The English Eccentric Lives On
"The oddest procession you've ever seen: a distressed duck, a host of unrestrained drakes, a hyper-ventilating middle-aged hippy and a rotund cyclist."
East Yorkshire, July 2018. My cycling journey across the expanse of God's county led me to some unexpected encounters. I had the pleasure of encountering some truly unique individuals. The duck lady, a conspiracy-laden street poet, and a polite motorcycle pseudo-nazi were just a few of the characters who brought a touch of eccentricity to my trip. Their stories are so bizarre that you couldn't make them up.
It seems that I have a knack for attracting unique individuals, or perhaps my outgoing nature invites people to sit and chat.
However, the duck lady had a different plan. Instead of a leisurely chat, she had me embarking on a comical chase around Nafferton Village, trying to corral a battered bird from the clutches of some rather aggressive drakes. With her neck bleeding, the duck is calling out in her distress.
I'm enjoying my lunch when the duck lady appears to demand that I join herding the poor thing into a walled corner for capture. (Can you herd ducks?) Meanwhile, the drakes are ignoring our presence. A relentless pursuit is underway, the oddest procession you've ever seen: a distressed duck, a host of unrestrained drakes, a hyper-ventilating middle-aged hippy and a rotund cyclist.
The captured duck is then spirited away.
"It's only natural; leave them be, you nutter", the local postman offers his unsolicited advice. I depart as the duck lady is yelling and making threatening suggestions.
Newland Avenue amounts to Hull's only bohemian area. Running from the University to Spring Bank, a cafe scene and outdoor dining lend an un-Hull feel. The well-heeled adjacent 'posh' Avenues mingle with students and arty-farty types. Stopping for a coffee, the resident street-poet, a dead-ringer for John Cooper-Clarke, offers his take on the world.
He's a tatty left-over from an Edwardian play, turned out in a waistcoat, jacket and polished brogues.
It seems a child sex conspiracy is underway. This involves elements of the local BBC channel, the Labour Party and the long-dead Liberal politician Cyril Smith. The street-poet faces eviction for his troubles in bringing this to public attention. Relentless harassment by elements of the local Freemasons is making his life hell. You can't have a decent conspiracy without citing the Freemasons.
This discourse then segues into a lecture on a Mick Ronson tribute concert. Apparently, street-poet chartered several 747s to bring Japanese fans to Hull. He then decries his exclusion from the "City of Culture" as dark forces conspired against him. All this is downloaded without a break as he rolls a "herbal" cigarette.
By now, my head is spinning. Spotting my Hong Kong cycling shirt, we flip into the possibility of performing there. I've had enough. But I can't leave. I must now listen to three poems. These decry the Freemasons, the police and some bloke called Peter Levy off the telly. I then make my escape.
Motorcycle nazi man would scare the pants off you. Decked in all-black leathers, he roared up on a clunking Harley-Davidson. Unshaven with plenty of Nazi badges, you'd not want your daughter bringing him home.
Just When I thought my encounters couldn't get any more unexpected, the motorcycle nazi man approached me. His appearance was intimidating, but his polite request to join me on the bench overlooking the Humber Bridge disarmed me. It was a brilliant day, he remarked, and I couldn't help but agree.
It's truly fascinating what people are willing to share if you take the time to listen. They often reveal their struggles and how they are working to overcome them, providing a unique insight into their lives.
Denis is the head of the local Harley club. That's written on his leather jacket. He's also concerned that the government is using plane contrails to control and poison us. He offers that up for starters. He's done time for drug trafficking and reckons a race war is coming. He clarifies it's only the Muslims that are a problem. He's okay with the Chinese and other hard-working types.
He asserts that the whole wings of the jails are under Muslim control, with staff having to negotiate access. Muslim godfathers are using rape to control their gangs while drugs are freely available. It's sad to say this has a ring of truth about it.
Hearing that I'm retired law enforcement, he has many questions. "Did you need to join the Freemasons? Have you encountered the Bilderberg Group? Is it true there is a secret bunker system under Warwickshire?" So, it unfolds. I feel like an extra in "Men in Black."
Denis is eloquent, although he makes links and connections that don't hold up. Finally, he moves into self-reflection. It appears that the Muslims aren't the problem per sei. He's read the Koran in jail. Some of it makes sense as good advice for life. What he wants is peace of mind.
"But why the Nazi badges?"
