I was on my typical post work journey, taking the No.73 along Pentonville Road toward King's Cross on a blinding summer's day in my big, beautiful London.
Standing next to me on the bus, by the exit at the middle, was a big man in a nappy. He wore socks, a pair of loafers and a pork pie hat. It was the nappy, certainly, that glued my eyes to him. I'd heard about this kind of man, but thought this manner of attire was restricted to the bedrooms of very strict mistresses who would charge presumably large sums of money, to let these depraved individuals into their house of a weekend, to sleep in a big crib, wear a nappy and to mother them. And doubtless assist in the release of varying amounts of seminal fluid from their big baby ballsacks.
He was shouting into his phone, as though he was surrounded by no-one in particular, exuding a general air of vital, if menacing, importance. I wondered if the poor sod at the other end of the abuse would have found him quite as domineering had they seen him, the offensive weirdo.
I was trying not to look, instead considering the optimum moment at which to press the bell that I was guarding by holding onto the pole into which it was embedded. I was getting off at the next stop and had to yet to go ding, despite the bus nearing it and slowing down. I enjoyed this kind of responsibility. You couldn't always trust others.
'Oi, Prick, come on, fucking ding ding!'
It was the man in the nappy, having ended his long distance ranting.
'Oh, right, sorry.' I dinged the bell and the bus pulled into the stop which it would have done anyway as there were 7 people at the stop waiting to board it. I really didn't need any prompting from this colossal pervert.
'Thanks a fucking bundle, mate. Weren't that hard was it?'
We stepped off the bus, side by side, my eyes still set to his big baby knickers.
What you fucking looking at?'
'Well, I was...admiring the nappy.'
Vague and not the truth but a reasonable and inoffensive answer, nonetheless, and at least I said something and didn't laugh which I wouldn't have done because he was a big surly man despite the comical pants. He was a younger man, in his thirties and I estimated that, if pushed, he would quite cheerfully clump me one round the face hole.
Anyway.
'You little fascist bully boy. You fucking are'.
'What, I'm not...'
I didn't think I was but the man had just caught me staring at his nappy and inferred (correctly) my prejudice at such.
'I mean, you wouldn't take the piss out of a muslim woman for wearing one a them yasmakintoshes now would you, eh? No, 'cause you'd end up in fucking stir, you miserable cunt. You're quite happy to have a giggle at me, though, eh, you little fucking mope'.
As one of the most bleeding heart liberals to spring out of the loins of alternative 80's culture, I took the most severe grievance with this. Usually I would let such a matter lie but the opinions of the diapered man had become a nagging brain worm that would not wriggle off until I'd said my piece back at him.
'Look, I'm as free a thinker as you'll find, but the sight of a grown man in a nappy on a bus is out of the ordinary, I'm sure you'll agree and admit? I imagine if I saw you in the correct and proper context I'd think absolutely nothing of it. Not that I'm likely to see you in the correct and proper context'.
'Which is fucking what, exactly?'
'Well, I mean, presumably some kind of suburban whore house'.
'Open your eyes, mate!' At this he pointed to his eyes, which was confusing. If he was talking about my eyes he should have pointed to mine, surely? Perhaps he was using his eyes as a metaphor for my own. It is a detail that I didn't pick up on at at the time or ask the man to elaborate on, but I wish I had have done that as I am now totally obsessed with this trivial detail (as most people seem to think it is).
'This is something that's happening, you small-minded little wanker. Look. Look over there...;
I looked over there. Over the road was another man, wearing a a rather smart high street suit, only with the trousers replaced by a rather larger nappy.
'And there..'
I did more looking when following the pointing finger, and there was another businessman wearing a nappy.
'This isn't about sexual perversion at the weekend, mate, this is about a life choice. Right? This is why I came to London, to escape this kind of hostility and bigotry. I thought, London? You can do what you like in London, you can walk around wearing a fucking lampshade on your head and nobody'll bat an eye lid. But you fucking battered yours you nosy twat!'
'I didn't batter them, It was just the context and you being out of it!'.
'Well nobody else seems bothered, do they? Nobody else is saying stuff or looking with daggers?'
'Yes, because Londoners are polite, that's why. We're educated to not be rude about people's differences and to accept them. It doesn't mean we don't think you're odd. We're not all free spirits, blindly accepting any difference. We'll pretend not to notice. That doesn't mean we actually accept you.'
