There is a boy whose photograph is splashed all over the front page of the local paper today who was viciously attacked by a gang of youths at the weekend. He was so badly beaten, his own reflection didn’t recognise him.
His attackers are typical of hundreds of young males around here: ignorant and intolerant – and there are just too many of them. On this occasion, their victim was chosen because he has Tourette’s syndrome, which is like having a large sign on his back that says Hurt Me. And hurt him they did.
I feel so sorry for him because, according to the report in the paper, when he arrived at the casualty department of the local hospital, he was searched by nurses who discovered that he was wearing women’s knickers, a fact that – believe it or not – has now become a focus of the police investigation.
There are just too many unemployed and unintelligent young people in this area. Families are allowed to breed unchecked, to produce too many atavistic offspring. The village is largely populated by uneducated, randy Catholics who should be made to convert to a more sensible religion or at least be taught the benefits of birth control.
To be honest with you, I am surprised that there is enough cider in the Co-op for all of them.
We walked to Blackwell church yesterday and had a wander around the cemetery. In spite of the heavy rain, my mood was distinctly elevated, an effect achieved in most part by spending a few minutes reading some of the lovely epitaphs on the various headstones. Some are very beautiful and touching, unlike the disgusting graffiti that can be found everywhere in the small graveyard.
A couple of the Jewish graves that reside at the back under an old beech tree have been vandalised more than most, an unfortunate state of affairs that receives frequent high-pitched coverage in the local press. In spite of this, I was not expecting the degree of odium and hate that was to be found in those particular messages and I hope that somebody manages to remove them as soon as possible. Neither would I repeat any of the appalling sentiments here; they are pure filth. The person who did it deserves to be severely punished – but, of course, I suspect his or her identity will never be discovered or disclosed.
The slogans daubed on other headstones and on the heavy church doors were of a more benign – if that is the correct word – nature and mostly alluded to the act of anal sex. I am sure you can imagine their nature. I blame someone called Dokie for most of this stuff because it is his elaborate sig that can found sprayed on almost every available vertical surface. Some of his work will have limited appeal – ‘Hitler was a Derby goalie’, for instance, will be confusing to people who are not fans of English football – and its implications are rather complicated, to say the least.
Meanwhile, on the wooden notice-board at the church entrance, in between posters for the Friday coffee morning, the annual summer fête and various jumble sales, someone had been busy with a silver marker pen. This was in a different hand and was of a more humorous nature. I allowed myself a smile as I read: ‘My mother made me a homosexual’ underneath which some wag had added: ‘If I send her the wool, will she make me one, too?’ Another posed the question: ‘Who was Darwin?’ to which someone had answered, ‘He instigated the Evolution’ – which displays either very sophisticated or very muddled thinking, depending on your point of view.
Before we left for home, I had to look twice at a relatively fresh headstone upon which had been expertly engraved: ‘Here Lies John S . . . ., Father and Husband, Forever Awkward’. Someone desperate to have the final word, I thought. But on closer inspection, I realised the words were actually ‘Forever Loved’.