By Claudio di Petrillo

I cannot stand shopping. No…I hate it. Being dragged by girlfriends and mothers through a torturous succession of boutiques, supermarkets and department stores. The blistered feet, the escalators, the ice-cream wielding children. I’d rather buy online.

This must be why I have never liked Oxford Street. The thought of all those aimless consumers, leaflet pushers and market researchers picking off the stragglers. Where the hell do all these people come from and why are they so artful at delaying my progress? Why do they all insist on fighting over every inch pigeon-fouled pavement?

One day I noticed certain things that changed my mind slightly. A typical afternoon’s slalom through this clogged artery of the city turned into something quite unexpected. As I was making my way from Tottenham Court Road, I noticed a street performer. By the look of it, his act required a bare minimum of talent. It looked like he was dancing but from an initial distance it could have been anything. As I got closer, I could see it was neither the dance of a trained professional nor the stumbling contortions of a drunk. I’m fairly certain this guy had no intention to impress and was only doing it for whatever sympathy might be thrown at him. But this was Oxford Street. Who was going to stop and have time for some drug-addled degenerate? His sheer incongruity, however, made it worth watching. His little routine was so controlled, so polished, and yet so completely ridiculous. His eyes smouldered as if to entice a swooning throng of fans. I simply had to stop and watch. He seemed impervious to embarrassment. I peeled off from the procession and decided to test his insanity.

“Excuse me, mate. Can you tell me where Borders is please? No response. (We were in fact standing right outside it?) “Erm, how much money you made?” Still nothing. Was I making myself clear? Ironically, I didn’t want to risk looking stupid by engaging with this obvious quack. Approaching him had taken some nerve. Perhaps, he thought that by acknowledging me he risked losing his imaginary audience. Just as I was about to turn away, a tall, bearded man leaned forward and dryly informed me the guy was deaf, blind, and had no knowledge of my presence. He was dancing because he thought he was pretty good at it and that I should either put some money in the cup or move on. I stepped back and had another look. There he was. Joyfully bouncing from one foot to the next. Totally innocent in his own delirium. I fumbled hurriedly through my wallet. Under the scrupulous glare of his minder I bombarded the man’s polystyrene cup with as much shrapnel as I could find. Almost immediately and without breaking rhythm, he stopped what he was doing. His eyes disengaged and he looked at me, a thinly cut smirk edging its way across his conniving little face. I had been robbed. And oh so sweetly. The street had once again ensnared me in its money-grabbing talons.

By the time I reached Oxford Circus, a quite different curiosity emerged. Just by the lights, a man was screaming maniacally and flailing his arms. “You bastards!” he yelled. “ I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” Or words to that effect. Even from across the street his face looked scarlet with rage. His mouth sprayed torrents of spittle with each obscenity as passers-by scurried past. The guy was clearly demented. Such anger must either be the result of a lifetime of anguish and misfortune or a few quiet years spent flip-flopping along the beaches of insanity until the tide finally pulled him out to sea. Only floating in the indifferent expanse of blue ocean would he hope to find answers. But by now, no one was listening. I wanted to get a better look. There was something about his paranoia that didn’t seem plausible. On the floor, just by the side of the road, were the remains of someone’s lunch. The contents of a bag of chips, a drink carton and something indescribable that had been almost instantly neglected. The man was clearly aiming his insults at the road. Was that food laying there his or did he knock it out of someone’s hand by accident? That would at least explain the ‘I didn’t do its’. But then why didn’t he just pick out whatever chip could be salvaged and retire solemnly to a private corner? More importantly, why was he taking it so badly? To get a better view of the food I leaned against the railings to position myself in this cryptic crossfire. There was something else in there. Partially covered by a half-eaten burger bun lay the disembowelled remains of a pigeon. One leg folded behind the back of its neck, the other, several inches to the left.

Now this was really something. A tirade against every man, woman and child in earshot was the result of a wasted pigeon. It was too bizarre to comprehend. Surely something more sinister was the cause of such hopelessly derailed psychosis. Was there was nothing that could be done? The poor creature must have hopped over for a nibble when a passing vehicle suddenly laid it out. Whatever emotional attachment had developed over those few minutes between man and bird had now been displaced by paroxysms of rage. He was inconsolable. With no visible off button for this nutball, I strolled off defeated.

After a while, I noticed I had eased up a little. The distinction between the crowds, the robbing and the madness was more manageable now. I was no longer concerned about losing five precious minutes to a charity worker or being nudged into oncoming traffic by a gaggle of 15-year-olds on their way to Topshop. With such weirdness secretly going on there was potentially far more entertainment on offer than I first realised.

Oxford Street is really quite an extraordinary place to the trained eye. It becomes a place where the mentally unstable can pick a fight with themselves, where chancers can prance for money outside Borders and no one appears in the slightest bit bothered so long as they can keep one eye on the sale sign and the other on their wallets.

The monotonies of Covent Garden and Regent Street are far too predictable compared to this freakish promenade. It was time to go and thankfully I hadn’t bought anything.

The stroll down had been an adventure in itself. I flagged a cab and sat back as we flew down towards Tottenham Court Road.

I told the driver that on his way through the lights, just where a man was waving his arms in the air, he should aim for that collection of rubbish by the side and not look back.

The End

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