The Cock and the Car

I was wandering back from work one afternoon when I noticed my car had been vandalized. There were deep key marks down the length of one side, right down to the metal. It wasn’t a posh car, just a dusty, knackered old Mark 4 Golf (‘rides like a Thai prostitute!’ – Top Gear Magazine) but I loved it. As I wandered around to the front, it became clear that the damage wasn’t just limited to a cursory keying – this was full-on vandalism. There, on the bonnet of the car, scratched deep, was

a cock.

A cock. I couldn’t believe it. A cock. On my car. A lovingly drawn shaft and helmet scored for all time into my beloved jalopy.

I went inside. My younger girlfriend was sat, dressed like Cinderella’s Buttons, listening to white noise with a lady yodelling on top. Young people, honestly.

‘What’s up, honey?’ she called.

‘It’s my car. Someone’s defaced my car. They’ve drawn a cock on it.’

‘It’s London, babe,’ she said, breezily, swaying her head in time to the static.

Well, people might draw genitals on cars where you live, you crrrazy hipster, but here they don’t, I thought but didn’t say.

I was a pressure cooker for the next hour. A cock on my car. Why? How? Mainly why? I decided to call Emma. She used to be a lawyer, after all. She, at least, would be a voice of reason in all of this. After three failed attempts she finally answered.

Em:	I told you not to call me again.
Me:	Hilarious. Listen, you’re not going to believe this. Some little shit has scratched a cock on my car!

I didn’t get the opportunity to finish the story, as there followed ten minutes of raucous laughter and mockery, some of which was extremely unkind. Emma was patently going to be useless, so I put the phone down on her, mid-roar, and called Nicola.

Nic:	What’s up? You split up with someone again?
Me:	No. Not yet.
Nic:	Oh. So what’s up?
Me:	Well, someone’s scratched a cock on my car.
Nic:	What – keyed it?
Me:	Yes.
Nic:	Wow. Shit. [Pause] That’s a hate crime.
Me:	Is it?
Nic:	Yep.
Me:	Really?
Nic:	Yep. Classic.
Me:	Classic?
Nic:	Yeah.
Me:	Yes. Yes, it is, isn’t it? That’s what I thought. It’s a classic hate crime.
Nic:	You shouldn’t let them get away with it. Call the police. I would. I think they have a unit for that sort of thing.
Me:	Do they?
Nic:	Expect so. That’s abuse, plain and simple. It’s homophobic abuse.

Nicola is an amazing actor and has played a lot of detectives in her time, so when she says something about law enforcement, I believe her. In the same way I’d believe Martin Shaw if he talked about open-heart surgery, or Robert Powell if he disclosed what really happened at the Last Supper.

Buoyed by our conversation, I put the phone down and immediately called the nearest police station, who duly transferred me to the relevant unit. Within five seconds of calling and explaining my situation, I could hear a wheezing noise that may or may not have been laughter in the background. In my mind I chose to rebrand it as an asthma attack.

To the credit of the local crime team, a mere hour later a young man in uniform appeared, clutching a Moleskine, the notebook of Hemingway and trainee coppers.

Policeman:	So … what’s happened?
Me:	My car has been the victim of a homophobic attack.
Policeman:	Your car?
Me:	Yes.
Policeman:	OK. Is your car gay?
Me:	No! I mean … I don’t know – I haven’t asked.
Policeman:	Right …
Me:	What I mean is that I’m gay and I’ve been targeted. There’s a cock keyed on the bonnet. Look!

I gesture in the vague direction of the bell-end. The copper moves to the front of the car to study it more closely.

Me:	See it?
Him:	Yes.
Me:	See the cock?!

There is a long pause. What’s he playing at? I think. Finally, he breaks the silence.

Him:	The cock?
Me:	Yes.
Him:	Oh.
Me:	What?
Him:	Looks like a smiley face to me.

Everything goes very quiet. Silence except for the thumping of my pulse. I go around to join him.

Him:

Look. See? Two eyes and a smile.

As he said it the image in front of me transformed. Suddenly the shallow shaft wasn’t a shaft at all – it was two downward strokes representing eyes. The helmet – that expansive semicircle – wasn’t a helmet but a broad, beaming grin. The vandal’s scratches had gone from angry penis to Cheshire Cat in a heartbeat.

There was a long pause, finally punctuated by the policeman clearing his throat. I guess they learn that at Hendon – how to cut through awkward moments with a classic copper’s cough.

Then horror dawned on me, the horror of what he must be thinking. Either it had been so long since I’d seen a cock that I no longer knew what one looked like (or at least couldn’t distinguish between one and a smiley face) OR I am so obsessed with cocks that I see them everywhere, even on the bonnets of cars. I’m like that character in The Sixth Sense – I see penises. ALL THE TIME.

We wandered down the street towards his panda car. I tried to make small talk. It failed. It was then we noticed that all the other cars had been defaced. They too had smiley faces and scarred sides. I hadn’t been singled out. I hadn’t been targeted. There was no penis. There was no homophobic hate crime. In fact there was nothing but a lingering sense of humiliation that still makes itself felt every time I think back.

The Moleskine shut, the key turned in the panda’s ignition and the policeman drove away. In a fit of humiliation and despair I scratched a pair of tits on my girlfriend’s bike.

That’s London for you.