Lost in Translation

I don’t have kids, but I appreciate that people who do are fond of them. I’m fond of them too, provided they aren’t screaming into my ear and haven’t yet picked up any bad habits from their parents. So let me say this straight off: my recent satire concerning the hit-and-run which left Lucie Wilding bruised and battered was in no way meant to excuse the behavior of the cyclist. It pains me to have to preface this post by parading sympathy for the victim which should go without saying, but these are the times in which we live.

Now then, on to the contretemps. (What contretemps, you ask? A trifling matter really, but it livened up my Saturday morning and raised the blood pressure of a fair few readers of road.cc. More on this under the fold.)

IF IT BLEEDS IT LEADS
The Daily Mail has identified what it claims is the most callous cyclist in Britain, who was filmed showing little more regard for a child than you would to a traffic cone. However, a frame-by-frame analysis of the video shows that the “hit and run villain” was actually forced into the path of wee Lucie Wilding to avoid being run down by another cyclist, moving too fast to be positively identified but thought to be Sir Bradley Wiggins.

The outrage spread across the media and to the normally placid BBC:

Wiggins, known to be practicing for his hour record attempt, has yet to answer police inquiries about his whereabouts at the time of the incident. The cyclist caught in the net of worldwide condemnation was reluctant to implicate him, however:

The sideburned CBE has also recently been in the news promoting helmets, and indeed, experts have suggested that the child’s injuries may have been mitigated had she been wearing one.
. . .

The story had all the ingredients for silly season clickbait. It proved irresistible to other news outlets, readers, me. I thought it was clear by virtue of the absurdity of my imagined scenario I meant no harm to the poor girl and minimal damage to Sir Bradley, who was hauled in partly due to his recent pronouncement on the desirability of compulsion for helmets and partly for no reason at all other than the image of him careening down the pavement just popped into my head.

It didn’t take long for the flak to hit.

More are reproduced below in this blog’s comments section, which in the absence of comments to Lost in Translation I’m using as a space for footnotes.

To top it off I was experiencing intensely frustrating internet connection difficulties.

I had honestly thought this would fly under the radar rather than over heads. Therefore I more or less posted and ran: I had a medical appointment to get to. By the time I was getting ready to hightail it to the hospital there was blood in the water.

My connection was so bad by now that I actually ran to a neighbour’s house to post a hurried reply attempting to absolve road.cc of responsibility and gently point out that none of my targets was a poor defenseless girl – who wasn’t meant to be friendly fire, either. After that I disappeared into a displeasing unconnected-even-to-wifi state.

The editor soon made an executive decision to spike it. I don’t blame him: he’s got advertisers and subscribers with pitchforks to deal with.

Me, I’m just glad I got out alive. Fortunately I’ve developed a thick enough skin that I was more excited than frightened. There was even fear voiced by some (including the ed) that the Mail and Wiggins might sit up and take notice! I felt like my bloodstream had been spiked with whatever Lance was on when I contemplated that, preposterous as the prospect seemed to me, but alas it was not to be.

There are several obvious lessons to be learned from this episode, the first of which is Think of the Children. No, not the little ones: the big ones who should be able to recognise a rebuttal to a 10 minute hate when they see one without needing a time out. Also, people’s sympathy for innocent toddlers tends to outweigh their hunger for satire. I’m sure my wife, who bore witness the above proceedings, has other lessons she’d like to add… but let’s leave it at that. And this:

(posted on a busy forum)

It’s lovely to be liked, and I should really learn to do as the Romans do, but I just can’t like things I like.

I’m making a full confession now because I think it’s something anyone considering liking one of my posts deserves to know before they click.

Despite the thread title, you can carry on liking me if you’re so inclined (like how I put that in bold?). The upside is that my guilt at not ever reciprocating in kind often compels me to put extra effort into a reply I might otherwise not have, therefore adding value to the franchise. You’re welcome, Admin.

As of the most recent accounting, I’ve received 287 likes. I would like to take this opportunity to donate these to a charity involving orphans and kittens and unclubbed baby seals. Or else they could be loaded up and fired into an unsuspecting crowd (love that illustration, which I grabbed from a story, since gone 404, called ‘How to get people to like you on Facebook in five simple steps’).

