London's loss, Caracas' gain

Ditched by Londoners, it's nice to know that someone stands to benefit from Ken's years of experienc

With his successor doing his bit for Anglo-Chinese relations with his flag-waving "ping pong's coming home" performance in Beijing last weekend, it's nice to see Ken Livingstone back in work this week as a consultant to his old friend Hugo Chavez. London, it seems, is just not big enough for these larger than life political characters.

Apparently Livingstone's brief is to get Caracas moving. Having visited the Venezuelan capital a couple of times myself, I can say that as a regular Tube traveller Ken should at least find the underground system to his satisfaction. Speedy and reliable, cheap and clean, the Caracas metro is among the best in the world; its air conditioned platforms just about the only place in the city you can find any peace and quiet. It was built by the French, of course.

Above ground though, it's a different story. Traffic gridlock, brash unsightly skyscrapers and a headache-inducing haze are the inevitable consequences of a society in which oil is cheaper than water and the automobile has ruled unchecked for decades. Much of the centre of the city was hollowed out to make way for US-style freeways and flyovers – now crumbling – during the last oil boom of the 1970s. Trying to ban Chelsea tractors was one thing; attempting to introduce a congestion zone in Caracas would be like trying to persuade lions of the merits of vegetarianism.

Despite its numerous other achievements, Chavista socialism meanwhile has so far made little progress towards getting the majority of residences out of the barrios that suffocate the city on all sides and into proper housing (though Ken, in one of his redder moments, will surely have privately enjoyed the decision a couple of years ago by the mayor of Caracas to appropriate a couple of private golf clubs to create additional living space). Caracas residents continue to endure levels of violent crime that make South London's knife crisis look like an episode of Trumpton.

All of which means that Ken has his work cut out - but it's nice to know that someone stands to benefit from all those years of experience at the GLC and in City Hall. It's a wonder he still has time for his own radio show. Let's hope he hasn't been taking broadcasting tips from Chavez, whose own radio and TV broadcasts have been known to run into hours and days...

An unusually tanned and relaxed Ben returns from his summer holidays - if those are the right words to describe Scotland in August - next week.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood