Retreat From Peckham
“hello, police? I don’t know if you can help me, someone hasn’t stolen my bike”
“Can you tell me exactly what has occurred sir?”
“They’ve put another lock on my bike”
“They’ve put another lock on your bike?”
“They’ve put another lock on my bike.”
…
…
“Hello?”
“Sorry to keep you waiting sir I have been consulting with my colleague”
“I suggest you take the bike home sir.”
“I can’t it is chained to a bike-stand”
“just a moment sir”
( return to top and repeat)
Some person or persons (I always imagine thieves in packs having seen a government information film in the nineties) had added a large padlock to my shackle which in turn secured my 1960s RSW 16. No doubt they intended to return in the wee hours with bolt croppers. Either that or it was an hilarious practical joke. This seems to be a difficult thing to explain on the phone and the officer I spoke to couldn’t get it into her head that I was unable to take my bike home and deal with it in the morning. In the end neither police nor station security could help me beyond proffering a talismanic crime number to prove I was the one offended against.
So I marched determinedly home to fetch a hacksaw and marched determinedly back to the station equipped to free my bike. I only paid £10 for this bike and having sold bits off it for more than £30 felt I must not let Ipswich’s criminal element profit from my enterprising nature (although, I have to admit the young man I bought it off looked more than a little dodgy himself).
Hacksaws are incredibly noisy, and even noisier after midnight. However, if the police arrived, I had been instructed to shout “I have a crime number” before they pepper sprayed me. I was told this powerful juju would protect me. If only Steve Wright (Ipswich’s own serial killer) had known this, he could have shouted “It’s ok, I have a crime number” as he stuffed another body into the boot of his car. Actually people didn’t seem to mind seeing a man hack-sawing at a lock on a bike. I must have appeared such an ineffectual thief that they somehow trusted me. I was forced to tell my tale of woe more than once, but it was more out of friendly interest on the part of my interrogators than legal concern.
It was nearly 2am when I finally cut through the padlock and was able to cycle home. This was no ride of triumph, I was too tired to celebrate. Earlier, on the long march, I had had a message from John Hutnyk, he had commented on my worried post about antisemitism. Writing this has reminded me I must write back.
I think the talk at The Peckham Space went well enough although several times I forgot whether it was I or Annabel speaking. Everyone was very welcoming quickly organising my images’ appearance on large screens in the gallery via a process akin to the Golden Shot. In the office one person had to move the mouse under instruction from another in an adjacent room “Up a bit, left, left, up, right, left, click”. This seemed to be perfectly normal procedure so, being in a foreign land, I ignored it. This done I was given a small remote control unit and threatened (quite severely) lest I accidentally take it home. All this so that I could display photos of cats, bats, dirty feet (a Tarantino favourite) and sideburns.
In no time at all, The final picture of Mr Pig was up and the questions began. The audience was made up of an interesting mixture of artists and bored looking students who perhaps already knew that blogging was not for the successful. With the help of a little bunch of allies (thanks Annabel, Rosalind & Kate) Aliceson Andrew and I survived although I became more and more aware, as time went on, that (as with most images of the pig) she was posing on my groin. As we went on, in my mind, my groin grew larger and larger until it filled the screen, but I don’t think anyone else saw it.
