It was a dark and rainy night and I was cycling innocently home at about the speed of an elderly French onion seller, when – pok – something hit me on the side of the helmet. I heard a shout of laughter to my right, and a cry of "You ------!", and a car sped off up Shaftesbury Avenue. As anyone would in my position, I saw red. I put my foot down, and pedalled so hard that I was able to keep the weaving rump of the car in my sights, and I noted that it was some kind of souped-up Astra, licence plate M*58 H*3.
Soon the bike had beaten the car, as it always does. As they waited at the next set of lights, I pounded on the window. "Open up!" I cried. There were three kids inside, and I could see the culprit goggling up at me with appalled recognition. They lurched off again in the hope of escape, but of course I had them at the next lights.
"Open up now," I yelled, "because you aren't going to get away with it, M*58 H*3! I am the mayor!"
By this time they were starting to look a bit unnerved, and the window came down.
"I know you is the mayor," said the driver, "and it was a accident."
"Pull over!" I commanded. Eventually they pulled over in a street running up towards the British Museum.
"Do you want me to get out?" said the culprit, who obviously had some experience of being flagged down by the law.
"Er, yes," I said, noticing that it was pretty quiet around there. "Right!" I said, when we were all assembled. "Why did you throw something at my head?"
"Please, Mr Boris sir, this wasn't meant to happen."
"We know you is the mayor, man."
"We gotta lot of respect for the things you are doing."
"Hmm," I said, momentarily wondering where I was going with all this.
Indeed. I'm pleased you stopped them and shouted at them, Boris, but if they hadn't hit you, what would you have done? Just ignored it? And what would have happened if you picked the wrong car and wound up on the end of a beating, a knifing or a shooting? You know, the knives that have been banned and the guns that have been banned with such apparent success?
"Whose car is this?" I demanded.
"It's my uncle's. We are going back to Clapton after a day trip."
"Right," I said. "And what is your name?"
"My name is Derron."
"And what is yours?"
"My name is Erron."
I didn't bother to ask the third chap, having by now more or less run out of ideas, except for a general desire to stop them doing it again.
I can save you the wondering: it was Perron.
"Look, just don't throw things – er – at people's heads, OK."
"It was a accident, I swear. It was only a piece of litter."
At that point, I am afraid the red mist came down again. Only a piece of litter! Here we are in the depths of a recession, and councils in London are forced to spend about £100 million a year on cleaning up the casual detritus of people like him.
Only a piece of litter, he says, when we all know that the number one environmental concern of the British public – far ahead of global warming – is the tidiness of their neighbourhoods and the plague of litter.
Indeed. I've no idea why it bothers me so much, but litter makes me apoplectic with rage. I think it's because I think it shows a complete disrespect for everyone around them.
Why would you respect someone who has failed entirely to punish you for your misdeeds, or show you that there are boundaries to what's acceptable?
And yet the same hand-wringing cunts who will be the first out of the blocks to have a street-cleaning litter-picking are the cunts who feel that society is to blame. Look, it's not that fucking hard to carry a sweet wrapper in your pocket or in your bag till you get home. It's not fucking onerous. But why should you care when people are too fucking scared to chastise a litterer lest they be on the receiving end of a verbal assault charge or some such other fucking nonsense. And kids: fucking litterers par excellence, but you can't say shit because you just know there'll be a paedo charge on the other end of it.
Boris, me old mucker, the reality of it is that soft cunts like Labour and what the Tories have become, with the state nanny there to wipe every arse and spy on every made-up misdeed, politically pussywhipped police and a quangoed-up civil service that wants to wrap every child in cotton wool and prevent them from ever feeling the consequences of their actions, are to blame for this crap.
And right now, as part of iDave's limp, wet, flaccid and above all, entirely useless Tories, you are as much to blame for this as anyone else.