Andrew Tate used to cruise along these scruffy suburban streets about 10 miles from the centre of Bucharest in Romania. Past a litter dump and a sprawling cemetery and a line of semis that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the TV soap Brookside. Rolling by in his Lamborghini or Bugatti or any other of his fleet of supercars. Puffing a cigar and adjusting his Michael Corleone sunglasses. Beating his tattooed chest at the red light.
Tate, who likes to call himself Top G (in street slang G stands for gangster), says he’s done nothing wrong. He might look and behave like a gangster. He might have boasted of gangsterish pursuits and claim to have made billions. But now, as a current guest of the Romanian penal system, he says he’s not an actual gangster at all. He says he’s a good guy.
