I'm a bummer, not a bomber
This is what Dr B. tells me in the morning when he sees me getting dressed to go to work. Why?
Well, on 22 July 2005 Jean Charles de Menezes, 27, was mistaken for a suicide bomber in Stockwell tube station here in London, and killed with eight shots.
We were led to believe that he had hurdled a barrier, was wearing a padded jacket and refused to stop when questioned by a surveillance officer.
Leaked documents from the enquiry now suggest that Mr de Menezes walked into the station, picked up a newspaper, went through ticket barriers and then started to run when he saw a train arriving. He was wearing a light jeans jacket.
Now, I shall respect everyone's religion as long as they respect my choice not to have one. And everybody has got as much right to choose to live in the United Kingdom as I have, if not more – I was not even born here! – as long as they behave.
However, now that a few individuals are giving all of us 'ethnics' a bad name, I have resolved to take some action in order to avoid being killed on my way to work:
- swap my backpack for my old messenger bag, less bomb-friendly. Slam it on the floor once in the carriage to dismiss any fears from fellow passengers;
- get rid of my habit of near-running all the time along corridors, platforms and escalators on the London Underground network. It's fun, it gets me from A to B in less time than you can say 'mind the gap', but I noticed it is not particularly appreciated these days;
- wear the loudest, campest, most blatantly homosexual clothes I own (that can still grant me access to my office at HM Government). As far as I know, there is no such thing as a Gay Nation of Islam. Is there?
- accessorise, accessorise, accessorise! Rings, scarves, hats, chains – especially the glow-in-the-dark rosary beads from my catholic upbringing. Befriend the security guard at work so that I won't have to take off my beloved Britney belt (white leather with massive steel studs throughout) every single morning before going through the metal detector;
- do something about the patchy facial hair. I tried the goatee but got more stares than ever before, so went back to the scraggy beard. Can't shave completely because I look like a knob (and would find myself out of a boyfriend in no time);
- sing loudly along to the music in my earphones, and dance on the spot when waiting for a train, or travelling while not seated. Oh wait – I already do that all the time anyway;
- swap my current read (Letters from Iceland, W.H. Auden and Louis MacNiece – its gayness is much too veiled to make a proper statement) with the free weekly gay press. Linger on Boyz' Backroom Boy more than it would be polite to;
- stay away from the sunbed, embrace the paleness of my skin and save my life in the process. And I'm not just talking about skin cancer here.