Beijing I – Flash Mob

Why do Chinese McDonald's need armed guards? Let me explain...

One of the delights of traveling to far-off, exotic destinations is the chance to experience cultural performances and sample the food. In Beijing, capital and grandest city of the most populous country on earth and repository of three thousand years of unbroken cultural history, this is especially true. So as we stumbled out of a Grand Master Flash concert, lurched in front of a speeding taxi and bellowed “McDonald's,” at the startled driver in drunken five-part harmony, I imagined a Lonely Planet contributor sneering disdainfully though his dreadlocks and stupid Tibetan beanie.

“Fuck you, Starshine Dylan Oakencock or whatever you fucking name is,” I laughed – possibly manically –  to the uncomprehending cheers or the four Englishers I had met earlier. Because, and let’s be honest for a moment, traditional music and dance – with the exception of Irish and Pirate – is crap. Especially so in most of Asia where it’s all puppets and screeching. But Grand Master Flash had been fantastic. Sweaty, old, hopefully drug-addled, he had made us dance like it was 1983, to mis-paraphrase Prince. This is the man who had simultaneously invented one of my favourite types of music – turntableism, and one of my favourite words – turntableism.

My four new BFFs and I sat in the still-stationary taxi, four in the backseat. I have, of course, forgotten their names but they were mildly posh so I’ll use suitable pseudonyms.

“Don’t worry,” yelled Chauncy Fobrent-Gleeb, “I speak mandarin. Ma don ards.”

“That’s not Mandarin, you bender,” opined Frosgoat Dimply-Nipples, “you’re just saying McDonald's in a racist accent.”

It seemed to work, however, and we were soon speeding through the night. Far, far away he dumped us in front of the golden arches.

“You all owe me 10 Yuan,” said Stephen Thumping-Bumtrot once he had paid for the cab. To the consternation of our little group, the restaurant was closed, so we did the only sensible thing and broke in to steal a menu.

“We can show this to the next taxi driver,” exclaimed Sodomy Feswick-Hyphen. So we did, and lo the next one was open, although it was getting light by then. We all ordered an obscene amount of terrible food, some of which we even ate. The rest we threw at each other.

At 6am, furry-mouthed and covered in gherkin, we called it a night and retired to our hostel, secure in the knowledge that we had acquainted ourselves thoroughly with China’s rich cultural heritage.