About Me

"Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?"

Thursday, 6 March 2014

(Almost) mown down on Landor Road

Cycling home from a strange round trip involving the Barnardo's charity shop in Brixton, the Phtotogrpahers' Gallery off Oxford Street, and then the 99p Shop in brixton - I took the shortcut around the back of the JobCentre, onto Stockwell Road, past the skatepark and the bike shop, then swerve left into what must once have been Stockwell's village green and into Landor Road.

Then a sort of whirlwind hit me, almost sending me over the handlebars. It was followed by a high-pitched howl and the sight of a large black car vitally flying up the street, crashing on brakes, then accelerating away again like a formula 1 racer.

A black kid on one of those little bmx-style bikes almost got hit by this vehicle, but he swerved in time and carried on regardless. I was shaking.

You wonder what. There must have been three to four hundred horsepower under the bonnet of that bastard car.

Where were they going, where had they been? Was it a getaway car from a murder scene? Or just some   blunt-nosed podgy yuppie trying to impress someone?

Most days I see these scenes, and these days the image that often floats to the surface is that of Putin, the barrel-chested bully-boy on his hunting steed.

And then the arseholes of the BNP who can still wield enough threat and fear to force Legoland - of all people - to cancel a private event for a Muslim group.

What the hell is going on, in 2014, 100 years after nationalism's worst hour?

Amnd how do I link a souped-up Merc in Brixton with  right-wing thugs in England and the president of the Russian Federation?

Dunno. It all seems to have a lot to do with machismo, male swaggering. What a dear friend once called "big swinging dick" syndrome.

Perhaps alongside the 5-a-day campaign, the NHS should introduce a new "dick reduction" programme to temper this rampant and unpleasant outbreak of testosterone-stenching masculinity.

Anyway, to cut to a happy ending, after an unhappy middle-phase looking at macho photos by WIlliam S Burroughs etc,  I found a copy of John Peel's  Olivetti Chronicles at the Barnados Shop for £2. Now, there was a real man….

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