Today I’m writing about my enduring affection for the "Man with a Pint." Perhaps we have been surrounded by so much biased news that he has become a negative national icon of the aggressor—associated with bigotry or nuisance tourism. However, there is another side to this generic British stock character: the unexpected purveyor of justice.
[Screen capture of man drinking pint of beer while running from the London Bridge terror attacks on June 3, 2017. PHOTO: TWITTER]
Cycling in London nowadays leaves us with scrapes and bruises like five-year-old kids struggling to keep our lives in order. Yet this is merely an evolution of the broken legs Londoners sported in the 90’s when the old hop-on, hop-off Routemaster buses were still in circulation. Remember how many people you would see hobbling down the street on crutches with the standard excuse that they had "run for the bus"?
On Thursday night, cycling home from work, I had an altercation with a parked car door that swiftly became an unavoidable obstacle. There is always that split second where you see the impending chaos before impact, and your mind quietly resigns itself to the damage about to smash into you. I vividly remember the space flight my body took as it was launched up, over, and off my bike onto the asphalt.
Ultimately, I must have hit the ground rather hard. As I scrambled to clear myself from the light oncoming traffic, I realized I had attracted a fair bit of attention. Two lovely nurses ran towards the commotion my body-slam had caused—followed swiftly by a Man with a Pint, who charged at the flighty driver.
“Oh no, mate, you’re not going anywhere! You stay right here,” he shouted.
Looking down at me, he asked if I was OK. The nurses were asking the same, their chorus of voices leaving me looking thoroughly confused, which they promptly noted as a possible concussion. Fortunately, I hadn't hit my head—just elbows and knees. After testing that all my limbs were functional, I decided I was intact enough to just want to get home and clean up.
The Man with a Pint chortled. “You’re OK? Wow! That was such a loud crash—I heard it all the way from the pub! Haha! Wow, are you sure you're fine?”
He kept a keen eye on the driver, checking if I wanted to make a formal complaint. I was in a lot of pain, but I reasoned that while the driver hadn't looked before opening his door, I hadn't given the parked cars a wide enough berth either. Still, I had certainly come out of it worse off.
By order of the nurses, the driver handed me three wet wipes with trembling hands to clean off the blood. He was clearly in shock and eager to leave, but under the watchful gaze of the Man with a Pint, he stayed put. When he offered to drive me home, I politely declined. I would rather face a busy, bloody Tube journey home than get into a stranger's car in that state—a self-preservation instinct I’ve carried since childhood.
Once I proved my cognitive faculties were intact under the nurses' interrogation, the scene began to wind down. Realizing he was no longer required, the Man with a Pint excused himself and returned to his friends—a gesture I found terribly polite.
He had offered assistance, offered to confront the driver on my behalf, checked my well-being, and then politely departed—all while expertly balancing his pint, appearing very similarly to his Canadian cousin, Julian from Trailer Park Boys. There was such an unprompted sense of justice in him and I have nothing but deep fondness and appreciation for the man.
I salute those two tired nurses who stayed to inspect my injuries, and I salute you, Man with a Pint. I am truly grateful to live in a city like London, where kindness is never performative, but an understated pragmatic effort to "keep calm and carry on".
Screenshot Trailer Park Boys