During my daily trek up and down London’s Fleet Street I was presented with a rather unusual sight - one that I usually encounter in the dank cack-stained Victorian streets of Whitechapel. As I strolled past the McDonalds and the Starbucks I noticed a man approaching. He was very tall, well built and quite handsome, with a rugged manly face. He was turned out smart, with a suit, tie and white creaseless shirt.
On closer inspection I realised that he was stumbling and cringing in pain. I noticed that his pristine suit shirt was absolutely drenched in bright red blood. His face was cracked and bleeding and he was groaning in pain, shuffling down the road. He was not a zombie - that was last week - though he did have the zombie-chic thing going on.
Pedestrians were just ignoring him, as did I. This made me feel rather guilty. This bloody man may have been attacked, stabbed, beaten or run over - possibly all. He could have been in desperate need of medical help and would have been forever thankful for aid from a kindly Samaritan like myself. Or maybe he was just a nutter. I opted for nutter.
As the Olympic Parade success float glides down Fleet Street this morning I can only picture a dying man lying in a doorway, cracked and beaten, covered in urine, ignored by all. The sweet smell of success.
4 Comments
That happened to me when I was incredibly drunk in a nightclub once; then I realised I was just walking towards a big full-length mirror.
How I laughed. How I threw up.
Why were you covered in blood? Are you sure you were looking at a mirror and not me?
I can’t remember, Nelson; I was drunk.
Oh yes, you certainly were.