People are a pain in the fucking arse and further good reason for legalising assault rifles.

I do not care how many sickly brats you have put in matching duffle coats and who each carry a backpack crammed full of internet bought antihistamines, it does not give you, your granny, your vacant trophy Mrs and your dog some sort of right of way on the pavement. I am not hopping out into a fucking bus lane because you do not want to miss a minute of the unrepeatable piss water your little gang of middle England asbo wannabes is currently spouting. Nor does it absolve you from causing a pile up if I and the twenty other people behind you are trying to get somewhere as you all doddle along looking at how little Peregrine (Peregrine? I shit you not!) is terrified of cracks in the pavement.

I further reserve the right to beat you to death with your own ironically unlaced shoes if I am sitting in a pub and you cannot close the door behind you thus leaving me to freeze to death (no matter where on a lady I manage to blag to warm my hands).

And finally (for the moment), when I phone you up saying “about this CCJ and imminent stat demand” do not pretend you know nothing about it, such mischief is tedious, particularly if I spoke to you on Thursday and explained the whole she bang for the second time that week.