"It rattles people. I'm a big softy. It's all image, mate. In another place and time, I'd be a shaman."
After 20 minutes, I'm on my way. His final remark cuts me off: "If you're cycling to lose weight, it's not working."
Setting aside his worldview, I'd liked him up to that point.
July 2018
It seems that I have a knack for attracting unique individuals, or perhaps my outgoing nature invites people to sit and chat.
However, the duck lady had a different plan. Instead of a leisurely chat, she had me embarking on a comical chase around Nafferton Village, trying to corral a battered bird from the clutches of some rather aggressive drakes. With her neck bleeding, the duck is calling out in her distress.
I'm enjoying my lunch when the duck lady appears to demand that I join herding the poor thing into a walled corner for capture. (Can you herd ducks?) Meanwhile, the drakes are ignoring our presence. A relentless pursuit is underway, the oddest procession you've ever seen: a distressed duck, a host of unrestrained drakes, a hyper-ventilating middle-aged hippy and a rotund cyclist.
The captured duck is then spirited away.
"It's only natural; leave them be, you nutter", the local postman offers his unsolicited advice. I depart as the duck lady is yelling and making threatening suggestions.
Newland Avenue amounts to Hull's only bohemian area. Running from the University to Spring Bank, a cafe scene and outdoor dining lend an un-Hull feel. The well-heeled adjacent 'posh' Avenues mingle with students and arty-farty types. Stopping for a coffee, the resident street-poet, a dead-ringer for John Cooper-Clarke, offers his take on the world.
He's a tatty left-over from an Edwardian play, turned out in a waistcoat, jacket and polished brogues.
It seems a child sex conspiracy is underway. This involves elements of the local BBC channel, the Labour Party and the long-dead Liberal politician Cyril Smith. The street-poet faces eviction for his troubles in bringing this to public attention. Relentless harassment by elements of the local Freemasons is making his life hell. You can't have a decent conspiracy without citing the Freemasons.
This discourse then segues into a lecture on a Mick Ronson tribute concert. Apparently, street-poet chartered several 747s to bring Japanese fans to Hull. He then decries his exclusion from the "City of Culture" as dark forces conspired against him. All this is downloaded without a break as he rolls a "herbal" cigarette.
By now, my head is spinning. Spotting my Hong Kong cycling shirt, we flip into the possibility of performing there. I've had enough. But I can't leave. I must now listen to three poems. These decry the Freemasons, the police and some bloke called Peter Levy off the telly. I then make my escape.
Motorcycle nazi man would scare the pants off you. Decked in all-black leathers, he roared up on a clunking Harley-Davidson. Unshaven with plenty of Nazi badges, you'd not want your daughter bringing him home.
Just When I thought my encounters couldn't get any more unexpected, the motorcycle nazi man approached me. His appearance was intimidating, but his polite request to join me on the bench overlooking the Humber Bridge disarmed me. It was a brilliant day, he remarked, and I couldn't help but agree.
It's truly fascinating what people are willing to share if you take the time to listen. They often reveal their struggles and how they are working to overcome them, providing a unique insight into their lives.
Denis is the head of the local Harley club. That's written on his leather jacket. He's also concerned that the government is using plane contrails to control and poison us. He offers that up for starters. He's done time for drug trafficking and reckons a race war is coming. He clarifies it's only the Muslims that are a problem. He's okay with the Chinese and other hard-working types.
He asserts that the whole wings of the jails are under Muslim control, with staff having to negotiate access. Muslim godfathers are using rape to control their gangs while drugs are freely available. It's sad to say this has a ring of truth about it.
Hearing that I'm retired law enforcement, he has many questions. "Did you need to join the Freemasons? Have you encountered the Bilderberg Group? Is it true there is a secret bunker system under Warwickshire?" So, it unfolds. I feel like an extra in "Men in Black."
Denis is eloquent, although he makes links and connections that don't hold up. Finally, he moves into self-reflection. It appears that the Muslims aren't the problem per sei. He's read the Koran in jail. Some of it makes sense as good advice for life. What he wants is peace of mind.
"But why the Nazi badges?"
"It rattles people. I'm a big softy. It's all image, mate. In another place and time, I'd be a shaman."
After 20 minutes, I'm on my way. His final remark cuts me off: "If you're cycling to lose weight, it's not working."
Setting aside his worldview, I'd liked him up to that point.
July 2018
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