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Motorcycle Morons

I’m beginning to sound like an old curmudgeon, moaning about this and that, but here I go again . . .

I bloody hate idiots. That is to say: I do not hate the unfortunate individuals who are idiotic in the medical sense, but in the general remedial sense and more specifically, idiots on motorbikes.

To specify even further, it is the idiots who insist on whizzing around the recreation ground at the back of our house on those ridiculous mini-bikes that really get my goat. They are not allowed to be there at all, but since they pay no heed to any rules or regulations designed to prohibit the use of such annoying machines on public land and because there is never anyone around to enforce this sensible policy, there they always are, sticking two fingers up to the law.

Watch them as they glide around: Oh what grace they display! Three or four large delinquents atop their comedy contraptions, making a strident racket, churning up the football pitch in readiness for the under-14s Sunday game, getting in the way of cheerful people out for a pleasant stroll, and generally making errant nuisances of themselves.
What annoys me most about them, apart from their death-defyingly tiny intellects, is their ignorant and anti-social attitude toward the general public. They pay no attention to small children, unless it is one of their own brood riding his or her own mini-bike; dogs; or the elderly while they are zooming around – the idiot bikers, that is, not the elderly who tend not to zoom around much at all.

Apart from anything else, what they are doing is dangerous. Before long, someone is going to get seriously injured. (I must admit, as well as my colourful vocal protestations that I often feel compelled to direct towards them as they pass, I would dearly love to hurt one of them. I would love to be the Moor that unhorses a few of them – on a regular basis – but, alas, due to the fear of imprisonment, one is forced to keep one’s violent compulsions carefully in check. And, apart from the risk of their inevitable retaliation, I am sure I would not receive any support from any official agencies if I were to bravely mount a physical challenge. This is of course depressing, but not surprising.)

Yesterday, whilst Audrey and I were enjoying our evening promenade, we were accosted by an oversized, vulgar young man (you could hardly see the bike beneath him) who was using his limited grasp of the English language to demonstrate his sadness that Audrey had wandered into his path. When I informed him that I and my dog had every right to be there whilst he, on the other hand, did not, he spat at me! As he trundled off into the night, angrily revving his little comedy engine, Audrey looked up at me as if to say: ‘Don’t – ’

‘Let’s go home, kid,’ I told her, after I had taken a moment to calm myself.

On the Fantastic hi-fi today:
Floored Genius: the best of Julian Cope and The Teardrop Explodes 1979-91,
At Folsom Prison – Johnny Cash,
I’m Not Following You – Edwyn Collins,
Pool It! – The Monkees
(Did you know, The Monkees didn’t write their own songs, didn’t play their instruments, and Mike Nesmith didn’t even wear his own hat.)


Urgh! Audrey and I have been invaded.

It has been obvious for a few weeks now that some kind of tiny animal – or animals – have been coming and going from a small but ever-widening hole near the drain, outside in our back yard.

Audrey has been rather excitedly snuffling away around the edges of the muddy aperture, sometimes even managing to actually freely poke her eager snout about five or six inches inside, whilst I have been somewhat fascinated by what nature of animal it could actually be.

I have been romantically imagining some winsome little creatures: a comfortable family of cute, furry voles or a pair of loving moles, or even, perhaps, an errant colony of happy rabbits, who, having un-fortuitously lost their bearings whilst collecting acorns one foggy evening, hastily set up a makeshift underground shelter, before attempting to hop across the rec’ in a few days time and triumphantly return home to worried family and friends. Hmm… not so, I’m afraid.

This morning, a man from the council had a look at the hole (I decided I had no choice but to call him) and, without hesitation, glanced at me and said: ‘Rats.’

I feel considerably unperturbed about allowing him to strategically distribute his deadly poisons – but what is one to do? I’m sorry for the rats and their inevitable fate, but my hands are tied: I have a small dog to think about. I can’t have disease-carrying rodents scampering around everywhere, busily trying to tunnel their way into the kitchen. So, poison it is. Sorry, rats.

On another note: today I shall be busy upgrading the studio computer with some exciting new hardware. More on this later… Here is what will be on the hi-fi while I’m working (I find it best to prearrange these kinds of things):

Serge Gainsbourg – Du Jazz dans le Ravin
Hank Willaims – Forty Greatest Hits
Glenn Tillbrook – The Incomplete Glenn Tillbrook
Sam’s Town – The Killers (- why do they remind me of Roxy Music?)
Crowded House – Together Alone (Audrey’s favourite)
Johnny Cash – At Folsom Prison.