Heading to Brighton on the train to do the first Robin Ince Christmas show of the year and I found myself sitting opposite a child of three years old. The adult with him was sitting in the row behind because of limited space. I, somewhat fittingly, was watching Curb Your Enthusiasm on my iPad. The child started kicking out his tiny legs and hitting me in my shin. I glared at him, annoyed, hoping that this would scare him into stopping, but he continued anyway, not continually, but at regular enough intervals for it to be annoying (though he wasn't hurting me). Should I be grown up and ask him to stop? Not really for his benefit - he was too young to understand - but for the woman he was travelling with, who might perhaps remove him and put him on her lap instead (which to be honest would be the correct place for him to be). I was too embarrassed to make a fuss, but still a bit annoyed. I wanted him to stop, but didn't want to create a scene and so began to try and ascertain how hard I was allowed to kick a child I didn't know back to hopefully explain that kicking in these circumstances was annoying. What has become of me?
I knew the answer was "not very hard" and in all legality was probably "not at all" but the law was no good to me now. I was fighting an assailant who like Al Qaeda cared not about the laws of our society. So I kicked the bottom of his shoes softly with my foot, in the hope that this would send out a clear message to this tiny idiot. But whichever way you look at it I was a 43 year old man kicking a child that was four decades my junior under a table. I got the impact speed correct enough not to harm the tot, who just looked at me a bit surprised with doe eyes. What had I become? I became concerned that the people at the next table might have seen my awful behaviour, but I had gotten away with it, despite the pesky kid.
But this like for like retribution was not effective. The child kept up with it kicking. There is probably a lesson for us all in this. As well as the admission of a crime from me. Eventually some other seats became available and they moved away. I need only have sat it out and would not have corrupted myself thusly and ensured my place in Hell (as if there was much doubt about that by now).
I then performed in front of 1700 people for 7 minutes before heading straight back to the train station (luckily others were on hand to entertain for the rest of the evening).
Back at Victoria I was recalling the times, many years ago, when I regularly passed through this station, though I can't quite remember why. I used to like to kill time in WH Smiths. It felt like a dream I'd had. I also recalled the IRA bomb in the station back in the 90s, which possibly stuck in the mind for me because this was somewhere I might have been. One man died in the blast and yet not much fuss was made at the time, maybe due to the low number of fatalities, but that seemed a bit tough on the victim. As far as I can see there's nothing to mark his unfortunate passing- wrong time, wrong place, snuffed out at an unexpected moment.
It took a little bit of work to find out that the bombing happened in February 1991 (before I passed through the station regularly) and that the man who died was photographer David Corner.
Here's the story of someone who was injured. Some reports seem to imply that Corner had re entered the station against police advice, but the high number of injuries suggests that it was a bit more of a surprise.
With these dark thoughts occupying my mind I was a bit startled by a sudden noise and burst of energy. Some men ahead of me were for some reason close to blows. One of them called the other a "fucking prick" and made for him, as a woman, in time honoured fashion tried to hold him back. The man who may or may not have been a prick saw his chance and ran away. But the aggressor pursued him and they played an odd game of chase around the concourse as the woman screamed. The prey ran in circles to evade capture, but his pursuer was quite determined. It looked silly and childish and although there was an edge of danger to it, it was somehow comic. At least when I left it. A couple of teenage boys on bikes passed me to see the ensuing action, but I headed to the tube, not knowing if any real punching was ever going to occur. At least I am not the only adult capable of acting like they are in a playground.
