On the day:
15/04/2012
On the way:
The bus is at a stop. It has spat out its passengers, the doors are lurching closed, front and back. And suddenly he's there.
A figure has appeared. Out of nowhere. Through the closing doors. Not even the front door. The back doors.
A man in a creased leather coat, Argyle diamond-pattern jersey in shades of burgundy black and grey, battered bald head, left eye narrowed, the right narrowed more, suspicious, no, defiant, his mouth set in a downturned smirk of satisfaction, the one Robbie Williams has patented, with a barely visible nod of affirmation, you know you want it, well, you got it.
He maintains the pose and assesses his audience, I dare you, gets the lie of the land, then strides, or is it a strut, to the front of the bus, then back. And this time he's armed. Two fingers raised, two to the palm, a Beretta 418. He's Bond, Connery, Moore, Brosnan, Craig, dude on the bus. He swivels, surveys, and sees the coast is clear. The Beretta returns to its holster, two fingers trace a line from from his waist down between his zip and his pocket. He's got the stance, he's got the gaze, he's got the license to mumble.
But now words are discernable, bubbling up from the burble,first one, two, then whole phrases, sentences even..."Gi'm a break... E's alright"... "E may be conservative but e's the prime minister"... "When you're wrong, do as the wrong uns do"... "David Cameron. E's the guvnor, right"... "E rocks the country"... "David Cameron run this country. Not the queen"... "E runs England. Amen"... "E's got the last word"...
Then he's off, into the night, job done, mission accomplished,
On the pod:
The Fallen - Franz Ferdinand
On the front page:
Tories rebel on charity tax cap (The Sunday Times)
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