ni.chol.as

I woke up to John Humphreys telling me a car bomb had been found at 2am in Piccadilly Circus. It appears to be developing into another tale of hilarious overreaching ambition by mad incompetent bastards. They should really have started, as I did as a curious pyromaniac kid, by trying to blow up little mounds of earth with gunpowder in medicine bottles. Once you’ve got the basics cleared away, maybe move on a bit at a time. It really reads like these guys get a copy of the lethally inaccurate Anarchists’ Cookbook to tell them how to perform their crazy attacks. In this case, it seems like two guys knocked off a Merc, raided a B&Q, obtained some patio gas and a box of nails before hoofing it to the West End whereupon their ability to drive a car promptly evaporated and left them crashing softly into some bins outside a bar before fleeing down the road to avoid, at all costs, their just reward for being a martyr. These guys can stand as stoop-shouldered embarrassments alongside the 21st July bombers, as examples of woeful, thankful, incompetence. If they went to the training camps we’re assured exists in Pakistan or Afghanistan, I hope they get their money back.

I did head to work this morning idly wondering if I’d be able to make it back. You never know how these twisted days develop. One discovery in the early hours might lead to a day-long mess as more faith-guided fuckwittery unfolds with damp squib fizzles that are still capable of closing down huge parts of the transport infrastructure. Nevertheless, bold soldier of capitalism that I am, I went to Vauxhall station to catch my train to work. The signs were immediately ominous, though. Two police cars sirened past my bus at high speed, through traffic lights and on the wrong side of the road with frankly terrified looking uniformed passengers in the back seat. When I got to Vauxhall, they were parked outside the station entrance and sealing up the underground passage that leads to the tube station. Argh, more terror? Not really, more likely a tramp expired in his sleep down there. Or a fight between a pair of highly strung commuters battling to the death over the last copy of the Metro.

I booted through the melee and up to my platform on the overground. More horrors! A young chap was lying unconscious and dribbly against the railings by the stairs. He was surrounded by a group of terrible rubbernecks, all looking ever so concerned but nobody doing anything more than looking around passively for someone, anyone, to help. One decent type was arranging her knees under the chap’s head – good plan – and as I stopped, briefly wondering if I should give aid, many high-vis clad train staff were enroute to add their own oh-shit-what-did-my-training-say-again flavour of chaos to proceedings. Given there was already a clutch of cops downstairs and an ambulance, I suspect the odds were in this chap’s favour. I hopped on the train and headed away from this insane place. Hopefully, I’ll make it home this evening.