Griffin Close #1: Irredeemably stupid.
I have only once tried to be any sort of have-a-go hero, and, in retrospect, I blame it all on the absinthe I’d been drinking.

When I was a supervisor in student accommodation, I used to live in a flat close to the roadway that was the main thoroughfare on the site. It was narrow, straight(ish), and, at night, very quiet. B3tans familiar with Griffin Close in Birmingham will know what I mean, for it is of Griffin Close that I speak.

One evening, I heard an engine roaring outside. Looking out of the window, I saw a car barrel along the roadway. A little later, it came back in the other direction. It was very fast and very noisy. Not only was it monstrously dangerous: it was also incredibly annoying. I decided that something had to be done about it, and went outside. My flatmate R, another supervisor, accompanied me.

I waited for the car to make another pass and flagged it down. Amazingly, it stopped. It was occupied by a group of steamingly drunk Brummies. I tried to be polite and asked them please to vacate the site. They pointed at the flats on their left, which were reserved for students with families – often postgrads from the developing world – and expressed bafflement that I was sticking up for foreigners. I let that one pass. One of the Brummies got out of the car. He resembled a walking beerkeg with a bulldog’s face. He was not in a good mood.

I am not a hard man. I am most of 2 metres tall, but am built like a beanpole at the best of times. Additionally, I have never been in a fight, and have never learned to defend myself. R was short and… well, a classicist. Handling ourselves in a confrontation was not an option; but, as I intimated before, we had been drinking. I looked bulldog in the eye. Already he was on his guard.
“Get back in the car!” I didn’t shout, but I was speaking in as close to an authoritative, stentorian tone as I could manage.
“Wha-”
I stepped towards him. “GET BACK IN THE CAR,” and then, to the driver, “AND GET OFF THIS PROPERTY BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE.”


mirabile dictu, it worked. They left.


For a few minutes, all was quiet. And then I heard the sound of an engine. They were back, playing the same game. Emboldened by my previous success, I was out like a shot. Again, R followed.

I waited for the car to begin its approach from the far end of the driveway. When I judged that I would be visible, I did the most stupid thing that a person can do in front of a car driven at 40 mph by a drunkard.

I stepped into the roadway.

I looked straight ahead. I didn’t blink. There was a screech of brakes. The car stopped a couple of metres away. The driver started to shout obscenities; I held his gaze. He shut up. And then he drove away. He stayed away.

For my part, I went inside and ate jaffa cakes. Oh, and I trembled with a ferocity rarely witnessed that far away from the edge of a tectonic plate, too.

Length? I’m still trembling as I write this, so that’s about 9 years.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 15:10, 2 replies)

I live about 15 minutes from where this happened
and it scares the crap out of me :|
(Runningwithsporks Something something darkside, Thu 14 Feb 2008, 16:17, closed)

Good on ya.
Having met you, I can see how you might be quite intimidating- especially to a couple of two-synapse cretins who've probably not been yelled at in years.

Well done. Foolish as hell, but well done.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 14 Feb 2008, 16:57, closed)