The Wall

I’m generally a person of good hygiene, sufficient education and moderate habits. I don’t play music loudly; I keep my house in good condition, keep myself to myself and always pick up after my dog when walking. Come to think of it, I am actually a fucking boring old fart, but hardly the sort of person to inspire totally irrational hatred from others (on the net doesn’t count by the way, that is merely a perk).

It appears that dear sweet little old me became somewhat of a magnet to psychotic chavs. Let me elaborate slightly; very large, ugly, and frighteningly stupid female psychotic chavs who scared the living shit out of me just by staring glassily through their overly blue eyeshadowed poppy out eyes.

Their aggressive posture, foul language and (this cannot be stressed enough) vast size was terrifying enough, but they all seemed to cart about little versions of themselves, fat, stupid and ugly kids of about seven who were for some unfathomable reason still in a bloody pushchair. I kept waiting for the director to shout cut and them all to remove their horror suits, put down the cheap lager cans and go to the canteen for a nice cuppa.

Sadly, no matter how much I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, this was not the case, and all that resulted was a mild case of conjunctivitis and some very disturbing dreams.

Seeing these horrors in the street is traumatising enough, but just imagine looking out of your back window to see four of these brides of chucky attempting to overturn the 5’ high double skinned brick wall at the end of your garden, and what’s more showing an application to the task that their former teachers and juvenile detention officers would be amazed by.

Did they succeed? Hell yeah! They are human ****ing bulldozers fuelled by Harp lager and pure vitriol. JC Bamford would go out of business supplying heavy machinery if people were more willing to harness this sort of power.

A couple of tons of falling Victorian brickwork makes a rumbling sound, similar to that of a wheelie bin being moved, which is, now I consider it, slightly disappointing. No big crashing noises or rising dust. No shouts of hooray or rampaging hoards of these harpies. They simply waddled off into the night, a couple of them raising what initially looked like a pork sausage (but I have now concluded was a middle digit) in my direction.

Now whatever heroics you may think you may perform upon witnessing such wanton destruction and animal behaviour, it simply isn’t the case.

I was left there looking at my new pile of bricks with an ‘O’ shape slowly forming on my lips and feeling slightly bemused that they would be waving pork derivatives at me.

I picked up the telephone and dialled the police who responded enthusiastically two days after the call, tutting and taking sharp intakes of breath like I had just asked them for an estimate to re-build the pissing thing.

That night I came home from work to find those in the house hysterical and the Zombie faction were back. Now here it gets slightly surreal in places, but bear with me…it is true.

They had been hurling abuse and threats around in my absence, causing my mother (who is living with me at the moment) great distress. I looked out my back window once more, to see three humongously fat chavs, one with her teenage daughter, performing the YMCA next to my fence at the side of the property in full voice and action. They did go on to destroy the fence and steal all my hanging baskets etc, but nothing will remain with me as long or fill me with as much dread as the quivering turkey flesh under the arms of three underdressed, overweight hideous monsters as they lifted their lump hammer arms to make the ‘Y’. I live in a village and I now have a vastly different mental picture when someone mentions the ‘village people’ than you do.

Once again our fine constabulary were called, but this time they arrived somewhat flustered that very night…only two hours after the urgent call! Who says British Law enforcement isn’t improving?

One week later they started making arrests. Finally having had breakfast products waved at me, threats of personal harm screamed at myself and my family, boundaries decimated and being subjected to the worst dance troop since that gay chap with a perm Richard somebody or other started making fitness videos, I will come to the point of this rant. I bet you thought there wasn’t going to be one didn’t you?

PC Thompson (who I swear only responded with such commendable speed due to the fact he had fallen in love with my dog) finished taking my statement and asked me if I have any questions. He had rung into the station to get a crime number and in the course of listening in to the call, I learnt that all three women have been arrested for violence.

A badly shaken uncon who still had visions of wobbling lard hills asked ‘Am I going to get my head kicked in?’
He shook his head sadly ‘I’m sorry love,I can’t do anything about that until it happens, but I will say to you, don’t fight back’

Huh? What the fuck? This fine upholder of truth and justice just told me to take my severe beating and possible death at the hands of the ugly sisters in the hope that if I survive at least they wont sue me for breaking one of their fingernails in my feeble efforts to escape!

The deal is that as a boring fart who obeys the law and ensures that life around her is not complicated by her actions is fair game, but if you are a known violent criminal, the law should protect you from law abiding citizens defending themselves.

Oh and the reason I was subject to all this?

Chav 1:
“Yoo think yoo are soo fookin better van me yoo slag”.

Well duh!