Diary – 1 January 1970 | 1 January 1970

After Wednesday’s Tube strike, most Londoners will have decided again that the only solution is a bicycle. But there’s a dark side to cycling in the city. Since I bought my first bike a year or so ago I have been astonished by the outbursts of spittle-flecked fury pedestrians unleash upon cyclists. Any minor deviation from the letter of the law — a quick pedal on the pavement, a whizz through Hyde Park — induces instant Tourette’s syndrome in passers-by: ‘You stupid f—–ing cow! Get off your f—–ing bike!’ etc., etc., followed by a furious rant about how, literally, lethal bicycles are. Last week I crept cautiously through a red light on Oxford Street, craning left and right to make sure the coast was clear — no traffic, no pregnant shoppers, no old ladies pushing tartan wheelie-bags. I had, however, been spotted. About 15 feet further on, a man stepped into the road in front of me and shouted, ‘C—–, I saw you! C—–!’ ‘What’s wrong with you? Why do you care?’ I asked, hopelessly. ‘C—–,’ he said again.

It’s the by-law enthusiasts’ expletive of choice. I recently wrote a short piece asking why we react with such violence to minor affronts, giving as an example a man who saw me biking on the pavement and spat in my face. I received several letters in reply. The latest, from Anonymous in Hemel Hempstead, begins, ‘Dear bubble-brained c—–. You make me sick. Frankly you got off lightly. If it had been me, I would have broken your jaw.’ I spent Friday on the phone to the Metropolitan Police, who have promised to find out if any pedestrians are ever injured by cyclists.

I saw a pigeon die at the weekend. I was on a bus, waiting at a red light on the Tottenham Court Road, so I looked left out of the window at a ledge covered in bird-deterring metal needles.