Friday, October 01, 2004

That's your boyfriend, that is.

I live in a street which houses people from all over the world. No-one causes any problems, in fact we're all very nice to each other, except Mr E.Jitt (probably not his real name) in the Celtic shirt who lives next door, insofar as he lives at all. He comes home at about 1 a.m., any day of the week. He's so pissed he can't find his keys, or if he can, he can't find the lock. So he shouts in the street to be let in. "George!" he yells, and again "George!"."Let me f***in in". "George!". And so on. The eponymous George, another Scot, is asleep, having been on the piss all day since his Breakfast Fosters. I think it's probably our turn to call the police, 'cos Mr & Mrs Siddiqi from over the road did it last time, all of 2 days ago. Mrs Massup, a gentle soul, is contemplating, no longer whether she should commit foul murder, but has moved on to method. I favour an Animaniacs-style suspended piano/head interface, but I realise that this may be difficult to set up, and it'll be tricky hiding the evidence.

I find that Fosters is such an inelegant drink for breakfast, n'est-ce pas?

No comments: