Two thousand years after he died, and 55 since Kirk Douglas oiled up to immortalise him, Spartacus has a son – spiritually, at least. His name is Ronnie Pickering. And the 51-year-old amateur fisherman from Hull – who, a neighbour has revealed, “used to have a lovely garden, but like men of his age can’t do it any more” – became the name on everyone’s lips on Monday when a video of him yelling at a motorcyclist was posted on YouTube. It wasn’t Pickering’s overreaction that attracted more than 1m views. It wasn’t his almost sweet eagerness for a fight (bare-knuckle, right here, right now). It was his repeated assertion of identity in the face of absolute apathy.

In dialogue so pithy it merits printing, if not adapting for the big screen, Pickering asks: “Do you know who I am?” The biker replies: “Do I care? Come on, then – who are you, then?” “Ronnie Pickering.” “Who?” “Ronnie Pickering.” “Who?” “RONNIE PICKERING!” “Who the fuck is that then?” “Me.”

It is, of course, possible that Pickering is a complete egoist outraged not only at having to wait to turn right, but at the idea a stranger wouldn’t have heard of his yesteryear boxing exploits in the Humber area. But I prefer to take it philosophically. Pickering here mounts a valiant defence of the worth of the everyman. That no one would have heard of him is precisely the point. We all have worth; we are all someone. Even if our names mean little.

Indeed, if you do happen to be a person of whom others might have heard, wheeling out the “Don’t you know who I am?” line is rarely advisable. Such celebrities as have done so – Reese Witherspoon, Shia LaBeouf, Miley Cyrus, David Hasselhoff – were usually tipsy, speaking to police, and apologetic later.

The sad irony is that Pickering can no longer join the rest of us in saying it with such righteous, impotent indignation: he’s far too famous.

Another country

It’s been four months since the BFI launched Britain on Film, its free online archive documenting the country. Which means four months of my life has been wasted not watching this amazing stuff. The footage shot closest to my house (you can search by location) is five four-minute soundless movies featuring the Davis family. They lived in Harringay, north London, in the mid-60s, and mostly shot themselves sunbathing in the back garden, proudly getting in and out of motors and attending funerals. What’s most shocking in the 20-odd minutes of jumbled video is not the open-coffin shot, nor how few people over 50 have teeth, but how bashful they are. They gather in front of the camera as if for a static snap, then shuffle uneasily when reminded it’s not. Every time they clock the lens, they become shy and self-conscious. And it’s this that most makes them feel like they’re from the very distant past.

The normal rules terminate here

Hopes among Labour party delegates for a swift trip to Brighton on Monday hit the buffers at Three Bridges when they were turfed off the train and into a rail replacement bus. Andy Burnham tweeted crossly; many used it as fuel to support Jeremy Corbyn’s renationalisation plans. Yet I can’t be alone in sometimes feeling excited when I see station staff in hi-vis vests and a couple of elderly double-deckers trundling into the forecourt. Stripped of both the facilities and policing of scheduled transport, such services can be bracingly lawless, with the fights and the diversions, the common ground and the generalised grumbling. Inconvenient, too, of course, should you be in a hurry, or need the loo, or have luggage, a bike, mobility issues or young children. But flying under the radar can be such fun.