Last night I went to the pub to celebrate a friend’s birthday. It was a pleasant evening. There was cake. We talked about the possibility that perhaps some (not all, but some, maybe even just one or two) of the six million Jews who were murdered in the Holocaust deserved to die. They can’t all have been saints, can they? I also spent too long talking in too much detail about Falco to a man who had indicated a very slight interest in the subject on the basis that his mother used to own Falco 3.
After the pub closed, we were walking along Oxford Street when a man punched the girl I was with in the face on the fictitious grounds that she spat at him. Obviously, she didn’t spit at him, but even if she did that’s no excuse to punch a girl in the face. No, the correct response to being spat at in the street is to spit back. If he was any kind of gentleman, and genuinely believed he’d been spat at, he should have spat in her face. That’s what Nigel Havers would have done.
Instead, he punched her. This irked me somewhat and I shouted at him (something along the lines of “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?” although I can’t remember my exact words). At that point, he attempted to kick me (or perhaps did kick me) and maybe even threw a punch at me before walking off. Perhaps unwisely, I followed him. As he continued trying to kick and punch me and I continued trying to stop him from kicking and punching me, I decided to call the police. It’s quite exciting calling the police, I’ve only done it a couple of times before, but it’s quite a thrill. It’s the actual police! Off of the telly!
Understandably, the man didn’t really want me to call the police and so grabbed my phone out of my hand and hurled it at a brick wall. He continued walking on and I continued following him, now even more annoyed because he’d just smashed my uninsured phone. For some reason, during our argument, as I explained the reasons why I was annoyed (“YOU PUNCHED A GIRL IN THE FACE YOU FUCKING PRICK. YOU SMASHED MY FUCKING PHONE”) he offered me his phone as a clever joke. His phone, you see, was a very old pay-as-you-go handset with no credit. The joke was on him though as I explained you don’t need any credit to call 999 and I was going to call the police again with his own phone. Cheg on.
Realising that I was right, he grabbed his own phone out of my hands and pushed me over a chain-link fence and ran off through Bedford Square. I chased after him, shouting at him. I think the things I shouted at him this time were designed to anger him so he would stop running away and come back to try to hit me again at which point, in the absurd plan forming in my deranged mind, I would wrestle him to the ground and sit on him until the police arrived. I shouted things like “YOU ARE A PATHETIC MAN WHO PUNCHES GIRLS BECAUSE YOU HAVE A TINY UNUSED PENIS AND NO-ONE LOVES YOU”. This didn’t work, and as he was getting away, I pathetically shouted “I HOPE YOU DIE IN A PIT OF GRAVEL”. I’m not sure what that even means. I think I’d meant to just shout “I hope you die”, but I phrased it wrong and the sentence continued without me knowing what to say next. The “in a pit” bit was good, but still the sentence carried on, until finally coming to rest with the unsatisfactory “gravel” pit choice. As a parting shot, the last word the man heard me shout was “gravel”. Why gravel? I have no idea.
I went back to Oxford Street just as a police car arrived and we got in and had a drive around looking for the pathetic man with his tiny unused penis but we couldn’t find him. I think we actually drove the wrong way, but I was too confused to really know what was happening by that point. Then the policemen took our details. We established that the two phone calls from different mobiles were both from me. I guess there’s a slim chance that if he ever topped up his phone with a credit or debit card, he could be traced from that, but I doubt it.
I asked if it would be possible to see the CCTV footage of the incident at any point, but the policeman said that if the guy ever got arrested, my testimony would be called into question because I would be basing it on the footage I had watched and apparently testimony based on video evidence is worse than testimony based on the fallible human memory. I think really I wanted to see the CCTV so I could convince myself that what I had done was in some way brave, rather than idiotic and that I’d looked kind of cool grappling with this pathetic man with his tiny unused penis. I didn’t grapple with his tiny unused penis, but now I really regret not kicking him in the knackers. Why didn’t I think of that at the time?
After all that, the policemen offered to drive us to London Bridge station, which was nice of them. In case anyone from the Metropolitan Police is reading this, the policemen definitely didn’t put the sirens on just for our entertainment and they definitely didn’t ask us not to tell anyone because they’d get sacked if anyone found out. That didn’t happen. As we got to London Bridge, one of the policemen pointed out the London Dungeon to his colleague and told him they can get in free. “Did you just say you get in free to the London Dungeon?” I asked.
“Free travel on London Underground too” he replied.
“Wow, free travel, free tickets to the London Dungeon plus you get to drive around in a police car every day, what a brilliant job” I said.
“Yeah, but if anything bad happens, you have to get involved and sort it out and sometimes you get punched in the face.”
“I suppose,” I replied. “It’s not all glamour.”
I have bruises and no phone.