When the teenagers attacked, Jem Clarke had to use all his Spider-Man powers
Jem Clarke is in his very, very early fifties, is five foot zero inches tall and has never left the family home in Cleethorpes, which he still shares with his parents…
One of the greatest pleasures of public transport is eavesdropping, even in these masked-up times.
The unmasked and masked merrily mumble loudly into their mobile phones, sharing their digital dirty laundry. I am often amazed on the early-morning commute at how many people have friends and loved ones who are willing to accept casual chatty calls before 8am.
If I received a call at that hour, I would expect a lifeboat operator informing me an immediate family member had been rescued from some extreme aqua-terror.
I would not expect Shelley (for it was she on the bus) phoning and asking me if I wanted her to get me a carrot-shaped soft toy from Aldi because they’ve got loads in and she’s on her way there now, and incidentally had I seen what Josh was wearing last night – dickhead!
Recently, I was on the top deck with a Deanne, who was explaining loudly to Kelsey that Donna had gone to court for shoplifting: ‘All she’d nicked was some shampoo and they’re prosecuting her. I think it’s disgusting.’
Meanwhile, Marie was explaining that she’d gone back with ‘Lally’, despite his saying that he was going to chop up her mother and post her through Marie’s letter box. Marie rationalised Lally’s thoughts: ‘Even Mam said he was only saying that ’cos he loved me.’
As an extremely short man, I also like imagining that new travellers may not be able to guess my standing height. My uncle explained to me that people are actually the same height from the hip to the shoulder: ‘It’s the leg length what buggers it up for us lot, Jem.’ He was referring to my family’s inter-generational lack of height.
So, on a bus, I always imagine a new persona for myself: a grizzled ex-boxer who now spends the afternoons hawking the pool halls for a patsy to play eight ball for money. In fact, I was a man despatched by his overly demanding mother to the neighbouring town’s Card Factory condolences section. She told me, ‘We’re entering the business end of the year for burials, and some haven’t lived the sort of life that deserves Clintons.’
My alter ego served me well, when a bunch of sinister post-compulsory-education adolescents got on and sat directly behind me. I knew they would be trouble. One had a blue diamond earring. Unless you’re in showbusiness or a 17th-century buccaneer, it’s the signature jewellery of a non-compliant bus-user.
They began singing the theme from the 1960s Spider-Man cartoon. They’d been inspired by the American comic book I was reading. My shoulders find a broadsheet very tiring.
As their singing became bawdier, one tapped me on the shoulder, saying, ‘Excuse me, mate, is Green Goblin in this issue? Do you fancy Mary Jane?’
Closing one eye and gurning slightly, I transformed into a Popeye-like face. Turning round, I growled, in a voice reminiscent of the demon from The Exorcist, ‘All right, the fun’s over, kids. I don’t want to hear another sound from ya. No Spider-Man songs. No nuffin’, ya get me?’
There was silence. I internally congratulated myself on my stellar performance. Then one piped up, ‘Who do you think you are? The Grinch?’
I roared back ‘Yeah, I’m the Grinch ’cos I’ll make sure this is your last Christmas!’
I overdid the volume. My roar silenced the entire bus. All conversations ceased. No comeback even from the culprits. I then sat for ten minutes, wondering if the silence was out of embarrassment more than fear, but hey ho.
As each bus stop went by, I suddenly realised that at some stage I was going to get off, and then the trio of quite tuneful tearaways would see how tiny I was. I thought, ‘What if they chase me? Even my local street-smarts and knowledge of passages won’t compensate for my game leg and portly wobble!’
It was almost my stop. There was no sign the surly students were getting off. It began snowing outside. I was literally a sitting duck (well, not the duck part).
Then the boys moved to get off the bus – miraculously, one stop before mine! As they passed me, the blue-studded boy turned and said to me, ‘You take care, pal,’ with steely eyes that wished the opposite.
Emboldened, I nodded with my one good eye. In a pantomime-Blackbeard voice, barely disguising my relief, I said, ‘Oh, I’ll take care, all right. No one will take more care than me! People call me the caretaker – trust me!’
When I got off the bus, I clutched my Card Factory bag a little tighter, and said a silent prayer. The Spider-Man of Cleethorpes had had a narrow escape.
