Witty Wordplay on the Streets of Walthamstow

On the way to work in the rain this morning, walking to Walthamstow Central, I was kindly informed by a young man that he was going to ‘fuck me up proper’. This is the kind of sophisticated discourse one is used to hearing on the streets of London, and it is always a pleasure to engage in a little spirited badinage as one perambulates around town.

It was partly my own fault. I was walking past a bus stop and there was a crowd of people waiting, so there was only a narrow path behind them. I could see a fifteen year old lad walking towards me, shaping up for a shoulder-charge if I didn’t get out of his way. I, for my part, wasn’t in the mood to do that and so our shoulders met and he was bumped rather than me.

I really don’t understand this aggression from lads around my way. It’s like they’ve always got to prove their machismo, even in the pettiest situation. However, I suppose I was doing the same thing.

Anyway, this lad turns and shouts at me in a fury. I guess he sees a nice safe middle class wanker over whom he can assert himself. As usual, as much as I’d like to say I came out best from the incident, I don’t think I did. I ended up shouting back, telling him that if he had a knife, he’d better get it out now, because otherwise I’d kick his fucking head in.

Of course, this is the point where everyone at the bus-stop turns and stares. Now I’m making prejudiced assumptions about youth and probably race as well. Suddenly I’m the bastard. And also a coward, because as he stands there continuing to shout at me, I scuttle off. I’m walking quickly away, feeling like an arsehole and looking behind me frequently in case he does have a knife and stabs me in the back.