OK, so I’m not in the best of moods tonight. But it’s the London Triathlon tomorrow, and I can’t take up my place due to a knee injury, so I’m stomping around SE16 feeling somewhat out of sorts, and picking up a 750ml bottle of self-medication.
A car full of young males pulls up. “Hey mate… are you Kevin’s Dad?”
I’m not sure what hurts more. That I could be related to anyone called ‘Kevin’, or that I could conceivably be a ‘Dad’. Unfortunately, I have a tendency in such situations to release my inner action hero, and this time it happens to be Samuel L Jackson from his ‘Pulp Fiction’ era.
I explode with, ‘KEVIN? That’s a CHAV name, isn’t it? Do I look like I could be related to a KEVIN? Do you see a gold chain around my neck? Do you see a baseball cap at an angle?’
(I’d have polished my prose, but the red traffic light won’t last much longer, and anyway my wine’s getting warm.)
There’s nervous laughter from inside the (presumably Vauxhall Vectra, or perhaps that Korean thing with the big wing on the back and the long name consisting mostly of numbers.) ‘So you’re NOT Kevin’s Dad then?!’
My inner character switches away from Samuel L, to the Matt Damon-tormenting corrupt cop from ‘Departed’.
‘That makes me sound like a C**T. Do I look like a C**T, boy? Are you calling me a C**T?’
The lights change and the guys in the back seat are applauding the guys in the front as the driver steps on the gas. The momentary theatre has ended. But I know I’ll be replaying this scene in my mind for hours.
Sometimes, I wish I had less braggadoccio. And less Alpha aggression. But the street theatre requirement that adds buzz to London life has been satisfied again. For now.
Anyone up for a Big Kahunaburger?