I didn't mean the majority of my outbursted sentiments and they were, for the most part, contra to my ideals, but this man had really got up my fucking pipe.
I didn't like him and thought he was a dismal fucking pervert and would like to take away his right to do what he wanted just out of spite, the stinking fat fuck.With his fucking belly hanging over his nappy, and his belly hairs embedded with biscuit crumbs and dried spunk. Which is what happens when you go out with no shirt on and dress like a baby. At least the man over the road had considered the matter and had dressed correctly around his ludicrous knickers.
If I was a fascist bully boy it was only for this one revolting specimen.
And yet, nobody else seemed to be shaken out of their routine by this man and his kin. Was I that out of touch? Was this a 'thing' that was happening that everyone else knew about and had accepted?
My attention was then jolted back to the nappy man, as he was, all of a sudden, splayed on the pavement, throwing his arms and legs in the air, having a proper infantile tantrum, and screaming:
'Nasty man made me do pee pee in my pant pant!' And then, screaming at the top of his voice, which gathered the attention that I felt he had been previously (and undeservedly) lacking.
'Ah, what's up with poor baby! What did the nasty man do to you?' whimpered a concerned old fuckwit.
A crowd had gathered around us, deep enough that those second or third back were standing on tiptoes to see the big baby on the floor.
He spoke, sobbing for effect: 'Nasty man's opressing me. Says I'm a pervert and shouldn't be allowed to wear my nappy and he said, he said he'd get me, without specifying any details'.
The crowd in that instant became a threatening mob, words from individual mouths joining into one aggressive, unforgiving murmur.
'What's wrong with you? Why can't you just let him be what he wants to be? What's it got to do with you? A young woman, wearing a badge that said 'Intern' in bold lettering with her name underneath, voiced clearly and loudly the opinion that the entire crowd evidentally wanted to make.
The Intern stepped out of the crowd and spoke to me directly. She was, I guessed, twenty-two years of age, and had never had her arm up a U-bend.
'Are you so jaded and corporate that you must take out your insecurities on an innocent baby-man? Such a concrete thinker that you do not recognise the choice of the individual to do as they please? You have created the conditions whereby a mob has formed and wish to do you physical harm. In order to prevent this I suggest you apologise to baby-man, shake his hand and accept, with love, his right to wear a massive nappy, as everybody else has. Well?'
This mob, that I had created, the only thing I had given any form to that day, seemed to lean in toward me as one unspeaking, threatening malignant mass.
'I'm sorry, I didn't realise that it was a thing. I'm such a bleeding heart liberal that I'm usually on the ball with these issues. Sorry everybody.'
They told me, variously, that I was a fascist bully boy and a cretin and that I didn't belong in or deserve to be in London. I perservered with my protestations of being a right thinking liberal, not generally given to prejudice, but they were not receptive. They fucking hated me, as Londoners always had, but this time with reason.
They helped the big baby man back to his feet, men wiping the tears from his face and women asking him back to their places to have sex, at least that is what I think was going on. Certainly, one of them stuck a business card down the front of his, by now slightly yellowing, bum napkin.
I was encouraged to apologise and shake his hand, which I did out of confusion and the need for these people to cease castigating me.
'Sorry about that. I didn't know it was a thing. It's nice, really, I like it'.
The crowd dispersed, all parts of it agreeing that I had done the right thing. The nappyman just went about his business, disappearing into King's Cross Underground station, once again shouting important things into his phone as though nothing that had happened, had happened.
And what exactly had happened?
In the course of minding my own business, I had, once again, had my preconceptions challenged. Of course he had the perfect right to wear a nappy on a bus, out of the sexualised context of the suburban bawdy house. Even if he did appear to be nothing more than a corporate thug. Surely they have as perfect a right to express themselves as the leftist Hoxton arty twat? Of course he did.
I realised that I would once again need several years worth of therapy in order to correct my bad thoughts.
I then noticed, that where a luggage shop had once been (I'm sure just the day before) was a gentleman's ouffitters. At the front of the shop were diapers of all shapes and sizes, displayed in special arse shaped mannequins, and men standing in front of full length mirrors, with a woman at his side to either shake or nod.
A sudden feeling of sadness then descended, and an infantile longing for the past and I knew, at that exact moment, that I would soon be entering the shop and having a tape measure rolled around my groin.