I am all for charity. Hell, I’ve even registered myself as one. But I’m sick to the impacted wisdoms of the clipboard-wielding hippies taking over the streets, imploring me to sign endless reams of direct debit forms for the sake of the poor children/donkeys/amputees/the entire continent of Africa.

It is the same with all these things. The more you are saturated with something, the more it a) irritates the fuck out of you and b) the more you become oblivious for your own sanity. Right now I am more of the ‘A’ persuasion, but I am loitering on the borders of ‘B’.

Perhaps we would all do better to buy The Big Issue from one of the many homeless souls in London. After all, the influx of free papers must be putting the poor bastards slowly but surely out of business.

Charity begins at home but the UK seems to be terminally overrun with the po-faced Nimby Brigade, who would rather lament the state of every other country except our own. This doesn’t apply to America of course, from which such mentalism pours we just shit ourselves instead.

It makes me cranky.

I know it’s not very genteel of me to say so, but I fucking hate my neighbours. You’ll soon see why.

Specimens 1 & 2

South African couple. Live downstairs. Play shit ‘world’ music at full volume. Shout at each other over shit ‘world’ music, instead of turning full volume down.

He and she leave for work at 7.25am and 7.30am respectively. He and she slam inner and front doors separately, in quick succession, as if in blind rage and attempting to rip doors from hinges. Wall behind inner door is now dented and about to crack like a Californian fault line. My alarm clock is rendered useless.

Fucking inconsiderate twunts.

Specimen 3

Unemployed, BNP voter next door. Married, one son, looks like a pitbull. Beats his wife. (Probably.)

Pride and joy is a vintage Jaguar. Dark blue, leather trim, walnut dash. Kept under wraps to presumably protect against scratching and vagaries of British weather.

Woke whole street up at 2am on Tuesday morning roaring, “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, YOU C*NT!!!” and bashing on the driver door of a Peugeot 206 parked outside his house.

Turns out Peugeot 206 had accidentally nudged gift-wrapped and beloved Jag. Pitbull continued intimidating shouting at full volume for 15 minutes, while attempting to drag Peugeot driver out of car, presumably to rip them to shreds with his bare hands.

And how did Pitbull see that Peugeot 206 had dared to breathe on his car at 2am?

Because he was sitting in his house, staring at the damn car like a demented watchman, that’s why. Just waiting for a reason to go absolutely fucking postal.

Atrocious, eardrum-perforating music and certified psychopaths. Welcome to my manor, readers.

I’m fucked, aren’t I?

This post about freeloading visitors from Greta She Elephant merely confirms what my Mother always told me.

“If one must allow the guests in, get rid of them after three days. For like fish, they will have gone off.”

Wise words indeed.

They are particularly prudent in these modern times, where social graces have been somewhat eroded. Apparently people who are vaguely beyond ‘hello, my name’s blah’ believe it’s absolutely fine to land on the doorstep and fester up the sofa for the next three weeks.

I fear if manners were a slab of Edam, we would be grated down to the rind.