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February 19, 2009
He’s listening to ‘Killing in the name of’ by Rage Against the Machine. A full-length ginger beard topped with half-frame glasses and a balding head. His tiny legs power tiny feet wrapped in Nike Air trainers. The red rims circling his eyes suggest a certain level of drinking, fuelled by the insistent tapping of those trainers and the nodding of his ginger head. An American voice pierces the silence on the tube – silent except for the deafening din of travelling on the Victoria line – she is amazed by something stereotypically English. That’s not true, I can’t hear her. I’m guessing.