Re-reading Philip Norman’s outstanding John Lennon, the Life last week, I was struck by the fact that the ten year old future Beatle used to have a recurring dream in which he was surrounded by half-crown coins: so many that he couldn’t fit all of them into his pockets. ( A half-crown was a large silver coin worth 12.5 pence but which would have the buying power of £5 in today’s money.) His subconscious was presciently predicting the riches he would amass in later life.
Similarly, albeit with far less resonance for world popular culture, something, good or bad, related to every blog I do seems to happen me within a week of each posting. Unfortunately, this week was no exception…
Last week I posted about the hell of standing, tired on a tube and how finding a seat can be an unexpected joy. Last Friday, frazzled and exhausted to the point of near-tears, I spotted a seat on the Central Line. Well, it wasn’t exactly free: a guy had his bag on it.
‘Excuse me, can I sit down please,’ I said with the last fibres of humanity remaining to me and a weak smile of politeness and entreaty. The bag was slowly, sullenly withdrawn and only when my grateful rearend made contact with the worsted fabric of the seat did I realise the potentially life-threatening severity of my mistake. Friday the 13th; I should’ve known… I had sat down beside a ‘bread’. (Cockney rhyming slang : ‘Bread and Butter…….Nutter)
I have a lot of sympathy for the mentally ill, but I must also confess to being more than a little afraid when confronted with someone whose actions seem unpredictable, especially when their language would shock a docker suffering from Tourette’s who’d just drunkenly discovered that his 15 year old daughter had maxed his credit card to buy VIP tickets to see John and Edward in Hawaii and that this money was non-rufundable.
‘Take my bag’s seat will ya, ya f******* ****. I’ll f******** slit your f******** throat and jab all my f****** fingers in yourf******* eye, you****’
In a voice that ranged without any apparent reason from gentle singsong to the screams of the damned, rising and falling like a Rachmaninov piano concerto, this subterranean Golum hissed at me all the way to Shepherd’s Bush, his language becoming more gruesome, his threats more sexual, more violently imaginative, involving acts of depravity that would make the Marquis de Sade wince in outraged prudery….
All the while I pretended that my headphones prevented me from hearing him, though my iPod wasn’t on. All the while I desperately avoided his increasingly invasive attempts to make eye contact with me by re-reading the same sentence about Boris Johnson over and over and over again.All the while, all the while , over and over and over and indeed over again.
‘Why didn’t you get up and walk away?’
Two reasons: First, I felt that any sudden movement from me would be all he’d need to spring into murderous action, so thought it best not to antagonise him. Second, I was tired.
I have no doubt that it was only my fervent silent prayers to Saint Christopher that got me home in one, uncut piece.
All I’d really like to say in this week’s blog is this: Flowers, puppies and happiness. Got that? Flowers, puppies and happiness!
Mike