first

The early signs were not good. I hocked myself to the hilt just to, albeit briefly, own a Mk II Golf GTi 16v; sadly ending its days stolen, ransacked and lovingly abandoned on bricks on Wentworth Golf Course. The debts mounted and the bailiffs circled so that I could have that car on the driveway. Then the usual banal examples of company cars came and went; the A-Z of 'small executive' saloons. I dreamt of that day when I could put something special in my garage. But it never materialised. Each day, it seemed ever more remote.

For many, that life of mine would have seemed idyllic. Yet for me, it was not enough.

You may wonder how I went from being a rather disenchanted middle-manager to a fully blown fraudster. Perhaps I had a breakdown. I had let everything push me ever closer to the edge. I resented so much of what my life had become and felt that I deserved something so much better than all that I had achieved. I hated my job. I wanted revenge on those whom I felt had done me wrong. Most of all, I wanted a way out of that meaningless existence. To steal was a simple decision taken. I did not consider it to be wrong. I was owed, and that was that.

A series of 'executive' motors followed...

I won't bore you with the mechanics of how I managed to execute the frauds. That is a matter of record and for others to pick over. Rest assured, with some experience of the accounting world, the stuff of those quiet water cooler 'how would you do it, if you could?' conversations became relatively easy to enact and sustain. And so the charade began.

Despite that empty promise to myself that 'it would just be the once, to prove a point to them all', the arrival of that first stolen amount - close on £50k sitting in my bank account - opened my eyes to a world of possibilities; one that I was more than willing to enter. There was never a chance that the money would idly sit there, accumulating interest, ready for my retirement. It was my passport to the new me.

A few lies here; a chunk of deceit there and the initial cover stories were put in place to ease my passage. It did not matter who was on the receiving end of the crap that I was dishing out. The plans were being executed ruthlessly and nobody was going to be allowed to get in the way.

And then the dreams were realised...

Suddenly, the shopping list of my fantasies came very clearly into view. Sitting splendidly atop was something red and adorned with that 'prancing horse' badge that I so desired. Those empty weekends of 'tyre kicking', dreaming of the unattainable, were no more. The lure of the Ferrari dealership in nearby Egham was almost magnetic. Rather than the usual nervous shuffle onto the forecourt to stare enviously at what lay behind the plate glass façade, this time I strode confidently into the showroom, with pockets stuffed full of someone else's cash.

The salesman could have been straight out of the nearby discount carpet retailer, to be honest. I expected so much more. A morsel of sycophantic toadying? Champagne? Canapés, perhaps? Minutes later though, I was in the passenger seat as we test drove what would become my first taste of 'Ferraridom' - my 348TB; Rosso Corsa and cream hide to go.

A sedate exit onto the A30 and within a few miles I was at the helm. Hell, it felt good. I was happily chugging along, basking in my newly found inflated ego, when the sales exec volunteered "go on Mr. Munroe, the road is clear here, put your foot down and see what she can really do". I am not so sure about the ethics of being encouraged to crack 100mph+ down the dualled A30 south of Egham, but it was all that I had imagined and then some. Who cared about the gearbox and clutch seemingly made of lead, the rattles and creaks, and every other flaw you could imagine? I was driving a Ferrari; soon to be mine.

The first taste proved addictive!

A few days later, credit card flexed and I was the proud, and very dishonest, owner of the car. Spinning along the M25 amidst the admiring glances of the other drivers as I wound my way through the rush hour commute, I was a million miles away in my increasingly duplicitous world; courtesy of the dulcet tones of the 'Ride of the Valkyries' pounding out from the CD-player.

It was the start of it all...

(James Munroe's story continues exclusively 'in his own words' on PH next week. Ed.)

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