Social Justice Warrior
Targets Elderly Man the 55...
The first sighting had taken place maybe a month before the ‘incident’ and, like the incident, it had been at around half seven in the morning and, on the 55 bus. On the first occasion, despite the bus being relatively empty, this guy’s hostility ensured that his fellow travellers were made to feel a tad claustrophobic and possibly, concerned. He was in his mid-twenties, maybe six-three and kissing his teeth at anything he took offence to and that seemed to be, just about everything. He wore site boots and a yellow hi-vis but no Village People safety helmet. Odd? He wandered from window to window opening them and hoping someone would object. Nobody did. Partially because it wasn’t rainy but mainly, down to him being, well, kind of intimidating.
As is so often the case, the 55 was caught in traffic on the Old Street roundabout but this gent would not be made to wait. Kissing his teeth and pulling the Emergency switch, he jumped off and walked away. As he did, I caught the gaze of a fellow passenger, a Mediterranean-looking guy, in his forties. There was a mutual eye roll and that was the end of it. Yet, throughout my day, I found myself thinking about the gent on the bus. It’s a ten-hour shift, in a mind-numbing, soul-destroying job that leaves plenty of time for contemplation. At least thinking about Mr Angry, broke my usual chain of thought, the lifetime of mistakes that led to my present, somewhat lowly, position. The thing about the man on the bus was his vibe. It was oddly reminiscent of the 1970s. As though he’d stepped out of a time machine and was impatient to get down to Railton Rd, for a five-pound draw and can of Nutriment. Part of my teenage had been spent navigating the choppy waters cats like him tended to create and, generally speaking, it had all gone swimmingly… Generally. Maybe he’d just come over from JA? That would be the most simple explanation but for some inexplicable reason, it didn’t feel like the correct one. After an hour or so of pondering that, I returned to my usual self-flagellation ‘People your age are retired you cunt. You’re working in a minimum wage job. You wanker.’ Real moral-boosting shit. They do say though, that the truth hurts…
Round Two; It was maybe a month, possibly six weeks later, that I re-encountered him. This time though, the bus was packed and, as usual, I was occupying one of the old people’s (Priority) seats. If you’re unfamiliar with London buses, these are situated adjacent to the central exit doors. I usually opt for the seats facing the back of the bus but that morning, I was facing forward. These details are relevant to what’s about to go down. Occupying the Priority Seats opposite me were a mum and her six/seven-year-old daughter. They were black. This will, as you’ll discover, also become relevant. As they sat, I nodded/smiled and returned my gaze to the phone. I’m on X (then Twitter) and was eager to discover if I had any ‘Likes’ regarding a ‘Tweet’ I’d posted earlier that morning and, guess what- I hadn’t. I’ve got the old earbuds in and was listening to ‘Suite Judy Blue Eyes’ by Crosby, Stills & Nash when-
I became aware of something, I wasn’t sure what but, on following the gaze of the little girl opposite, I looked up and there he was, towering over me and… shouting. Look, I make no bones about it, in that moment I was terrified. My mind filled with a segment on the local news, featuring an old man being stabbed to death on a bus… I had no idea what he was shouting about but I found out by pausing CS&N. It seemed that, due to being white, I wasn’t allowed to smile at the people opposite. As his tirade continued it became clear that he wasn’t overly keen on Caucasians in general and for some reason, me in particular. The classic ‘Blue-eyed devil’ was tossed in somewhere but it was hard to keep up with his litany of threats and grievances, as I wasn’t fully concentrating on them. My primary focus at that point, you see, was on my survival.
I was disadvantaged in this situation in a multitude of ways but, the most pressing was that my bag (Filson briefcase- highly recommended) was on my lap and, it was heavy. This meant that any movement was going to be, at best, cumbersome. Not only would it impede any attempt to spring to my feet, but it would also entail getting into a fight, in a confined space, with a heavy crossbody bag, on my hip. Either that, or attempting to pull the strap over my head and shoulders, during a fight, in a confined space. With a guy bigger, stronger, faster and forty years younger… As I sat, like a cunt, listening to this geezer slagging me off, along with the entire white race, I must admit I kind of hoped someone on that packed bus, might say something. but on taking a quick consensus and realising I was The Only Honkey in the Village I tumbled that, not only were my fellow passengers refusing to come to my aid, they were rooting for this guy. That incidentally, included the driver, who could hear what was going on. I was it would appear, alone. Sometimes, that’s how it goes and, this was one of those times. If any liberals don’t like this, I can guarantee you Tarquin, I liked it far fucking less.
