Idiots

How To Educate An Idiot

by Enormous on April 7, 2010

My retarded ex-next-door-neighbour has moved back in, much to the annoyance of everyone from number 29 upwards to the school.

He disappeared at the end of the summer last year after he trashed his house one evening during a drunken ‘barbeque’ he was enjoying with a few of his mentally dispossessed ex-army buddies from Newcastle.

I bumped into him in the street yesterday and was surprised that he actually offered me an apology.

‘Sorry about that thing before. You know, burning your fence down and that.’

For some odd reason, I told him it was all right, and to just be careful not to do anything like it again.

He was glad I accepted his apology and even went on to promise further reparations. ‘I’ll come round and fix up that dent in your kitchen wall if you like.’

‘No need. Just try to behave in future. Ha ha.’

I want as little to do with him as possible. (Apart from being so thick that light actually bends around him, he is also very frightening.)

‘I’ve been going to them evening classes, you know.’

‘Evening classes!? You? Erm . . . ahem . . . I mean . . . Oh, really? Basket weaving is it? Flower arranging?’

‘Anger management. I have to go because of me ASBO, like.’

He went on to tell me in minute detail about his various court appearances and convictions. I kept inching away from him and looking demonstrably at my watch but he wouldn’t shut up. I think, rather depressingly for me and Audrey, he is probably just looking for a friend.

‘I’m not your friend,’ I told him. (I didn’t, actually. What I really said was something along the lines of: ‘Anyway, nice weather, isn’t it. I must get going.’)

His account of his various legal adventures of the past few months was so long-winded, tedious and dull that it made me want to go home and self-harm.

After about five long minutes he stunned me by asking, ‘Maybe we could go out one night, me and you, and – ‘

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Maybe an Indian or a McDonald’s?’

‘I don’t eat.’

‘Maybe we could – ‘

‘Oh, look, is that the time? Must dash. Lovely meeting you again. Goodbye. Have fun with yourself.’

‘What about tomorrow? We could – ‘

‘See you later.’

Now I’m more worried than I was before when all I had to be concerned about was his noisy late-night parties and occasional fence-burning.

Why is nothing easy?

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Village Secret

by Enormous on September 20, 2009

When Audrey and I bumped into Reg this morning he was with his horrible new friend Nigel.

‘Hello you two. How’s things?’ I ejaculated in a cheerful manner.

(I didn’t feel like saying that at all, to be honest with you. I actually felt like saying something more effective to Nigel, like ‘Piss off, you bigoted idiot.’ I didn’t. But sometimes ‘Piss off, you bigoted idiot’ is a very effective ejaculation to employ when one bumps into people one cannot stand.)

‘Nigel has been telling me all about the Village Secret,’ Reg informed me.

I must admit, I was vaguely intrigued. I asked: ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a secret,’ said Nigel, somewhat imperiously.

I truly hate that man.

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Barbeque Bastards

by Enormous on June 13, 2009

Thank goodness for the benighted legions of lower-class families that surround me.

If it were not for them in general, and my cerebrally-challenged next-door neighbour in particular, I would not have such a robust system for making my Ben Sherman shirts smell like incinerated cow shit whenever I wash them and hang them outside to dry on sunny afternoons.

(Thank goodness also for my invisible radiation gun that has a pronounced and deleterious effect on cherished male body parts.)

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Pole Dancer

by Enormous on May 21, 2009

I had an experience in the Newsagent’s this morning that was far removed from the one Audrey and I had with the Falling Man in he park the other day:

‘I’m before you, lanky.’ This was a big, hard bruiser of an man who looked like he fought bears for a living.

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘You will be if be if you carry on being sarcastic.’ He pointed at the display cabinet behind the counter. ‘Twenty Marlboro and one of them cake things,’ – no ‘please’ or ‘thank you’.

Reaching for the cigarettes, Mr Mishri served his eloquent customer with untypical efficiency. In fact, he seemed quite apprehensive; his double-chins were wobbling away like nobody’s business – and I noticed his hands were shaking as he gave the man his change. ‘Thank you. Please come again.’ He glanced at me and I saw fear in his eyes.

