So I’m cycling up Brook Street in Mayfair. If you’re not familiar with the area, it’s one of the two most expensive squares on a Monopoly board, the home of Claridges, Hermès and Halcyon Days, official supplier of objets d’art to the Royal Family.
A delivery man carrying a pile of boxes for Halcyon Days saw me riding towards him, decided that he didn’t care and walked straight into my path.
I swerved around him and called him a moron. He said, “Fuck off you white, middle class wanker.” He was white himself, stereotypically shaven-headed, but apparently the “middle class” insult wasn’t enough on its own. I rode back to him, annoyed.
“You thought I was going to get out of your way, didn’t you! Clear off and read your Guardian.” He yelled with the bitter, assumed contempt of a committed running-dog.
“You think you’re pretty hard don’t you?” I said, looking him in the eye.
“Piss off before I come and take your satchel off you,” he sneered, and walked straight into a lamp–post.