"Pinsent? Like the rower?"

A torrid tale from Hammersmith

I’ve recently posted a couple of stories from my career in PR and comms. As I’ve said before, I’m not generally one for nostalgia, but I do love a good story.

To be honest, this one’s only related to work because (a) I was commuting at the time and (b) it made the diary page of PR Week. I’m also aware that it involves a very serious subject, and certainly one that I don’t take lightly.

With that caveat, on we go…every word of this is true.

It’s late-September in 2000. I know this because the Sydney Olympics was taking place at the time. That’s relevant to the story.

I was working for the Next Fifteen Group, and having set up a small subsidiary working with internet start-ups, my co-founder Chris and I had taken some office space in Fulham. Living in Chiswick, I had a generally pleasant 30 minute cycle ride to and from work.

However, while it might have been summer in Sydney, in London it was a cold, dark, windy, and very wet evening. Finishing work, I’d dropped my wife a message to say I was leaving the office, jumped on the bike and headed off, ready to get soaked.

Those familiar with this part of London will know that the Hammersmith roundabout is a beast, and not always the safest for a cyclist (it may have been re-worked these days to include cycle lanes - I hope so). Given this particular night was so grim, and there weren’t many people around, I decided on a cheeky short cut.

This took me under the north side of Hammersmith Bridge, and along the pavement in front of two very fine London pubs, the Rutland Arms and the Blue Anchor. The pavement in front of the pubs - actually named Lower Mall - is very wide. This is handy for manoeuvring rowing boats, and absolutely ideal for outside drinking.

This stretch of river is also a hub for rowing. Sitting between the two pubs is the Auriol Kensington Rowing Club and a few doors down is the HQ of British Rowing. This is also relevant to the story.

Fun fact! This very stretch of pavement was used as a location in the James Bond film, No Time To Die. And this video of a fan visiting the site gives you a better sense of it than any words I write.

The pavement, James Bond, and M.

Spending a warm summer evening on this pavement, sharing a few drinks with a group of friends, chatting and watching the sun drop beneath the horizon, is genuinely one of the very best experiences in the world. If you ever get the chance, please, please don’t miss it.

But, as I say, the weather on this particular evening meant that Lower Mall was deserted. Or so I thought.

Just as I was cycling in front of the rowing club, I heard a shout behind.

“Oi! You on the bike. STOP!”

I did. And looked around to see a policeman running through the torrential rain to catch me up. It could have been a scene from Hot Fuzz, had that not been released seven years later.

Experience told me that I was about to get told off for cycling on the pavement. It’d happened before. But I have to say I was surprised that he’d bother, given the weather. I thought I’d pre-empt the dressing down.

“Look, I’m sorry, I just didn’t think tonight…”

“Don’t move,” the bobby interrupted, “I’m going to need your name and address”.

Thinking that was a bit serious for someone caught riding on the pavement, I asked him why.

“You match the description of a man who’s just exposed himself to a woman near here.”

“A flasher?!” I exclaimed, possibly with a certain amount of amusement.

“This is no laughing matter. It’s a serious offence.”

“Yes, obviously,” I agreed, contritely. “What was the description?”

“Male, mountain bike, anorak.”

I couldn’t disagree that I was a decent match.

“Anyway, name?”

“Pinsent”

Glancing towards the rowing club, he replied with some suspicion.

“Pinsent? Like the rower? From the Olympics?”

For those who don’t know, at the time Matthew Pinsent was one of Great Britain’s most celebrated rowers, and had just won his fourth gold medal at consecutive Olympics.

“Yes, that’s right. Pinsent.”

“First name Matthew, I presume?”

“No, it’s Mark.”

This didn’t seem to allay his suspicions. Taking my address, he relayed these details to colleagues over the radio. Before they responded, another policeman came around the corner to join us.

“Has my colleague informed you of the reason you’ve been stopped?”

I confirmed that he had. The new arrival asked his colleague whether my details were being checked.

“Says his name’s Pinsent.”

The same glance towards the rowing club.

“Pinsent? Like the rower? From the Olympics?”

The risk of this falling into some sort of Groundhog Day scenario was avoided by a crackle from the radio.

“Name and address checks out.”

A brief pause when nobody really seems to know what to do next. Another crackle from the radio.

“The victim has some more specific details. She says that the offender has tattoos.”

“Have you got any tattoos,” I was asked.

Reflecting on the crime that had been committed, I asked what seemed like an obvious question.

“Where, exactly, are the tattoos?”

The question was passed on, and after a brief pause the radio crackled again.

“On his arms.”

Though a relief, this seemed odd to me. We were still standing in pouring rain on a cold September night, I’d already been told that the offender was wearing an anorak. And yet his arms were visible? But I didn’t feel I needed to get involved in the investigations more than I already was. I rolled up my sleeves as best I could.

The bobby confirmed over the radio: “No tattoos”.

Another silent pause, longer this time. Then another crackle.

“We’re going to bring the victim down the road by the Rutland in the car. Get the suspect to stand with his bike at the end of the road, and we’ll see if she can positively ID him.”

I did as I was told. After a few seconds, a squad car came down the road, lights on full beam, and stopped about ten metres away. We stayed there for what seemed like a long time.

At this point, it occurred that things could turn quite serious, quite quickly. It was dark, it was raining, and a potentially quite traumatised woman was sitting in a police car looking at a one man identity parade.

Eventually, the car reversed out of the side road. Another long pause, before the radio crackled.

“It’s not him.”

The bobby turned to me: “OK. You can go.”

Drenched, I jumped on my bike and started to pedal off. Only for a few seconds later to hear:

“Oi! Stop”.

I did, and turned around to face the policeman. What the hell was it now?

“Don’t ride your bike on the pavement.”

I think I may have flicked him the Vs.

I arrived home, later than expected, to a rather concerned wife.

“You’re never going to believe this…”