Richard Herring: My near-fight with a ten-year-old
Friday 10 Jan 2014
The other day I was nearly in a fight with a ten-year-old boy. I am not proud of myself.
I was walking on the pavement with my wife when a young tyke cycled
up behind us, nearly clipping her heels. Rather than apologising, he
swore at her and called her an idiot. Even though my wife had seen and
heard nothing, I needed to defend her impugned honour. I told the young
scoundrel that he shouldn’t be cycling there and it was our right of
way.
Part of me expected him to blush with shame and thank me for my
wisdom, but that part would be disappointed. ‘FLICK OFF’ is almost
exactly what he said, before describing me as what sounded like a ‘fat
count’, even though it was clear from my casual clothing that I was not
even a minor member of the aristocracy. And also I am not fat.
I admit for a few seconds I was blind-sided by his cockiness. He
wasn’t scared of me, perhaps reasoning that a 46-year-old man could not
punch a ten-year-old in the face.
I should have laughed and said: ‘You’re quite the tough guy, but I’d
be a bit more impressed if you were brave enough to cycle on the road.’
Instead, I called his bluff and stood my ground, blocking his path. Was
that a flicker of fear on his face? No. He just reiterated that I was a
fat count. I wasn’t backing down, though. To show him how much trouble
he was in, I gently pushed his bike’s handlebar.
For an instant I’d forgotten that I wasn’t also ten. What would I do
if he got off his bike and kicked me? Fight him back? I’d wanted to
teach the boy some manners but instead was teaching him that you can
still be a prick when you’re 46.
He swore at me again and I swore back at him.
My wife, mainly oblivious to all of this, seemed disappointed to turn
and see me trading curses with a cycling foetus. I was disappointed in
myself too. How had I allowed myself to lose control?
‘I’m going to tell my dad about you and he’ll come and funk you up,’
was approximately what he said next. I wish I’d replied: ‘Well I’m going
to tell my dad about you and he’ll probably tut quite loudly. He’s a
retired headmaster called Keith and he wouldn’t appreciate this kind of
behaviour!’ But instead I said: ‘Good, I’d love to have a chat with
him.’
I doubted that the boy would send his dad to funk me up – how would
he find me? Unless I was stupid enough to write about the incident in a
national newspaper.
But I was still unnerved by the threat. I had taken on a ten-year-old
child and had lost. I’d lost my cool, I’d lost the argument and I left
the contretemps slightly more intimidated than he was.
Some might use this incident as proof that today’s young people are
morally delinquent. But this is very much an isolated incident. You
wouldn’t judge any other minority by the actions of one individual, so
is it OK to condemn all kids because one has treated you impolitely?
The majority of young people are more mature and thoughtful than I
was at their age (and let’s face it, than I am now). It was me who had
turned a moment of thoughtless petulance into a potential mismatched
boxing match.
Send your dad round, son. I deserve to be funked up, like the motherflicking count I clearly am.
