Stig Of The Dump: Maybe Its Because Im A Londoner (Part 2)
With my “Sahara like” dry sense of humour, constant self labelling as a misanthrope, standard musical content, general projected image and admitted absolute distain for Joe “shit fer brains” Public, you’d be forgiven for assuming I was an opinionated, self righteous, arsehole and I suppose if your one of “them”, I am. But just to reiterate what I said at the start of Part 1 of this 2 Part epic (and make no mistake, it IS an epic, at least in length if nothing else). I genuinely am not the way im misperceived to be, often due to my refusal to spoon feed people my humour or explain in laymen’s terms what my point is. In short its down to stupid people making snap judgements and it is of the utmost importance that you believe me and bare this in mind. Purely for the context of the story of coarse and in no way because of any insecurity lurking in the back of my empty head about my being an opinionated, self righteous, arsehole. I am in fact, partly due to some sort of childhood brainwashing, socially engineered subconscious control or more likely government installed chip, very polite. When asked for a straight answer I’m honest to a fault but I dream of one day being a real life Larry David. As soon as I locate the part of the brain that forces me to be polite, or the machine that controls it, I’ll be removing it with a claw hammer. Until then I’ll just continue to fantasise about my friends turning blue and choking to death if they don’t lavish me with endless compliments about my cooking skills because I did them toast during a stoner munchies session (whats wrong with you, its “Toastie Thick” slices you high maintenance leaches, I suppose you want Heston Blooming-tit to get his super-science-chef cape on and grow a loaf on a Mouse’s back, then magically reverse the Earths polarity, making it rain indoors and causing the laboratory grown bread to cook itself from the inside. Then he could slice it generously using the power of telekinesis and spread a thin layer of rare Narwhal brain butter on with a knife whittled down from a leprechauns femur, is that what you want eh? You bunch of ungrateful BASTARDS).
So until my self lobotomised freedom or ever pressing breakdown, I will continue to be a slave to my “polite chip”, smiling or nodding every time people mention THAT Asher D battle (if you don’t know what im talking about DON’T look for it on youtube, the internet is for porn and arguing with people on forums………………… and my insanely self indulgent rants) Until society completely fails, forcing us all to live in caves, I’ll continue fighting off the twitch and trying to forget it’s the millionth time I’ve talked about it, pointlessly denying to myself that its clearly the single defining moment in my piss poor excuse for a “career” to date. Instead I’ll politely engage people as I always do “I know! what WAS he thinking when he just said the same verse twice?” I’ll suppress the urge to stab you in the face for liking Skins, or to hunt down and kill the bottom feeders who write Gossip columns or Danny Dyer. I wont force my thumbs into a waiters eyes for asking if I want a table for 2, when its clearly just me and my fucking Mrs and I will still apologise when YOU bump into ME and then stand clenching my fists until my palms are bruised when you don’t apologise back.
Anyway, back to the story and the actual 2nd half of the 2 part EPIC (I know, you’ve been hear 10 minutes & the story still hasn’t started but the word EPIC being over used should have been a clue. Here is a quick pic of when i first got into hip hop, just to keep my A.D.D types from straying.. and so you know exactly how hood i am.
I was in unusually high spirits for the first time since puberty, having had a hugely productive day and at the time in question, just left a meeting with Lewis Recordings regarding the release of my lead single and subsequent album. A meeting that had restored my faith in life. I was heading home to my lady type, a beautiful woman who miraculously continues to let me put my nob in her and stands with me in public, without pressing charges or receiving financial gain. On top of that i had managed to completely avoid rush hour and while grinning and going down the escalators at Angel Station (The longest single escalator rise in Western Europe, one of a million useless facts clogging my head up like a broken latrine on Glastonbury weekend), I was recognised twice and both times showered with fleeting compliments, all, due to the moving nature of escalators, while not having to engage in any “stop and chats” about Asher D !!!! I think I was possibly even smiling, walking with a skip in my step, momentarily tricked into being inspired and full of the promise of positive things to come. In fact had I been forced into a “stop and chat” I wouldn’t have minded, I would have happily given a completely endearing performance with the perfect balance of humility and charm and for possibly the first time, since…. the first time, it would have been genuine. But then in typically punctual fashion the arse fell out of it and the colour drained but of coarse not to that romantic sepia brown that suggests a simpler, happier time. No, to the lifeless monochrome they use on News broadcasts while flagging up images of the Earth dying, a lonely singular flower petal dropping to the ash covered ground.