For some reason – probably something very primal – I felt very threatened, too. The man left the shop and Mr Mishri and I both breathed a very audible sigh of relief.

However, to our collective horror, we watched as, instead of disappearing up the street, he did an about turn and came back inside the shop doorway. Before leaving for good this time, he said something to me. This is what it was: ‘Pole Dancer.’

I am not sure what he was getting at exactly but I am fairly certain that his comment was meant in a pejorative sense. It was certainly delivered with menace and accompanied by a vulgar gesture.

Whenever I encounter such stunningly intelligent and polite members of the local community I am always encouraged. It gives me hope for humankind in general, it really does.

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This Vehicle Is Alarmed

by Enormous on April 30, 2009

Your bloody vehicle will be alarmed when I start smashing its bloody windows with my hammer, you moron.

Ban car alarms now; tear them from every vehicle and deposit them in the nearest incinerator.

You have my express permission to start with the one on the Volvo belonging to the gurning git with limited mental acuity living at number 47 who thinks it’s hilariously amusing to disturb his neighbours every fifteen minutes with his faulty shriek-machine, his impossibly ugly face that looks like a dislocated knee, and his bad breath which pervades every house on the street.

(If you are the git from number 47 and you are reading this – if you can read: yes, I mean you. Clown.)

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Man Versus Nature: The Path To Victory

by Enormous on March 18, 2009

Here’s one for you:

A man and his hairy dog spend the morning walking along the deserted, old colliery railway tracks towards Alfreton, successfully negotiating slippery, almost-vertical inclines, ankle-deep mud, high winds, pelting rain and near-freezing temperatures, only to come upon a lowly council worker sawing a big Elm tree that has fallen across the footpath, who informs them: ‘Can’t go any further, mate. You’ll have to turn back the way you just come.’

‘Came.’

‘Eh!?’

‘We don’t mind climbing over!’ I shouted over the racket of his petrol-driven chainsaw. ‘A fallen tree isn’t going to stop us now – we’ve come about six miles.’

‘Can’t let you through! Path’s too dangerous – by order of the council!’

‘Look, if we just go along here . . .’ I pulled Audrey to one side, and we managed to nimbly leap over the smallest part of the obstacle. ‘See? No problem!’

He turned off his chainsaw. ‘Get back here, mate. Health and Safety, innit.’

‘We’re healthy, we’re safe.’ Backing away slightly, I slipped on the wet ground and snagged my coat on a branch of the tree. He managed to grab hold of my arm and man-handled us back on to the other side. I felt slightly uncomfortable, but I was giggling. He was deadly serious.

‘None shall pass,’ he informed me in a deep voice, pointing to the laminated badge on his jacket.

I feigned good-natured dismay: ‘Oh, but I might simply collapse from overwhelming disappointment should you refuse to grant us egress, my good fellow.’ I was smiling and brushing my arm where he had been holding me.

‘Don’t be funny, mate. Don’t shit a chicken.’ He patted me on the shoulder. Then, pointedly, ‘I’ll see you later.’ He restarted his saw and gave me an unfortunate wink.

I gave up, too tired to argue with a feeble-minded half-wit so early in the day. We set off back along the muddy footpath.

I couldn’t help thinking about him, alone, in the middle of nowhere, hoping he would have a lively accident with his big chainsaw – the thought of which made me chuckle loudly to myself as we neared the road that took us back to the house. Audrey looked up at me.

‘I’m just making myself laugh, girl,’ I told her. ‘I think I’m really funny, me. I’m a man after my own heart.’

‘Well, don’t shit a chicken, father,’ she barked, slightly concerned.

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Happy Homer Endings

by Enormous on December 17, 2008

Good news about Homer the horse: this morning the RSPCA rang to tell me they had taken charge of him.

Apparently, the farmer who owns him has been guilty of neglecting his animals before and this time the Society intend to prosecute him in the courts which will hopefully prevent him from keeping horses in the future. Yay!

They informed me that Homer is now in  a warm stable in a horse and donkey sanctuary on the outskirts of Derby and is on the list to be rehomed in the new year when he has been checked over and fed properly for a few weeks.

I did some good! It’s a nice feeling.

I hope the farmer never finds out it was me, though.

Oh, crap – something else to worry about now.

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