In the firm I’m generally referred to as a Front Doors Man. I’m not proud of that, just stating the truth. An ugly mood means ugly deeds and I’ve hurt fellows over the odd comment. Or my personal favorite, “your wife must be a jolly good cook, mate.” I’m not married, never had much luck with the female folk, and any reminder of this is liable to put me in an ugly disposition. “Oy, what kind of man are you going to run down?” Whenever blokes find out that I’m a thief-catcher by trade, that I’m an operative for the Bow Street Firm, their eyes light up and I am forced to tolerate the inevitable comments. Nevertheless, my cheeks are round and my jowls hang. I love football and am bloody hell on gears in the goalie box. I’m physically active at work and in leisure. I’ve often looked for a solution to my roundness. In truth, I’m more apt to crack skulls than I am to make silly gestures, but the assumption stands and it’s easiest for my mates to pigeon-hole me in what they already hold true. I don’t regard myself as a man of mirth or good humor. There’s a long precedence of fat men also being funny men. The gentlemen in my office refer to me, literally, as Jolly Fellow, which is their euphemism for my rotund figure. Transcribed from audio-cylinder, August 17, 1888. Statement of Jacob Fellows aka Jolly to Whitechapel Metropolitan Police.
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