God Hates God

Dear Neighbours,

Let’s talk ‘ideal world’ here, people. In an ‘ideal world’, my neighbours would live a mile away and be very dead. Or, at the very least, bound and gagged. Hell, I’d settle with deaf/mutes, but I draw the line there.

Mathew 19:19 urges me to love my neighbour. Lucky me, then, I’m an atheist. I’ll throw a bit of caution to the wind and proclaim Mathew a shit merchant. Anyhow, I reckon that Mathew never met my neighbours and could never have fathomed what contemptible cunts they are. Besides, back in those Bible days, their cave home walls were 10 feet thick, sub woofers hadn’t been invented and nobody wanted to draw attention to themselves (by, for example, doing some late-night DIY) for fear of being enslaved by some Romans. Perhaps, also, this particular passage is one of those nasty misinterpretations along the lines of ‘God hates fags’ and whichever ones George Bush knows by heart.

Some people think they have a right to be a bad neighbour, like it is the sort of grandpappy lore told to children perched on knees of elders around a campfire to become an accepted truth, no matter the detrimental expense to another person’s well-being, a bit like the old, “You have a God-given right to protect your television and collection of prancing unicorns with deadly force.” My life revolves around never being an impingement on somebody’s quiet enjoyment of life. Somehow, most likely because I’m kind-of fucking poor, I have to live next door to the mindless twats who reckon that ‘Disco Hits 2000!’ played at full volume while the depth of conversation squeals at such topics as ‘Jordan - fit?’ and, as far as I can tell, ‘AHHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHHH!’ makes for a decent social gathering.

Let me get this straight. I’m not some sort of old fuddy-duddy type who hates parties, it’s just that music I like is never fucking played by neighbours. I’d happily go to sleep to the sounds of Neutral Milk Hotel humming through my walls, but instead I get Euro Top 20 fed through three sub-woofers while the neighbour’s fat friends stomp around the house drinking cheap pisswater white wine, chemically proven to increase any person’s vocal volume to that of a jet bloody engine. And that completely rules out all students as decent neighbours, as we all know they haven’t got any taste and don’t know how to set up a decent sound system. These cunts attempt to remedy the situation by posting little notes in the common area stating untruths like, “I’m having a small gathering tonight, I dearly hope I won’t be a bother!” The subtext of said missives always being, “As a neighbour, I am a fucking cunt. I’m having some of my twat friends around and we’re going to listen to the Grease soundtrack with the windows open, the vomit on your doormat.” To me, though, these notes clearly outline my next day’s events: 1) Set the alarm for 7 am 2) Start throwing heavy shit at the walls 3) Repeat until I am bloody certain my neighbour is in tears, then scrawl the word ‘cunt’ on the back of their note and slip it under their door.

I thought that moving outside the M25 would significantly reduce the cuntocity of my neighbours. Indeed it has, but now I’ve been met with mental old ladies who attempt to poison my dog, then as an apology, bake me a fucking cake. Like I’m going to eat the arsing cake - if she’s nutty enough to attempt to kill a puppy, she’s certainly homicidal enough to feed me toilet cleaner wrapped in fine pastry. “It’s home-made, darling!” Sure it is. home-made at Dow Chemical and liberally injected into your little ‘apology’.

Neighbours; hated merely for being people, should be destroyed due to their close proximity.

Munky

Dear Autumn,
 
There is much intercontinental debate as to what your proper name should be.  Fall?  Autumn?  Let me throw the following into the debate:  FUCKING SHIT.
 
Autumn; it’s that time of year when the unlimited despondency of a life without warm sunshine kicks in (before you become accustomed to the overwhelming melancholy of 100 days and nights of rain and sludge) and you’re left half-heartedly hacking at your lily-white wrists with whatever sharp implements you can find.  Luckily, you never succeed, as the unrelenting rain has ensured that all which exists around you is a sloppy mass of brown shite which serves no other purpose than to track itself into your house and smell a bit like the insides of a dog’s ear.

Autumn: It’s that time of year where women who normally dress ‘v Sienna’ opt to dress like dead-eyed King’s Cross smackwhores and get off with rapist-eyed lager-swilling vampires in the name of a long-dead Pagan festival.

Autumn: It’s that time of year when even nature’s had enough. Dogs will refuse to face the rain, shivering at the door until you give in and let them inside to urinate all of everything you know and love. The birds have good sense enough to fuck off to some place warmer, when the trees can hardly stand to stay alive and, with a resounding decidual ‘fuck it’, drop their leaves. And that which is left - the people - have nothing other than a brown spindly skyline to stare upon listlessly as they daydream about warmer environs in the every-dwindling period between sunrise and sunset.

Autumn: It is that time of year when I gain another year on the age bedpost, but lose the ability to have just ‘one more beer’. The problem is with alcohol is that as stress increases exponentially with age, one’s ability to handle stress’s greatest antidote - alcohol - diminishes. On your 18th, you can drink yourself ugly on the cheapest and strongest booze you can illegally get your student hands on, dress like a whore, dance like a slut, vomit up your dinner, engage in lewd behaviour and, at the end of the night, forget how to see; yet you will still be fresh enough to make it to your daily 8 am calculus lesson. At 27, you down three of the finest Belgian ales money can buy, and you can’t crawl out of bed before sunset on a Saturday morning. There’s no fucking justice in that.

Autumn: It’s that time of year when playing with fire and explosions has been deemed perfectly acceptable, and with a rallying cry to England, children blow their hands off while their parents, in turn, make sure to blame the government for allowing their kids to be such fucking thickos. I, for one, am a fan of these sparking explosions, but the pikies of this country make for damned sure they buy the lot, ensuring them a full 365 days of keeping their neighbours awake and blowing up pets while the rest of us stand in our back gardens with our weak little sparklers pretending that we don’t mind that it is dark before we’ve had our bloody dinners and writing very naughty swears in the darkness which we know, as with the light and energy with which they are created, will never die.

At least we can look forward to winter, which is much the same, only without the do-gooders claiming to like it.

Fuck it, I’m breaking out the aerosols and pointing them skyward,

Munky