As I was walking between the two escalators with the afore mentioned unusual skip in my step, at about the halfway point, I approached a man about my size waddling like an out of breath elephant in one of those comedy “It’s a Knockout” style novelty costumes (unlike your more graceful and light on their feet fatty like me) If I was a city boy prick or your average commuter drone, I would have tripped him up and walked over his head just to get a step closer to the train but it wasn’t rush hour and of coarse more importantly, im polite and was in a good mood. So I followed his waddling side to side pattern and at the optimum time so as not to lose my happy momentum or break either of our strides, I went to walk around him. Of coarse, as I was cutting into his line of walking, although with a good 3 or 4 steps between us, I looked back and said excuse me, while stepping in, because im polite. I know I was a fair distance ahead as I had to look back in order to make eye contact because, as in case you had missed it, im polite. As I did so he lunged forward and in doing so almost fell flat on his sweaty, so droopy it looked like it was melting, face. His arms pushing me to the side as if he was Rick Moranis in “Honey I shrunk the Kids” and I was unsuspectingly about to drop a size 12 right on top of his loved ones. He lunged so hard that I thought for the first time in history a Weeble was going to wobble AND fall down (don’t know what i’m talking about, check this, its the kind of stupid memories that keep my awake at night). My initial reaction was one of such disorientating shock that I just stood still with my arms slightly out to the side in a “what just happened” fashion, like when people get hit in the head by flying balls or walk into lamp posts. I was dumb struck.. As my brain tried to compute what happened, auto pilot kicked in and I stood on the escalator a few steps behind him. As i finally processed what had happened I heard him muttering “fucking idiot” to himself, to which I replied, still in half shock and sounding like a child who’s voice was breaking “I said excuse me, I didn’t even cut you off”, to just a shake of the head. For the next few seconds I heard him muttering to himself as my brain started to boil and shake inside my skull. Just as my pupils popped and filled with flames I shouted “YOU FUCKING IGNORANT CUNT” to which he looked back and said nothing.
By this point I was so incandescent with rage that I think I may have blacked out for a minute because for some reason I decided to let it slide, I decided to just walk past him on the left hand side of the escalator, head straight to the platform and not look back. As I went to walk past him however he obviously took it as another attack on personal space as, for no apparent reason, he barged to the side pushing me into the moving rail and advertising boards and making my rucksack and in turn laptop bang off the wall. At which point my urban survival skills kicked in and I elbowed him clean in his “Churchill dog” looking face. Then shoulder barged him back, pushing past as he fall backward letting out a scream, then as he sat on his arse holding his nose i looked down with my firey eyes and barked “Cunt” like a Tourettes sufferer, then continued on in my path to my platform. No one else was on the Down or Up escalators at the time and to this day I don’t know what he did next, with any luck he’ll still be at the bottom of the escalator perpetually rolling like a tin of beans on a super market conveyer belt, as apathetic Londoners step over him, listening to their IDicks, completely oblivious to his cries of help. I have subsequently decided to avoid the Tube as much as possible through fear of my first kill, although when it inevitably comes i will obviously write about it in minute detail with as many meandering side rants as possible and some tenuously linked picture at the top all for the reading pleasure of about 4, my mrs, my flat mate and myself (the latter 2 having probably already heard it first hand in high volume and much less concisely, imagine that, LESS concisely)
Until then follow @StigOfTheDumpUK on Twitter and you can read all about a mans decent into madness in real time text updates… WALLOP