PS. Am anticipating the first reply: “No problem, I’m already not liking you.”

The only reason I’m posting this here is because it’s sinking down my Twitter page and yes, I was rather pleased with it. As usual pride goeth before a fall.

After a sabbatical I’ve once again taken up my urgent mission to caption artefacts from the world’s (or at least London’s) museums. To avoid the acute embarrassment of factual inaccuracy in a tweet, I called a very helpful fellow at the Tate Britain to determine the name of this statue. “The Eagle Slayer, by John Bell, 1851. Of painted iron. On loan from the V&A.” It was a little more than I could fit.

PS. It’s always nice to make someone’s day.

Two years ago yesterday I passed my UK driving test. This means I’m no longer on probation; until today, if I’d gotten as few as two speeding tickets I’d have had to go through the entire horrifying process over again to resecure my licence. I’m not exactly a speed demon, but with all the cameras about it can be a bit nerve-wracking, even for the innocent.

Back in the 80s I passed my first test in the US with the same ease that most of us do over there, where driving is virtually a birthright. But when you decide to settle in the queen’s green and mostly pleasant land, she demands a retest. She gives you a year’s grace on your old licence. After that you’re treated like a brand new driver, in need of reeducation to prepare you for Britain’s roads.

Let’s just say I’ve lived here long enough to have passed that deadline. Drove through loopholes real and imagined for a while, then finally gave it up for seven long years of public transport and private means of locomotion often involving pedals. The rural paradise we call home is not so paradisiacal when you don’t have a car.

April 30th, 2013
“Can you honk the horn please?” asks the man with the clipboard after enquiring of me how to check tyre pressure. Yes Sir. Show and tell over, he settles in to ride shotgun. “Go left.” Mirror Signal Manoeuvre, Sir Yes Sir. Roads may have not been built for cars, but Tunbridge Wells is full of them today. Even if it wasn’t, I must be observed to be observing. Schrödinger would approve.

Left, right, left, and on it goes, not a particularly exciting ride until The Event. I start turning into a street which is really a parking lot with a narrow corridor as a courtesy to those of us going somewhere. Suddenly another vehicle appears dead ahead. The rear end of my clown car is sticking out into the 4-way intersection and I’m completely stuck, an embarrassed jetty in the eddy of traffic. All I can do is keep an eye on everything and make slight adjustments so the other guy can pass.

“I’ve just failed,” I mutter miserably. As a human being, I almost want to add. We carry on until he says to pull over to the kerb. “You haven’t failed,” he says. “That wasn’t your fault.”

Does he mean it, or is this merely an act of mercy so the rest of our ride isn’t covered by a dark cloud on this otherwise beautiful afternoon? Whatever the case, ample time remains to screw up. Even with a lot of driving experience under my belt it’s still possible to make a mistake. I don’t, unless you count giving a pedestrian right of way because his body language told me he just might be stepping off the pavement.

“You didn’t check your mirror when you stopped,” says clipboard man later. That’s because I was busy making sure I didn’t end up with a young lad under my wheels, I want to say, but don’t, because at the end of the ride he signs off on me, making him my new best friend.

Back at the test centre I could kiss my driving instructor. We shake hands instead. We’ve been through so much together. She’s heard an abridged version of my hopes and dreams. She’s listened to me vent. She’s the one who informed me that Maggie Thatcher had died just as we were about to start a lesson. She’s been drill instructor and personal Sat Nav from hell: “Check your mirrors.” “Handbrake on.” “Faster.” (As a cyclist I don’t care for that last one, but the system likes you to be near the speed limit. And we wonder why speed is a problem.)

Once upon a time she was the better half of half of Wang Chung, which has little to do with my (re)induction into the league of motorists but is one of those random scraps of information I love to collect. I’ve been taught to drive – correction: I’ve been taught how to pass the test – by somebody once married to a verb. Cool.

because everybody Tom Jonesed yesterday