There have been a bunch of rampages in the news over the past week or so -- probably some new and spectacularly nasty drug mix doing the rounds -- but none so horrible as the teenaged gang (four boys and two girls) who started on the people leaving Heaven and worked their way down the South Bank, targeting fags, the french, anyone else who pissed them off.
As you've probably guessed from the flowers, somebody died; a guy called David Morley who was chatting with mates on the South Bank, which (frankly) is just something you do. I was doing it last night. It's a nice place; populated, friendly, great views, and any time of day and night there's enough skaters and graffiti artists about you won't feel lonely. On the way to see my sister, we walked past the pile of flowers and candles. I tried photographing that, but ... I don't know, I'm not so good with expressions of grief.
I photographed a couple of withered flowers on a bench nearby, instead (Guardian Unlimited says that was where he was chatting to friends), feeling very angry. Even though I knew they'd caught the people responsible, and that these peoples' lives were now effectively over; I was angry because they had expected that beating someone up wouldn't matter, wouldn't have any consequences.
Ten to one their defence will be, "but I didn't mean to..."
... and the worst of it is, some fucking jury might even let them off for that.