They say it’s always darkest before the dawn and it was looking pretty dark but then it came, the dawn. Or rather, the dawning… The realisation, the exact realisation I had was ‘He’s talking too much.” He was banging on but that’s all he was doing. Had he been any number of gentlemen I’d encountered throughout life, I can assure you, I’d have already been dead. Or, at the very least bleeding out, from ratchet wounds. He was, in the parlance of those individuals, what was commonly known as ‘A shaper.’ An old Jamaican term for those who are, to put it bluntly, full of shit. He wasn’t a street guy and something about his accent informed me, that he wasn’t a Jamaican either.
Before I go on, I’ve got to make clear that I don’t like violence and I try my best to avoid it. So, had any of this taken place on the street, with nobody watching, I would probably have walked away but people were watching and, there was nowhere to walk. I know this is going to sound weird, but this abuse he was spouting, it all seemed sort of Internet. Like something (I’d imagine) you’d get on a BLM Message Board. White people are demonised on the internet in general, so how bad does it get on sites like that? At a guess, I’d imagine something much like what I was on the receiving end of. Online, you can say what you like without recourse. Which is fantastic for wankers. In the real world, however, there’s always the chance you might get some pushback. Even from those you’ve, very carefully, designated, as incapable of defending themselves. Even say, from an old man, old enough to be your grandfather. I grew up with the credo that a man was to be judged by the content of his character as opposed to the colour of his skin. It was one I took to naturally and therefore, I’ll be fucked if I’m going to suffer anyone digging me out purely over the colour of my skin… Fuck that.
Then, I worked out that I could unclip the shoulder strap from my bag (Thanks Filson), which I promptly did. This meant that when I jumped up, the bag would fall away and, freed from that burden, I began feeling a little better about life. I’d switched off from his ranting but tuned back in, on- “Your queen and your President.” I interjected, rather loudly with ‘You’re a fucking moron.” It was fair to say then, I’d called it on… His response? He took half a step back… Jesus Christ, this was going to be fucking great. Despite the half-step, he kept on. I can’t recall everything he said but I do remember the following -and this, this, I swear to God, is verbatim…
SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR
We’re going to kick you out.
Out, that was, of this county (I swear). I can only presume that the ‘we’ were his online chums but here’s the thing there though, they weren’t on that 55 with him, I was…
OLD WHITE GUY
I ain’t going anywhere, mate.
SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR
Yeah? We’ll see about that.
OLD WHITE GUY
We can see right now.
At that juncture, victim mode was instantly enabled-
SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR
Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?
OLD WHITE GUY
Yup…
His adoring public was rapidly falling out of love with this guy and moreover, he knew it. The bus pulled into the stop between the Shoreditch Fire Station and the Town Hall and he, as he needed to get off, was forced into closer proximity. He was in fact, forced back into the position he’d taken when standing over me. In an attempt to save face (that ship had sailed,) he started banging on again. Secure in the knowledge that this was unquestionably the most cowardly cunt I’d ever encountered, I responded by raising my hand and touching my fore and index fingers, against my thumb-
OLD WHITE GUY
…Talk.
Raising my hand to his chest and repeating the gesture…
…Talk.
Raising my hand, two inches from his face…
… Talk.
Each ‘tawk’ was louder than the last and each, was considerably more provocative. By the third and final one. The transformation from elderly victim to full-on Millwall Boy was complete. It has taken all of about two minutes. On repeating the action to my wife that evening, she’d responded “I’m tempted to hit you now.” I stopped, as she would. Fair to say it was extremely antagonising. Yet, there on that 55, the instant those doors opened, he’d jumped off. So, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls - that’s where racial hatred gets you… Oh! Along with too much time spent on the old internet.
While the rest of the lower deck sat in stunned silence, trying desperately to come to terms with what had just taken place, I switched tracks and jumped on that old ‘Marrakesh Express’… They’re taking me to Marrakesh - all aboard the train! Peace, out!
Footnote; He never appeared on the 55 again…
Cheers Harry.