One evening last week, just out of the barber's and on my way to the pub, I was trotting through one of Brixton's darker alleyways. A group of young men stood lazily under a street light. As I approached, one left the pack and crossed the road. I thought nothing of it; I have walked down here scores of times in the past 28 years. Then he stood, tall and slim, four-square in front of me. I tried to avoid him. He shifted and blocked my path. I stopped and stared: his hood was drawn closely to conceal all but his eyes.

"Give me everything in your fucking pocket, old man." My idea of a mugger is one of firm voice, but this one stuttered. "Ah eh say, give me your fucking money." His voice trailed off. He seemed uncertain. I stood and stared, saying nothing for a short while. Then I shouted: "No!" His right hand was in his pocket now. I whispered softly: "If you take that hand out of your pocket, I'll pop your fucking neck." He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The expletives came thick and fast.

I was all over him now. I had slipped off my lightweight coat and wrapped it round my right arm as a shield. I would not take my eye off that hand in his pocket. I was growing in confidence. I had created a new verb: to Bin Laden. I warned him that I was going to Bin Laden his fucking house.

I could smell fear all over this punk. He opened his mouth to speak and I was on the button: "Shut your fucking mouth and piss off now." He turned to leave, then stopped. The small crowd started to cross the road towards me. Too old to run, I thought there are things a man should die for. Then one young man said: "Father, ah you dat?" (In Brixton, I am known as "father", and "ah you dat?" means "is that you?".) And turning to my assailant, he said: "Yuh fucking mad. Ah father that."

I said quietly: "I am going to teach you a lesson you will never forget." I turned round and walked towards the Underground, and went round and round aimlessly. I passed the police station. It never crossed my mind to enter it. That night, I lay on my bed and I wondered. The police had bigger fish to fry. I had to deal with this matter within the community. I mobilised a small squad of friends. We would find who it was and where he lived.

Next day, we eased up some dark stairs, rang the doorbell at one of the flats and drew back as he opened the door. We jumped him at once, slammed him down on the settee, and rifled his pockets. He had £30. "My name is Bin Laden," I said.

The flat was bare. African trinkets stood sadly on a cabinet. I saw his face now. A young Somali. He and his parents had sought and won asylum. Poverty was everywhere. I told him that Brixton was a dangerous place, that it was easy to lose his life here (though maybe, I thought, not as easy as in Somalia).

I took up the £30, crumpled it in my hand, threw it at him and walked out. Crime solved.

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