Enthusiastic police and paranoid numbers

“Ladies and gentlemen.

“In a time heightened security it is important to increase a state of permanent paranoia in order for you to accept further erosion of your civil and human rights.

“Look out behind you!

“That Muslim. He could be the next London bomber. Report him!

“Or that black man. Probably a mugger. Or a crack addict, ready to steal your MP3 player and rape you in a dark recess in the Underground.

“Perhaps he’s the next Willie Horton.

“You’ve seen one Willie Horton, you’ve seen them all.

“Thank you for your co-operation and have a safe and pleasant journey."

For your own safety…

For your safety…

It’s for YOUR safety.

Underground train into Central London.

I mumble to myself, walking closely behind people with rabbit-in-the-headlights eyes.

I mumble bomb, bomb, Semtex, terrorist, Ricin, Anthraaax…

Smoking and a rough throat helps with the sinisterness.

Fear is the key.

Divide and conquer.

Stomp and trounce the rest.

I am at home.

My kind of town.

Rickshaw revolutionary.

The only thing better?

Hare Krishna suicide bombers.

The Orange bombers.

Explosions of orange and satin and flowers and bongos and cymbals.

Imagine that.

Jesus.

I’m inciting terrorism, or giving the Krishna’s ideas.

Bad karma.

. . .


Officer CX84.

Or CV84.

Or VV84.

Or W84.

It was definitely 84 anyway.

Police harassment of the Rickshaw rider.

There I am. Cycling west on Shaftesbury Avenue from Cambridge Circus. Traffic heavy. I signal with my right hand. Turning right. Traffic not giving way. Nothing new. I brake just before the junction with enough room to turn.

An incumbent Rickshaw needs very little room to turn, considering the size of the vehicle. You can pull the handles up and really bank the front section on its rear pivot, and seriously lean into the corners.

I pull right into the kerb. To avoid blocking traffic. I’m a nice guy. No vindictiveness. Or to avoid becoming a fender ornament on the stretched black Hummer limousine planet-raper that is already so far up my arse it can taste what I had for lunch.

And there he is.

Officer 84.

Number 84.

CX, CV, VV, or W or whatever.

The number, time and place is important.

He is a number.

That’s all.

He orders a car right into Dean Street.

He is in the middle of the road, waving an authoritative hand. Some ten to 15 other officers line the street doing car checks. Tax, wheels. Fines. Funding. Arrests.

The car, a people carrier, pulls in. The traffic behind me is not moving.

I signal again and turn right, in towards Dean Street, aiming to go round the back of 84.

He steps in front of me, putting his hand up. The international sign for stop. Halt. He says something but I cannot hear him.

I stop. In the middle of the road. I look right. Traffic is still stuck.

I try to inch forwards around 84.

“I said stay there,” says 84.

I look round again. Traffic is inching forwards.

I say, I’m turning right, sir.

“Stay there,” replies 84.

I look round again.

Traffic closing in.

I say, but I’m in danger of causing an accident.

“Go straight on,” says 84.

“But, I’m turning right.”

“Go straight on.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

“Excuse me?”

“Go straight on. You’re not coming this way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so. Go straight on.”

“That’s not a valid reason,” I say, “and you know it. If you’re blocking the road you should say, sir.”

“You’re blocking the highway now,” says 84.

Traffic closing.

“What?”

“You’re committing an offence by blocking the public highway.”

“You told me to stop here, sir.”

“Move or I will arrest you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Move or…”

I see he means it. He walks a few steps towards me, his left hand already unbuttoning his chest pocket containing the lethal weapon. A notepad.

I spin the Rickshaw fast to the left and aim back west down Shaftesbury Avenue.

I say, yes sir. Whatever you say, sir. Thank you very much indeed. Sir.

Burned again.

Enraged.

Authority gone mad. Again.

To serve and protect.

Sever and dissect.

Divide and conquer.

Just another Rickshaw harassment. An endless saga. Ask any rider. In the last two weeks the pressure from police has increased ten-fold. But, then again, an extra 100 Rickshaws have arrived on the streets of Central London.

This can be justified.

But justification is hard when the Rickshaws are next to illegally parked cars and only the Rickshaw gets it.

It’s hard when Hackney Carriages and Metrocabs stop in the middle of the road, blocking traffic to drop off and pick up. It’s hard when bus drivers drive like rancid maniacs, block roads, box junctions, anything to get them an inch closer to wherever.

Only thing is their wherever is nowhere. In an hour they’ll be back in the same place. It is a circuit. Endless. Nothing to gain. Except a vicious personal satisfaction in vindictive games that can easily cost people, especially cyclists and Rickshaw riders, their lives.

It has cost cyclists their lives already. Just ask Critical Mass. Ask the families of the dead. Crushed under the wheels of the privatised public transport system.

I cycle past Dean Street later, slowly.

There he is.

I get his number.

CX, CV, VV, W. It’s the number that is important.

84.

He is just a number.

I plan to head home.

Bad night.

£20.

I buy beer and decide to cut my losses.

But I am accosted by a Chinese businessman with two young Chinese girls. Both very pretty.

He looks familiar. Like the geeky sidekicks you get in Hong Kong action movies like The Last Blood.

Still, a £12 ride.

He gives me £20.

Thank you guardian angel.

“Thanks for being so lousy,” he jokes.

I like him.

One girl cannot speak English. She talks Chinese. I talk English. We get on well.

I wipe my forehead and show her the sweat.

She laughs.

I go home.

First bus, all the way home.

No Willesden Green only bullshit.

There is a God.

There is beer.

Home.

Shower…

You know the rest.

Beautiful.