If I Ruled the World…

RantsAug 30 200815 Comments

Oh, hai 1am on Saturday morning! Long time since I’ve seen you, no? Well, actually, that’s not strictly true, obviously. I mean, I did see you last Saturday morning, but that was by choice, because I’d been out on the tiles, having fun and partying like a rock star and stuff.* This Saturday morning, though, you and I met on account of the near-riot that was apparently happening a couple of streets away.
Fun times, 1am-on-Saturday-morning, fun times…

Yes, folks, the locals have been restless again. This happens every year when the football season starts, and is the main reason, other than those hideous “strips” British men wear all the freakin’ time (as if dressing up as a footballer is a valid outfit choice when you’re actually a 33-year-old accountant called Clive**, who hasn’t been near a football field in years. If ever.) why if I ruled the world, I would ban football, without a second thought. Yes, you heard me right, I would ban it. And yes, I know there are lots of you out there who enjoy watching a bunch of men chase a ball around a field, but that’s too bad, because this is my world-ruling fantasy, and in it I refuse to have my sleep disturbed every weekend because the people who watch football around here tend to want to fight about it afterwards. Seriously.

Actually, on second thoughts, maybe I won’t ban football. Because, as boring as football is to me, I have to concede that there are lots of football fans out there who do not morph into The Army of the Undead every time they watch a match. It’s just unfortunate that a large percentage of the ones that do happen to drink at the Ghetto Pub, which is in the estate behind ours. The Ghetto Pub is far enough way from us that it shouldn’t really bother us at all, but the people who frequent it have other ideas, and every time there’s a football match on (which is more or less EVERY WEEKEND at this time of year), they all come pouring out of it at midnight and start howling at the moon and chanting incantations to the devil, before finally succumbing to houting mindlessly at each other and engaging in running battles. This goes on for about an hour, by which time everyone within a half-mile radius is awake, and I’m fit to be tied.

No, the police don’t care.

The next day, should we try to take a walk around the area, we will find broken bottles, discarded takeaway cartons, and – yes – pools of vomit. Niiiice.

So, OK, football gets a reprieve. The Ghetto Pub is banned, though. Totally. In fact, all pubs on housing estates are banned under my rule. No good can come of them. If people want to get so drunk they stand in the street screaming and vomiting of a Friday night, they can go and do it in the town centres, where there’s a better chance of them being picked up by the police/run over by a bus.  Sorry, people who live in town centres. Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?

Can you tell I’m feeling just a little bit sleep deprived this morning? Yes, indeed I am. Because, not only did I spent part of the night listening to the Lobotomised at Birth yodeling in the street, I was also woken up at around 8:30am this morning by The Dog Who Barks. Who barks incessantly. For hours. On end. Early. Late. All the freaking time. Soon, The Dog Who Barks will be joined by The Man Who Washes His Car With the Radio Cranked Up. And then they will both be joined by The Girl Who Hates Other People’s Noise And Who Is Just Grateful That Guns Are Illegal In This Country Or She Would Totally Be In Jail By Now. (That would be me, just in case you’re wondering.)

* Deep Breath *

Just while I’m here, though, and ruling the world, and all…


Chewing gum
Those stupid “personal”

MP3 player things that have stupid little tinny SPEAKERS on them. THE HELL is that about?
Whistlers. Obviously.
People who walk really slowly in crowded areas.
The phrase “I could care less”. Because it’s “I couldn’t care less” and it’s driving me insane.

Feel free to add to this list, folks. Because I surely will…

* Not strictly true
** No offense to accountants called Clive, obviously. Hi, Clives! Love you!