The son of a Maltese father, and one of eight children, he first got involved in crime as a teenager and served time in several borstals and detention centres. ‘I suppose I was trying to find myself really. Back in those days there was two types of people in London. You were either a thief or a worker. It was all about trying to survive. Two of my older brothers made a living as thieves and one of them became well known for armed robbery.
‘I was victimized by the police because of the reputation two of my brothers had. As soon as our name was mentioned in front of the police anywhere in London, it was assumed we were doing something wrong. The first time I went into a detention centre, at the age of fifteen, I was fitted up. I know it’s a cliché, but I was.
‘And it’s like anything else. If you lie with dogs, you catch fleas. And although I came out still pretty innocent, I guess I’d built up certain attitudes, felt resentment and had a sense of kudos and bravado because I’d been in prison. And, of course, you keep in contact with the people you meet inside and one thing leads to another. I didn’t plan to be bad. At that point in my life, I enjoyed the same things most lads of my age did. I enjoyed chatting up the girls and I wanted to work and earn some money. But I didn’t really know how to find a way out of all this garbage I was in.’
Tony graduated to more serious crime, such as hijacking lorries, and robbing betting shops and houses. Sometimes he went armed and on occasions dressed as a police officer. ‘I never set out to be an armed robber. People would come with an offer of work and I would take it if it made money. But I was a realist and I knew that there was certain areas that if you went into them it would be a point of no return. Although I never let anyone down when I went to work, I always had this sense that this wasn’t really for me. I went wherever there was money.  
‘I always had a sense of God and a feeling that I would have to answer to him at some stage, but I wasn’t too bothered about it. I was very calculated and cold. If I had to take a reprisal for something, then I would, no matter how extreme I would have to be. I would have been prepared to take a life if I hadn’t of had this restraining factor. I think to take a life is the worst thing that anyone can do.’
In 1977 he was sentenced to prison for armed robbery. He was released after serving three years. ‘I’d had one or two experiences in prison which I would call God orientated. I’d met a guy who talked to me a lot about God, but I took it with a pinch of salt. When I came out of prison I tried to go straight for a while. At the time, I was single and I moved in with a good friend of mine and we formed a business together.
‘But one of my older brothers had been fingered by two friends who had become supergrasses. Because of the stress this put on me, along with other things, I soon found myself back in the mainstream of villainy. A friend of one of my brothers propositioned me on a hijacking. He had been charged with robbery and was trying to get £40,000 to pay his bail money so that he could flee the country.  
‘We did the hijacking and then some more robberies. But what I didn’t know was that this guy was a supergrass and he was living in a police station. I never had a clue about this. He made statements about me to the police. I found this hard because I’d never known this personal betrayal. He used to come round to the house where I lived with Maria.
‘I then became friends with Danny Woods, who is now doing life for murder. He was very heavy. I think he shot someone on every bit of work that he went on. He was a lovely guy but a bad bit of work. What I didn’t know was that he had turned supergrass and had made statements against me. When I went to collect our two children from school the police were there waiting for me. I was astounded because I didn’t think anyone knew my movements. I was already on bail. They pulled me in and held me for about a week. They told me my bail had gone whether I talked or not. I knew that I would be looking at about fifteen years for what I had done.
‘After about a week, just before I was due to go to Brixton, I reflected on the situation and thought to myself, ‘I’m about to throw my life down the swanny again, but for people that are not worth too much.’
That week in the cell gave me a lot of time for reflection. I do believe at that time that God was speaking to me in some way. I had no faith in friends and no faith in the people I had put my life on the line for. The underworld code of honour meant nothing now. This was a big body blow to me because I’d cultivated this understanding that people didn’t do this. I’d gone to prison for people when I had been innocent. I thought about all these things and said to myself that there was two ways forward. I could either go to prison because of what my wonderful friends had done or I could turn over a whole new leaf. ‘I decided that if I was going to go to prison I was going to make sure that nothing came out of the woodwork when I came out. I’d heard about gate arrests; of guys doing five or ten years and then being recharged by the police. The police had never been friendly to me, so I figured they would like to do that.
