I don’t usually blog about me or my general day-to-day stuff but I need to let off some steam. I can’t sleep now, again, because I’m still trembling with hostility. I’ve just gone in next door barefoot in the rain and nearly broke the door down with my fist. A crowd of people spilled out from the packed hallway confused and gurning to see me shouting at them to shut the fuck up. I usually wouldn’t say boo to a duck, but press the right buttons at the right time and I go off like a fucking rocket.
I don’t mind the odd party but you should hear these funts*. Three or four nights a week sometimes. Saturdays, Sunday’s Wednesdays, any days. They don’t care. They don’t care that this is a residential road. They don’t care that we have a kid or are just about to have another. They don’t care that we’ve banged on that door thirty times already. Thing is they can’t just listen to music; they have to whoop and holler all the time, and play bongos, badly.
The missus has tried talking to them during the day when they’re not chewing their own faces off and this week she gave them one more chance before we take legal action, and they were very apologetic. So you’d think they’d pipe down this weekend. But nope. They’ve fired the bongo player but they’ve hired more whoopers. And there’s not much you can do these days. The cops don’t care. And the legal route doesn’t look worthwhile. Me? I’m finding it very hard to resist fucking with them in my special own way. I could get very creative with the clothes on their washing line. Or you can have all kinds of fun with ketchup and letterboxes. Some nights I have to try very hard not to carry out some of the shit that goes through my head when I’m lying there listening to their fucking whooping. Inconsiderate wankbags.
*If anything good has come out of this night it’s the creation of the word funt.