teens
The other night, during an episode of writer’s block that could only be fixed with burgers, I made my way down the McDonald’s at Camberwell.
After getting off the bus about 6 cops ran past me at full speed.
Cops can never run that quick, they have on belts that they are holding and so many devices that slow them down, but they were moving quicker than I was, and let us remember, I was on my way to McDonald’s.
When I got to the McDonald’s the cops all seemed to have disappeared.
In front of my in the queue was 3 young black kids, the kids got served and I waited for this fucken stupid woman to stop changing her order.
Just as they kid’s food came out one of the coppers came in, and went straight up to the kids and asked what direction they had come from, they told him they had come from down the road, same direction the cops had come from, and he then told the McDonald’s girl to put the food under the heat lamps so he could take the kids outside and check them.
The cop was very polite, as were the kids, but one look at these kids showed you they weren’t the ones, they clearly hadn’t been running from the cops 5 minutes earlier.
Even the cop said, “I know you aren’t the guys, but I have to check”. He was trying to be reassuring.
He took them outside, asked for ID, looked in their pockets, and then apologised and they came in and got their food.
The kids were polite and respectful the whole time.
I couldn’t help but think, too polite.
Most of my run ins with cops when I was their age ended in me being a massive smart ass, refusing to answer their questions seriously and telling them they were profiling me.
These kids never raised their voices, and even when they were made to show their private possessions based on the fact they had the same appearance of other kids, they did so willingly.
I would never have done that.
When the kids came back in I asked one of them what happened, he just shrugged at me and said,
“Theys looking for someone else”.
“Aren’t you pissed they thought it was you?”
“It wasn’t us, I don’t care”.
These boys then left with their food, they didn’t have a care in the world.
Can’t say I would have felt the same.
You always here alot of shit about the London yoof, but these kids pretty damn level headed and clever to me.
Ofcourse to others that saw them speaking to the cop, they might have seen the blinged, hooded, and baggy assed kids as a potential threat.
stab stab and repatriation
The other day a 14-year-old kid was stabbed in my street at 10pm.
I was home, and it happened about a 30 second walk from my place, but I didn’t even know it had occurred.
It wasn’t until the police came knocking on my door for information that I was aware anything had happened.
And the way the cop spoke I thought it was a traffic accident.
It was more a bunch of kids repeatedly stabbing another kid.
The kid survived, which proves if nothing else that kids are useless at everything.
There are signs and promotions everywhere for kids to stop with the stab stab business.
But most of them are crap.
I can’t imagine the average kid seeing a billboard saying “no more knives”, and thinking wow, I cannot believe I have been carrying a knife around, I am in idiot, innit (that is what the kids say).
All this comes on the back of me receiving money from the kid that robbed me through the courts.
I wonder about a criminal system where people found guilty for stealing have to pay the people back for the stealing.
Where do they suddenly get this money from? Stealing from someone else?
Seems like a joke to me. I was going to knock back the money, but then I found out the government gets the money, so fuck that.
Only two criminal acts in my street (that I am aware of) in the last year is not too bad.
In Melbourne my next-door neighbours once robbed me.
memo to self, stop pissing on black cats underneath that ladder
It has not been my best week.
London may have turned on me.
Got burglarised.
Got plagiarised.
And got toiletfoneised.
Would be fair to say have had a better time.
Ofcourse the plagiarism could have happened to me anywhere, but the phone in the toilet and the burglary were all London.
The intruder has been well documented.
The Plagiarist is some guy who was trying to pass of my words as his own.
To others the intruder in the house would be harder to get past.
Not to me.
That I got past about 2 hours later.
But the plagiarism really got to me.
I couldn’t sleep when it first happened.
It feels like someone came into my head and stole my stories.
And this guy did so just to impress a bunch of avatars on a faceless corporations website.
I don’t understand it, and it really bothers me.
For me this is way more personal than a house, this is my head, and for someone with very few possessions, who is a writer by trade, all I have is words.
And they is mine.
I mean the dude is using pieces I have written about Sehwagology and Bryce McGain, that’s below the belt.
But the one that really got me was the one he used on Gilchrist.
That was a very personal one, it was one I wrote about how I changed my life.
And this little useless fucktard (©Suave) of a mother fucking cunt tries to pass off my story as his own.
My life, my experience, my mantra, my heart ache, my blood, my semen, as his.
That is probably the most important thing I have ever written, it changed me, and he walks in and takes it.
Who the fuck does he think he is.
Steal my car (if I had one), steal my laptop, steal my wallet, but keep your hands off my words.
But leave my words alone.
the white guilt boogie
Why, because a black guy robbed me, probably.
It could have been a white guy in the shadows, but I doubt it.
It all started when the cops started asking about the burglar’s appearance.
I knew what they wanted.
They wanted to know what colour skin the dude had.
Because that makes their job easier.
But it was how they asked.
They didn’t say what race was he, they said, so what can you tell us about him?
