Diary – 1 January 1970 | 1 January 1970

After Wednesday’s Tube strike, most Londoners will have decided again that the only solution is a bicycle. But there’s a dark side to cycling in the city. Since I bought my first bike a year or so ago I have been astonished by the outbursts of spittle-flecked fury pedestrians unleash upon cyclists. Any minor deviation from the letter of the law — a quick pedal on the pavement, a whizz through Hyde Park — induces instant Tourette’s syndrome in passers-by: ‘You stupid f—–ing cow! Get off your f—–ing bike!’ etc., etc., followed by a furious rant about how, literally, lethal bicycles are. Last week I crept cautiously through a red light on Oxford Street, craning left and right to make sure the coast was clear — no traffic, no pregnant shoppers, no old ladies pushing tartan wheelie-bags. I had, however, been spotted. About 15 feet further on, a man stepped into the road in front of me and shouted, ‘C—–, I saw you! C—–!’ ‘What’s wrong with you? Why do you care?’ I asked, hopelessly.