I don't know how to feel about this. Other than it feeling like the second slap in the face I got this week.
"You have helped us to understand local crime and police the area more effectively".
Er... really? Oh good! Lovey! Glad to have been of service, guys! Hurrah!
Presumably, because I took it upon myself to get pounded in the head so selflessly, they now know that the CCTV camera right where it happened wasn't working, so it can be fixed. And I'm sure they'll check there are DNA swabs in their kit next time, like there were supposed to be.
And now maybe they'll set up patrols along one of the two major roads into town, in the middle of the day, on the off-chance that some random mental might have a pop at some other poor bugger while they're sat in their car with their family.
Perhaps I could help in some other way? Maybe I could stand on some street corners wearing a sandwich board reading "Please mug me", or wander through one of the rougher parts of town blowing a vuvuzela at 4am.
Since I got attacked on Tuesday I've been pretty sanguine about what happened. The police, the NHS, were great on the day. I felt looked after and protected. It felt like they were going to do something, that they'd pull out all the stops. One of the police even described my attack as "vile", which I loved.
Plus, I've been blessed by the messages I've received. You've all been very sweet - far beyond what I feel I deserve. I don't think I've got any last emotional damage - I'm not scared to leave the house, or anything. I don't have PTSD, and I'm not wallowing in pity, and I've slept well.
Alright, I'm frustrated that I still can't see properly out of my right eye, and that I look as if someone has pranked me with a joke telescope. Frankly, I know full well that it could've been far worse.
"You have helped us to understand local crime and police the area more effectively".
Er... really? Oh good! Lovey! Glad to have been of service, guys! Hurrah!
Presumably, because I took it upon myself to get pounded in the head so selflessly, they now know that the CCTV camera right where it happened wasn't working, so it can be fixed. And I'm sure they'll check there are DNA swabs in their kit next time, like there were supposed to be.
And now maybe they'll set up patrols along one of the two major roads into town, in the middle of the day, on the off-chance that some random mental might have a pop at some other poor bugger while they're sat in their car with their family.
Perhaps I could help in some other way? Maybe I could stand on some street corners wearing a sandwich board reading "Please mug me", or wander through one of the rougher parts of town blowing a vuvuzela at 4am.
Since I got attacked on Tuesday I've been pretty sanguine about what happened. The police, the NHS, were great on the day. I felt looked after and protected. It felt like they were going to do something, that they'd pull out all the stops. One of the police even described my attack as "vile", which I loved.
Plus, I've been blessed by the messages I've received. You've all been very sweet - far beyond what I feel I deserve. I don't think I've got any last emotional damage - I'm not scared to leave the house, or anything. I don't have PTSD, and I'm not wallowing in pity, and I've slept well.
Alright, I'm frustrated that I still can't see properly out of my right eye, and that I look as if someone has pranked me with a joke telescope. Frankly, I know full well that it could've been far worse.
But the letter makes me angry. It's the way it feels so dismissive. "Thank you for contacting us to report this crime". Actually, I never reported anything, because, y'know, some guy had just smashed me - probably twice, as I now remember it - in the head, and I had blood gushing out of my face holes, I was seeing stars, and had gone blind in my right eye.
"Rrrrrd lrrkttrrrr rperrrfd rrrrrrr crrrurm."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Oh, I do apologise. I had a litre of blood in my mouth. Yes, I'd like to report a crime."
"Is it a vile crime, sir?'
"Oh it is!"
"We'll be right over."
"Rrrrrd lrrkttrrrr rperrrfd rrrrrrr crrrurm."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Oh, I do apologise. I had a litre of blood in my mouth. Yes, I'd like to report a crime."
"Is it a vile crime, sir?'
"Oh it is!"
"We'll be right over."
MY BEAUTY NOT A TERRORIST
I get that the police have more important cases on their books. I get that the guy who attacked me didn't shout "Allah Akbar" right before he smacked me one, so he can't be labelled a terrorist.
I wasn't stabbed, I wasn't raped, or shot, and I'm not a little kid, and I wasn't stomped on by Godzilla. I get that resources are limited. That the police are a thin blue line holding back a tide of loons and social chaos, and I'm always - contrary to popular trend - reluctant to criticise them.
But surely the random and brazen nature of the assault suggests that my attacker was someone who really ought to be off the streets? I don't want justice. I don't want revenge. I do want him locked up - preferably in a concrete tomb, and dropped off the side of an oil rig - for the safety of others.
And I do want answers.
Because, you see, he didn't look mental. He was well-dressed, he was listening to music on his headphones. He smashed me in the face and jogged off, casual as anything. My partner, who caught up to him - like the brave lunatic she is - said he didn't seem agitated, didn't seem obviously mad, or on something. In fact, he acted as if nothing had happened.
It's baffling, and I do want to know why I've had to spend the last three days in bed, why I'm not on stage in Walsall today like I was meant to be, why I'm going to be on medication for two months, why I still can't see properly right now, and why Sanya remains teary and shaken-up by it.
I want to know what caused all that. What provoked that. I don't want to have received this swollen purple shiner for nothing. Matron.
BIG TOWN
I live in a fairly sizeable town on the fringes of London.
I don't believe that every CCTV camera was broken that day. We were on a main road that was packed with cars. He must've been picked up at some point by one of the cameras. They didn't even bother with one of those "AN INCIDENT OCCURRED HERE" signs, which appeal for witnesses. Missing cats get more than I did.
I mean, did I not make enough of a fuss? It wouldn't be the first time that not playing the victim pushed me to the back of the queue.