So I said tall, young, and then one of them asked, anything else, the other one said what about skin tone.
Notice he used the word tone, not colour.
They all looked up with doey eyes, wanting me to say what race he was without them having to actually say the words race, black, or colour.
At this stage I was wishing that it was a white kid, even though I have never seen a white teenager anywhere near the place.
Then a day later talking to a guy about it, he asked if it was a black guy.
I said yes, but then instantly said, but it’s a black neighbourhood, and the chances of it being a white kid were like a million to one.
He sort of looked up and said, I don’t know why I asked that.
Then we both had an awkward silence.
It was a moment of shared white guilt.
It’s not my fault a black kid robbed me.
It’s not even like I am from a family rich enough to have ever owned anyone, or had anyone killed.
The closest thing we have to a racist in my family is my nan, who used to call aboriginal footballs black bastards, as in run you black bastard, although she also said run you tall bastard, run you fat bastard, run you whatever best described them bastard.
But I still feel mighty odd about all of it.
Infact i even feel guilty that i feel white guilt.
Had the dude knocked on my door and asked for a laptop, this would have been a far easier transaction.
Although had a white guy knocked on the door and asked for one i probably wouldnt have given him one.
london comes into the lounge
Now I feel way more London. I have been a victim of crime. And what a crime. A home invasion. A burglary in broad day light while I was working (watching the ICL).
Let me take you through it.
Watching the cricket, while the guide was doing some work with the head phones in. I had the sound off on the cricket. At one stage I heard a kid yell out Fuck. But behind the guides house is a communal area that kids go to after school sometime. So the “fuck” was nothing I hadn’t heard before.
A few minutes later I heard some footsteps in the hall, but there are two halls, one on this side of the flat, and the others on the other side where the central stair case is. Why would I assume the footsteps were those of someone on this side of the wall?
About a minute after that, I heard a creaking near the dooryway, this time I assumed someone was in the flat, but I assumed it was the cleaner, coming a day earlier. So when a figure appeared at the doorway, I said something like “here a day early are you?”
Then the figure, which was about a foot taller than the cleaner could be standing on a box, ran straight back out. At this stage, with the running and the height, I gathered this was not the cleaner.
I got up and ran after him, which is always the smart thing to do, saying something along the lines of, “we don’t care mate, just leave”. I think by this time the dude was already gone, infact, I think he was out the window before I fully got up off the couch, although I think that had more to do with his breath taking pace, than my slowness.
He must have got out at there at some sort of record pace, as the window was open, and the blind through the other side suggesting he had made some sort of dive through it with the blind down. I then went and checked the rest of the flat, no more burglarers or robberers around.
Then I went and checked on the guide. Who was fine, because at this stage she hadn’t seen anything other than me getting up off the couch briskly. I informed her of our brief housemate, and she rang the police.
The neighbourhood police came by, 3 of them, in a matter of minutes and I told them all about what happened. Showed them around, and they took notes and stuff. They asked me for a description, I said tall, and looked for one of them to compare height wise, which was hard to do with the first guy, as he was a jockey.
They said skin colour, oh that’s an awkward question, they wanted to know, but none of them wanted to ask. I said black, and felt a surge of white guilt. I said he sounded young when he yelled out, as I and the police had concluded it was probably him yelling as he opened the window, and when he dived head first through it.
They asked if I could pick him out again if I saw him, I said he could serve me in a shop tomorrow and I wouldn’t have a clue, because he came in just after 4, and it was getting dark (ofcourse), and he was standing in the hall. In fact it was so dark I couldn’t even be 100% sure he was black, some of my white guilt left me as I said that.
So they looked around, whilst doing so we realised my spare computer that was to be given to the guide’s sister was lifted. Since I can never remember where things are, when I am robbed, and this is the 3rd continent I have been robbed on, I have no idea what is missing. After giving the police the wrong make of my computer, they told me the forensics CSI dudes would be around shortly.
And then he turned up and they got prints, fresh ones from where someone would pull themselves into the room, and also did well not to comment on the state if the bedroom. I have never been called a clean man. Afterwards I tried to clean the finger print dust off the window, I didn’t do it very well.
The next day, the police kept coming, this time it was the detectives, and they spent 90 minutes here. Almost none of that time talking about the crime, instead talking about cricket. But the main one was a ute read head, and that seemed like a fair trade off. She also commented how bad the guide’s peripheral vision must be, as the intruder was about 120 CM’s from her, almost directly in front.
So now I have been violated by London, but all she got from me was a laptop with an Australian plug that she can’t use anyway, and to be honest, was more like a brick that occasionally turned on.
-
Recent Comments
CeCe on It aint no raptor claw, it… Nicole on It aint no raptor claw, it… Chris on It aint no raptor claw, it… pam on It aint no raptor claw, it… Sam on It aint no raptor claw, it…
my latest book
-
My Photos
More Photos
