Elephant to Peckham.
Countless are the times I've taken my life into my own hands this route, meandering as it does along the knife-filled roads of Southwark and ejaculating rudely into Lewisham's equally stabby streets.

Countless are the incidents that I've avoided, more by luck than judgement, but that I've read about in the local rag: The South London Deaths Press. But there is one such incident that I'll bore you with now; should you be arsed to pay any attention.

It was a night like many other and I'd found course to brave the bus journey from Elephant to home; due largely to the fact I'd missed the last train from London Bridge and didn't fancy forking out for a cabby to try and take me on a tour of London when a quick hop down the Old Kent Road was all I required.

I stumbled along Walworth Road with as much menace as my kindly, wimpish appearance would muster and hoped I wouldn't appear sufficiently victim-like to be nominated for a good old fashioned shoeing. Forsaking the opportunity to linger too long outside the Haygate Estate I dragged myself as far as East Street, hid myself in the all too open bus stop and waited for the relative salvation of the 171.

We weren't far from Burgess Park when it began:

"Chu don't wanna fuckin' mess wiv me, mang..." it was like Tony Montana himself had taken up residence on the back seat of the bus.

"I fuckin' mean it, mang... I'll fuckin' fuck chu both up, chu know!"

I neglected the opportunity to have a look and instead hoped that whoever it was would agree with Mr. Montana and not fuck with him, mang. Alas, it wasn't to be. All of a sudden it was as though Stomp were duetting with a troop of Tyrolean thigh slappers as they let fly with a bout of syncopated rubbish.

A flurry of excitement rose from the rear of the bus and for a matter of minutes this relentless rumbling rang out, while occasional requests to stop the bus punctuated the protracted violence. Then it stopped as suddenly as it began, and two black kids strolled out of the middle of the malaise without a hair out of place or a scratch on either face, leaving a swathe of bruised faces and bloodied noses in their wake.

We were all unceremoniously turfed off at Camberwell Green and immediately piled into a waiting replacement, filling the downstairs with excited chatter as each participant regaled the others with dubious accounts of their involvement in the kerfuffle.

According to the wannabe Bruce Lees, the two young kids I'd seen stroll, utterly unscathed from the scrap should have been killed to bits countless times by the skilful and deadly beatings that had been meted out. My eyes told me a very different story, as before me stood an array of broken faces, coated in dried blood and the beginnings of soon to be prominent purple swellings.

Either they were all magnificent liars, who had been served a ferocious beating at the hands of two young, but efficient pugilists, or in the excitement they'd managed to get involved in a fight they had no part in, and then mistakenly beaten seven shades of shit out of one another, while the two who they had initially targeted focused their efforts on deforming the face of Mr. Montana's useless impressionist, and a good job they'd done of it, too.
( Moey, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 14:52, 1 reply)

Top write up :D
had me in stitches that did
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 15:11, closed)