On the way to the gym on Friday morning I saw a rock laying in the road and, for the second time recently, had a strong impulse to pick it up and throw it at something.
I thought about throwing it at a parked car to see what it would do.
The same thing happened last week but this time I wanted to throw another rock laying in the street through a shop window.
I honestly have no idea where the urge comes from – I am usually a model citizen. D regularly laughs at what a wuss I am when it comes to doing things that are suspect (climbing over a fence to nose at an abondoned building, etc).
I wondered what would happen if I were to go through with it and throw a rock at a car or through a window: what I would tell the police and what consequences there would be?
Thinking about smashing things reminded me of when I lived in Barcelona when, every time, without fail, that I went to El Corté Ingles (basically Debenhams with flamenco dollies and ashtrays at the bottom of each escalator) the same miserable-looking store detective would follow me around.
One day she was loitering behind me in the kitchen department when I was looking at crockery and I really had to stop myself from picking up a teapot, smashing it on the ground at her feet and saying, ‘How much is that, please?’ before running out the shop.
I wish I had.
Thinking about that in turn reminded me of an encounter I had with the Guàrdia Urbana one evening as I made my way home from Kike, the now-legendary Barcelona bar where we used to hang out. I remember I was drunk and stoned, but fortunately didn’t have any dope or other drug on me that night (I often did).
The Guardia Urbana frequently stopped us at night in those days, I guess because it was late, we were young and looked foreign.
Having only recently arrived in Spain I spoke almost zero Spanish, which the irritated guards soon grasped, resorting to gestures.
When they patted a seat in the back of their van I got in, wondering what was going to happen next.
‘No! No! Sal!’ said a guard, indicating for me to get out of the van.
When he patted the seat again I got in again.
‘No! Sal’ he said.
This happened four times, me getting more discombobulated and the guard getting stroppier.
Eventually an English-speaking local came past and explained that the guard wanted me to empty my pockets onto the seat!
Have you had a run in with the police/authority?
I saw a Robin Ince show once during which he did a whole riff on the "imp of the perverse" – that impulse to do something mad, bad or dangerous which you (hopefully) just manage to hold yourself back from. I sometimes have the impulse, but fortunately have it in check and have scarcely ever had to speak to a policeman! So far…
The need to be slightly violent is strong for many these days I reckon. I felt bloody fantastic making the most hideous noise banging a pan last week (Gaza and all that). Did it for two hours, starting nervously and then absolutely revelling in it. How often can you make a hullaballoo like that? ps I wasn't on my own - that would've been more challenging.