Whilst listening to Tariq Ali on Desert Island Discs yesterday, I recalled that I had once saved his life. Well, when I say “saved his life” I mean I braked very hard one evening to avoid knocking down a tracksuited figure who, on turning to acknowledge me with a guilty grin, revealed himself to be none other than the aforementioned 1960s lefty hero. Strangely, not long afterwards I was involved in a very similar incident—this time it was the actor Barry Foster with his hands on the bonnet and a terrified look in his eyes. On mentioning this coincidence to friends, it seemed that Barry Foster (sadly no longer with us) was universally loved but, shockingly, the response from some quarters was that, in Tariq’s case, I shouldn’t have bothered to brake.
This has led me to wonder how many other London drivers have similarly held the fates of the famous (and infamous) beneath the soles of their right feet. For whom, should you happen to catch them in the glare of your headlights, would you keep your foot on the gas?
I was cruising at thirty (between speed bumps) last Christmas and a fat man balancing a cake in each hand bumbled into the road without due care and attention. I screeched to a halt as though some sexually-repressed failed geography teacher had tapped his clipboard on my dashboard and started my four letter word tirade only to find it was Johnny Vegas. Twat.
I once was out jogging, and stopped to help a wheezing lady push her broken down car. I commented, rather daftly, that she was the spitting image of that woman out of four weddings and a funeral. She gave me a slightly haunted look, so I let it lie and ran on, hearing her wheezing as I left.
It was a year later that I learned that the very same lady from four weddings and a funeral (she was in the opening scene with Hugh swearing at his alarm clock) had died of an Asthma attack. Perhaps brought on by London air pollution, who knows, or maybe just by the stresses and strains of recognition.
Long before one was old enough to know better, weaving home along the streets of Notting Hill at dawn after an enjoyable dins, the then studentmobile’s solenoid seized up …
Diplomatic protection officers parked in a nearby patrol car quite rightly looked on with mirth, as the student tried in vain to revive the offending car part by using a Haines car manual ( 1001 uses for ) to ‘thonk’ one end of a bespoke metal fence pole ( kept aboard for just such occasions ) the other of which firmly poked the diva-esque solenoid hidden beside the gearbox
Adding to the comedy, eventually two street sweeps in regulation orange overalls very kindly offered to push start. It was only when they had pushed the car down Kensington Church Street and half way around Kensington Square to no avail that the errant driver remembered - ahem - that one was meant to turn the ignition key…
Were it perfectly legal, there are few republican hunt sabs ( so strangely keen to reside in the RBK&C ) whom one would not sharply TDI accelerate across, any speed humps would add to the sport