Though we are truly a worldwide operation here at the STSC this may well be one of the most British essays it has ever been my pleasure to host. A grading system for talking to strangers, cafe talk, Police Community Support Officers, Bertrand Russell. What more could you ask for?
I think this piece from the wonderfully prolific
is proof that if you focus carefully on the particulars of everyday life you will end up creating something that is universal in scope.Enjoy.
TJB.
Introduction
In my mind I have a graded system of conversations with strangers. From Best to Worst my classification looks like this:
5 Stars:
Silence. I don't start conversations with people I don't know. In fact, I proactively try to prevent them by burying my head in a book and avoiding any eye contact.
4 Stars:
Uninitiated but which proves to be useful, such as when someone points out to you that the bus stop you've been waiting at for 15 minutes is closed.
3 Stars:
General chit-chat which is unavoidable but relatively harmless. This usually takes the form -- in Britain at any rate -- of a comment along the lines of, "Looks like rain".
2 stars:
Abuse in the form of a highly inebriated person raging at everyone, and nobody in particular. I never respond so this probably doesn't count as a conversation at all.
1 star:
Conversations in which the two participants seem to speaking at right angles to each other. These are the conversations I keep finding myself drawn into (against my will, I might add), and of which I will now provide three examples.
The psychopath
Some years ago in London we had a group called Occupy London. They put up tents in the St Paul's area. I think they were protesting against capitalism because there was a sister movement called Occupy Wall Street. They made the place look untidy, but apart from that seemed harmless enough. One day on the train into London I was reading a newspaper with a full-page picture of those tents on the front cover.
Cue a one-star conversation.
Man in opposite seat: Drop cyanide on 'em.
Me: Eh?
Mios: Drop cyanide on 'em, that’s what I say.
It did occur to me to point out one or two flaws in his grand idea, but then discretion prevailed over valour. He seemed so unhinged that the thought popped into my mind that he might have a machete under his coat. I simply said "Right", which he no doubt assumed was my judgement of his proposal. It reminded me of a documentary made in America at the time of the student unrest in the ‘60s. The interviewer asked random people what they thought should be done about it. I thought I'd heard everything when some old bloke answered, in a slow Southern drawl:
"Turn the machine guns on 'em. It's the only way to learn 'em."
I never thought for a minute that I'd meet one of his bedfellows several decades later.
Cannabis
We'd not long moved into our house when, one evening, there was an urgent ringing of the doorbell. On opening the door we were confronted with a PCSO -- Police Community Support Officer -- who we later found out is called Susan (all names in this article have been changed). She had no time for niceties.
Susan: Are you growing cannabis?
Us: What?
Susan: I can smell something like cannabis. Are you growing it?
Me: Do we look like potheads?
Susan: Well, I dunno. You meet all sorts in my job.
Me: Well, we’re not an allsort.
Elaine: It's this plant here. Have a sniff.
Susan: OK, but it still smells like cannabis.
We've got to know Susan over the years, and her brusque manner is something to behold, and a source of not a little amusement. A few months ago I was chatting to her in the street when all of a sudden a van driver pulled up.
Van driver: Excuse me, do you know how I can get to Ilford please?
Susan: Have you stolen that van?
Van driver: No, of course not!
Susan: OK, turn right and then right again at the lights.
Me: I don't suppose he'd have admitted it if he had stolen the van -- or was the idea just to test his reaction?
Susan: (Beaming in a self-satisfied way): That’s right!
Vroom Vroom
When I needed to move from one rented accommodation to another, I rented a Ford Transit van and enlisted the assistance of Greg. This is the same Greg who featured in My life in Cafés. I'd parked the van while Greg and I consulted a street atlas. Suddenly, there was a loud rapping at the driver's window. After I'd got back into my skin I wound the window down an inch.
Me: Yes?
Man: Trannie, innit?
Me: Eh?
Man: Ford Trannie, innit?
Me : Oh, right. Yes.
Man: Wonderful motors.
Me: Yes, well if you'll excuse me...
Man: Vroom vroom.
Me: What?
Greg (muttering): Jeez!
Man: Vroom Vroom.
Me: Erm...
Greg: *!@#
Man: Turn on a tanner (an old sixpence piece: very small).
Me: Yes.
Man: Ford Trannie.
Me : Yes, well if...
Greg: Tell him to *!@# off.
Man: I had one meself.
Me: Right.
Man: Vroom vroom.
Greg: *!@#
Me : Sorry I have to go.
Man: Ford Trannie, vroom vroom.
We escaped by driving a few blocks away.
The most frightening aspect of Cyanide Man and Ford Trannie Man is that they're allowed to vote. Still, I suppose they're harmless, and at least they provided, in retrospect, a good laugh -- and material for an article!
Have you ever had one star conversations as defined here? How did you handle them? I sometimes think we Brits are far too polite. I mean, watch this 23 second clip of Bertrand Russell explaining why he supported the movement to ban the bomb:
Still chuckling, and I read it yesterday. Everyone should be sure to watch the Bertrand Russell clip at the end. It would be rather a pity if you don’t. Well done Terry.
Ha ha! Thanks for your kind intro, Tom!