‘It was a case of self-preservation. I asked to see the chief inspector and I told him I wasn’t interested in any deals or anything. I said what I want to do is admit to everything I’ve ever done and have it taken into consideration so that when I go to court nobody else can come out of the woodwork. The police agreed and they asked me if I’d be prepared to implicate other people.  
‘If you ever make a statement against anyone else, it’s not worth the paper it’s written on unless it’s corroborated. I knew that I had to give an honest account. I never had any intention of going to court against anybody. I knew that evidence against other people I knew had already been given. I had to make a court appearance so that I could be remanded in custody for the statements to be made. The police didn’t play straight, as usual, though. They put me up as a supergrass. But I wasn’t too worried about it, as I knew that I wasn’t a supergrass. As far as I can remember there was only two people who got in trouble, both good friends of mine. One of them phoned me a few days before I was arrested and offered to sell me a gun. I told him not to talk over the phone. It turned out that my phone was bugged.’
Tony appeared at the Old Bailey in 1979 and was convicted of armed robbery and theft and sentenced to five years, a lesser sentence than he had been expecting. ‘While I was in prison in Norwich, I prayed and called out to God. I felt bereft of family and friends. A prison visitor who was a Christian came to see me one day, but he put me off Christianity and God. He was too emotional and I was apprehensive about this sort of approach. But I now know that he was just showing love.’
Tony came out of prison in 1983, determined to go straight. ‘I’d been out of prison for quite a while and I was pondering the things of God. I didn’t want to be religious. I gave myself enough time to know what I was doing. I had a lovely wife, lovely children, a good home, love, security, all the things a man wants, but there was something missing. It was obvious to me that what was missing was knowing who I was. I realize now that God was speaking to me and he had been for a number of years, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to be godly. I wanted to be a sinner.’
Seeking some signposts towards God, Tony contacted a man called Dave, a Christian who had prayed with him in the visiting room in Bedford, where he had completed his sentence. He invited Tony to a meeting of the Full Gospel Businessmen’s Fellowship at a hall in Bletchley Park, Buckinghamshire.
‘I believe that night I had an encounter with God. I saw Jesus as he really is and accepted him as my personal Saviour. At the end of the evening, an elderly guy came up to me and asked me if I would like some prayer. I replied that I would love some prayer. When he asked me what I would like him to pray for, I replied, ‘You name it. I’ve got a full house. I’ve got everything.’

In 1986 Tony was baptized at Elim Pentecostal Church, in New Bradwell, near Milton Keynes. ‘My life took on a whole new meaning when I decided to become a Christian. God is loving, understanding and just. God levels things out. I believe he set the ground when I was arrested in 1979, knowing I would come to him eventually. I always felt there was a missing ingredient in me. An ambition to be somebody. But I wasn’t bothered about that. I went on a moment-to-moment buzz, which often subsided very quickly. But I didn’t want to be violent for the sake of being violent.’
Tony now lives in East London, where he runs a building firm. ‘When I came out I met most of the people from the old days. Some asked me to go back to work with them and I had to tell them that I didn’t do that any more. I’ve never worried about money. I’ve trusted in God to provide and he’s done this every time. The real tragedy was that my family had to undergo the stigma that is associated with being called a grass. But only those close to me know the real truth about the situation. I wasn’t bothered because I had made my peace with God and man and I had never stood up in court and pointed the finger against anyone.
‘I’ve been a Christian for about twenty-four years and I’m far from perfect. I gave a testimony to some gypsies in Portugal and I told them that there had been two things that had run through my life: anger and rebellion. And I’m still dealing with it. I still haven’t conquered it. I try to let God into my life. Sometimes he has an easy job and sometimes he has a hard job.’