Or am I just expecting too much? I'm not the only person on the receiving end of a senseless, unsolvable crime. I'm know I'm not the parents of Madeline McCann.
It's the world. Life is full of loose ends, I guess. I don't expect special treatment, and there's a certain inevitability to how this has gone, but that doesn't excuse my sense of impotence and disorientation. I dunno.
I get that the police have more important cases on their books. I get that the guy who attacked me didn't shout "Allah Akbar" right before he smacked me one, so he can't be labelled a terrorist.
I wasn't stabbed, I wasn't raped, or shot, and I'm not a little kid, and I wasn't stomped on by Godzilla. I get that resources are limited. That the police are a thin blue line holding back a tide of loons and social chaos, and I'm always - contrary to popular trend - reluctant to criticise them.
But surely the random and brazen nature of the assault suggests that my attacker was someone who really ought to be off the streets? I don't want justice. I don't want revenge. I do want him locked up - preferably in a concrete tomb, and dropped off the side of an oil rig - for the safety of others.
And I do want answers.
Because, you see, he didn't look mental. He was well-dressed, he was listening to music on his headphones. He smashed me in the face and jogged off, casual as anything. My partner, who caught up to him - like the brave lunatic she is - said he didn't seem agitated, didn't seem obviously mad, or on something. In fact, he acted as if nothing had happened.
It's baffling, and I do want to know why I've had to spend the last three days in bed, why I'm not on stage in Walsall today like I was meant to be, why I'm going to be on medication for two months, why I still can't see properly right now, and why Sanya remains teary and shaken-up by it.
I want to know what caused all that. What provoked that. I don't want to have received this swollen purple shiner for nothing. Matron.
BIG TOWN
I live in a fairly sizeable town on the fringes of London.
I don't believe that every CCTV camera was broken that day. We were on a main road that was packed with cars. He must've been picked up at some point by one of the cameras. They didn't even bother with one of those "AN INCIDENT OCCURRED HERE" signs, which appeal for witnesses. Missing cats get more than I did.
I mean, did I not make enough of a fuss? It wouldn't be the first time that not playing the victim pushed me to the back of the queue.
Or am I just expecting too much? I'm not the only person on the receiving end of a senseless, unsolvable crime. I'm know I'm not the parents of Madeline McCann.
It's the world. Life is full of loose ends, I guess. I don't expect special treatment, and there's a certain inevitability to how this has gone, but that doesn't excuse my sense of impotence and disorientation. I dunno.
FAIR ENOUGH?
But this is life, I suppose. It isn't always fair. It isn't always just, it isn't always secure.
Those of us who strive to live a good life, as good people, don't always win.
Psychotic fudgemothers - be they billionaire property tycoons, or wandering lunatics, or empathy-lacking, power-lusting, politicians - get their needs met from treading on the rest of us, the bedrock of society, who are just trying to get by and survive.
I simply wish I had something to say to the kids, who remain rattled. A reason I could give a 14 year old, and an 11 year old, and a 23 year-old with autism and a social anxiety disorder, why a stranger would suddenly come out of nowhere and attack their dad in front of them.
It wasn't for money. It wasn't over an argument, or because I cut him up in the car, or because of religion, or because - as far as I know - he didn't like the colour of my skin, or because my hair is slightly too long to be dignified for a man of my age.
It just happened. From their point of view, that's the world now. That's merely the risk you run from being alive, and stepping out of the front door. It isn't safe. It isn't ever going to be safe. And there's nothing you can do if it bites you; the powers that be don't have your back. They don't even have the resources or scope to have your back. Society is too mad, and sprawling, to hold together in such a way; all we have is each other. All of us. The bedrock.
I want to be able to explain it to myself too though. That's the main thing I'm left with after all this: a lack of answers. I won't wallow in it. I won't start with the self-pity, or play the victim. I want to know why, but I accept that I probably never will.
I simply have no choice but to accept that it's another of life's loose ends, that will forever be dangling in front of me.
And they wonder why people dress up as bats and take justice into their own hands.
But this is life, I suppose. It isn't always fair. It isn't always just, it isn't always secure.
Those of us who strive to live a good life, as good people, don't always win.
Psychotic fudgemothers - be they billionaire property tycoons, or wandering lunatics, or empathy-lacking, power-lusting, politicians - get their needs met from treading on the rest of us, the bedrock of society, who are just trying to get by and survive.
I simply wish I had something to say to the kids, who remain rattled. A reason I could give a 14 year old, and an 11 year old, and a 23 year-old with autism and a social anxiety disorder, why a stranger would suddenly come out of nowhere and attack their dad in front of them.
It wasn't for money. It wasn't over an argument, or because I cut him up in the car, or because of religion, or because - as far as I know - he didn't like the colour of my skin, or because my hair is slightly too long to be dignified for a man of my age.
It just happened. From their point of view, that's the world now. That's merely the risk you run from being alive, and stepping out of the front door. It isn't safe. It isn't ever going to be safe. And there's nothing you can do if it bites you; the powers that be don't have your back. They don't even have the resources or scope to have your back. Society is too mad, and sprawling, to hold together in such a way; all we have is each other. All of us. The bedrock.
I want to be able to explain it to myself too though. That's the main thing I'm left with after all this: a lack of answers. I won't wallow in it. I won't start with the self-pity, or play the victim. I want to know why, but I accept that I probably never will.
I simply have no choice but to accept that it's another of life's loose ends, that will forever be dangling in front of me.
And they wonder why people dress up as bats and take justice into their own hands.
RSS Feed
