The Rag and Bone Blasphemer
Celebrating the variety of characters a city like London has to offer
There is an event that happens on my street on a daily basis. At five AM precisely, a voice is heard. The voice of an old South Londoner. It’s a male voice that starts low and persistent, like one of the old rag-and-bone men who up until very recently pushed their two wheeled carts up and down the rows of Victorian houses crying, “Pig iron! Old iron, an’ rag bone!”. But my man, though he sounds as if he were about to ask the slumbering residents for their metal scraps, lets loose with a cascade of obscenities. “For F@#K’S SAKE! COME ON YOU F$%KIN’ IDIOT! RAAAHGH! F%$K OFF! Come on! COME ON! ” and words to that effect all the way up the street until they drift off into the distance like profane church bells.
At first I cowered in alarm at the Rag-and-Bone-Blasphemer and kept out of sight until he safely passed by the front bay window, but after a few early morning experiences of him, I couldn’t resist taking a peak. There he was, lurching up the middle of our street in a Hi-vis jacket with a stout walking stick, and a pronounced limp. Four letter words tumbled out of his mouth like some kind of ant-meditative mantra and as he passed, he seemed to have no awareness of his actions or their effect.
I first heard him on a particularly hot midsummer morning. The windows were wide open to allow the breeze to travel from the cool of the gardens behind our row of houses, through the bedroom and out into the street in front. It wasn’t alarming at first, just low and distant, “for f&%ck’s sake… come on…,” then as he got closer it rose in volume, not unlike Thursday morning rubbish collection. “Come on! COME ON! F@#KIN IDIOT! RAAAGH!”. This was definitely more alarming but, like thunderstorms in August, it quickly passed and the birds began the dawn chorus once more.
Right outside the window, his intensity is prodigious, even if his vocabulary is somewhat limited. I assume the R&B Blasphemer must have a rather extreme and uncontrollable version of Tourette’s, but that is only a guess. Also, where does he go? Why so early? And why do we never hear a twenty minute evening performance as he comes back home? These are questions I cannot answer, and will never ask him but, as the years have passed , I have found his obscene, self anger strangely comforting. It's part of the background (and sometimes foreground) noise of our street, and I would miss him if he wasn’t there.
I think the weather affects him as I’ve noted that his level of aggression, in the tone and volume of his endless tirade, varies depending on whether there is a high or low pressure front coming in. Perhaps he’s a sort of human swear-ometer. I could be wrong but I have a suspicion that when there is less humidity in the air his ‘f$%ks’ become more placid.
I have no idea where he lives or what he does during the day, but he is a daily reminder of why I love London so much. His eccentric five o’clock performance enriches the experience of living in this crazy city. I can’t help thinking that, if he were American, he would be forcibly treated in the name of the ‘common good.’ What a shame that would be. Ultimately, only he knows if he’s happy but he harms no one, and the fact that he exists adds something unique to our street.
Recently I was on holiday and so my sleep was unbroken by the R&B Blasphemer’s cries. I found that I missed them. The morning was sad and lonely without his swear-y shouts. I guess, for our street, it’s like the comforting strike of the town clock, except instead of ‘Bong’ it’s ‘For f@#k’s sake! COME ON!’
At least for us, surrounded as we are by nocturnal cat fights and the screams of fox copulation, the Rag and Bone Blasphemer fits in perfectly. No one really minds. No one is really hurt. And if the occasional hour of sleep is lost due to his full volume profanity, it’s worth it just to watch and listen to this fascinating human being.
So, here’s to you, Rag and Bone Blasphemer. Long may you swear.