Life’s Little Eccentrics

Growing up with a dad from RAF regiment stock meant stories of daring pilots and audacious flights were part of the soundtrack of my childhood. But one tale stood out — the legendary “Hawker Hunter Tower Bridge incident” from April 5, 1968.

Picture this: Flight Lieutenant Alan Pollock, a fearless RAF pilot, was none too pleased that the bigwigs weren’t planning a proper fly-past to celebrate the RAF’s 50th birthday. So, in true rebellious style, Pollock decided to take matters into his own hands — no permission needed.

He soared his sleek Hawker Hunter jet low over the Thames, skimming past the Houses of Parliament, until he reached the iconic Tower Bridge. And then, in a move that sounds more like a stunt from an action movie than a military exercise, Pollock flew underneath the bridge’s walkway! He later confessed that it was a bit of a spur-of-the-moment decision when the bridge suddenly loomed large ahead of him.

The aftermath? Pollock was promptly arrested upon landing and discharged from the RAF on medical grounds — without even a chance to explain himself in court. But for my dad, and many others, Pollock’s daring flight was less about rules and more about spirit — a bold salute to the RAF on its milestone birthday.

It’s the kind of story that reminds me how sometimes, a little rule-breaking can become the stuff of legend.

16.05.19: Benjamin Zephaniah, Trinity Centre Bristol

I had a fantastic evening with Benjamin — a truly memorable night of great music and vibes. But there’s a serious problem that keeps popping up at gigs lately: people chatting through the performance. I noticed it most recently at the Massive Attack shows. It’s baffling how some folks just don’t seem to respect the artist or the audience around them. If you’re not going to give your full attention, why not just stay home and listen to a CD?

That aside, Mr. Zephaniah was in top form, and the band played tight, making for a genuinely enjoyable night. It also reaffirmed something I’ve long suspected — white people really can’t dance, and let’s be honest, we rarely pull off the dreadlocks look with any real cool factor!

Summer Holidaze

Stanley stood rigid at the curb, Doris by his side, her hand brushing his. Down the hill, the driverless bus thundered toward them, metal beast on wheels, scraping inches past where they waited. Inside, a tempest roiled.

Passengers brawled, voices cracking like broken glass. Village faces peered anxiously, jaws tight, eyes wide.

Theresa sat just behind the empty driver’s seat, fingers stuffed in her ears, lost to the storm. Opposite her, Jeremy covered his eyes, peeking through his fingers at the vacant wheel, whispering a prayer—hope and defiance tangled on his breath.

Behind them, Nigel’s long finger jabbed accusingly at the last few who’d boarded. “Sabotage!” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

A small mob spat curses—at one another and at the chaos itself. The bus jolted over bumps, and Ariaf’s grip slipped. A vanilla shake splattered over Tommy’s new school uniform. He wailed, clutching Bernard, his pet snail, now hidden away in a cardboard box. “How’m I gonna tell Mum?” he sobbed, finger already pointing.

Vince bounced up and down, desperate for notice after being banished for helping David—the driver—to escape through the emergency hatch.

Nearby, self-styled ideologues debated, trading grudging praise for the 1939 Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, their eyes glittering with twisted admiration.

Caroline sat alone, calm and patient, knitting a jumper stitch by stitch, waiting.

As the looming brick wall hurtled closer, Chuka, Anna, and Heidi linked hands with others, raising their voices in ancient hymns.

Nicola shouted for a show of hands—any brave souls willing to climb to the roof. Ariene screamed, “No surrender!” as the wall grew impossibly close.

Meanwhile, the nation sat glued to radios, Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday on eternal repeat, young faces exchanging helpless, desperate looks.

Stanley caught Doris’s eye, his voice soft but certain. “Ah Doris, Brexit means Brexit.”

She licked her melting ice cream, then turned to the pelican crossing button. The sharp beeping sliced the chaos, halting cars. Hand in hand, they stepped off the curb, away from the madness, crossing to the bus station as if nothing had changed.