as revealed in the Human Mind.
My own mind, actually. These days I try not to judge by appearances.
I also dislike—instinctively—nice types who decades back dyed their hair purple (what was left of it after the usual rebellious crewcut). These ‘types’ (many of them I imagine now bankers, or other big-names-in-the-city) also got a name for themselves by stomping the innocent into the ground with huge ‘bovver’ boots. On any pretext.
SO THE MERE SIGHT OF SUCH
is enough, even now, and at this remove, to trigger intense distaste. You may not know the type; crewcut hair dyed brilliant purple, unwashed jeans, studs everywhere, bovver boots with inch-thick soles and the omnipresent challenge “‘Ere! Wot choo lookin’ at?”
There were other names for them. Some were self-balded and referred to as skinheads, others affected magnificent rooster hair styles which I think was aptly denoted Punk. Not all punks were sub-human, though.
“You! Grandad! Wot choo lookin’ at?”
“Er … no offense, Lad—”
“I won’t ask agen! Oo you staring at?”
“… …Okaaaaay … about twenty years ago in this park I fu**ed a parrot—I was wondering if you might be my son?”
I was bimbling through the park when an apparition apparited.
It was a dude in a motorised self-drive wheelchair (mobility scooter?). The visual epitome of the definition of the Skinhead, bovver-boy, punk … and he was moving. Like, really scampering. Up from beyond the rotunda, all the way south to Feldwick Gates then back again.
He did this several times and I noticed a pattern—
—it looked as if the only part of him he could move was his hand on the joystick.
It occurred to me that perhaps he was jogging.
BUT MORE THAN THIS
he was having a real ball. Despite all else, he was really really really enjoying racing up and down. I’d seen him several times before but always sedately—once I stopped the traffic for him to cross Gala Street. (No bugger was going to stop for him so I did it on his behalf.)(He didn’t say a word …)
I think he may now have been limited to the park.
SO WHY DOES HE DRESS
and look like a punk skinhead?
How the hell would I know?
I was taking a shot of Feldwick Gates once and inadvertently caught him centerstage.
My own mind.
His outfit triggered an unthinking response—a very narrow response. Not good.