I briefly went out with a guy once who ordered me a taxi and said ‘ooh you’re getting picked up in a tesla!’ I had absolutely no fucking idea what he was on about. Another ex got his made to order Porsche nicked from outside his mates house in Leeds the day after he got it. I pretended to be mortified for him but on the other end of the phone I was tittering like Muttley on an episode of Catch the Pidgeon. Silly fucker just go to Turkey and get a knob extension it’s probably cheaper.
So anyway speaking of which for the most part of this last pleasantly warm and sunny September Saturday morning the birdsong was disturbed by the almost continuous sound of souped up supercar engines. Super loud and with that ratcheting, popping, screeching noise that insults my eardrums and nervous system and renders me a little fidgety and not quite right in the head.
It’s those Pakistanis again. There is this idea that they have lots of spare money because they don’t drink and 75 of them share a back to back. That’s complete nonsense. They sell drugs and counterfeit booze and cigarettes. They also get away with it. They’ve had a charmed life in our country.
So basically somewhere in Keighlistan there is a Pakistani wedding and the flip flop brigade are doing what they love to do on such occasions: hire out supercars and drive at speed on a continuous loop around town. Over and over and over again.
The kids were due a walk but I kept putting it off for fear of trying to cross the road. My neighbour who knows everything that happens on Skipton Road because she smokes out of her kitchen window had informed me that there were four of them driving around. As it happened some open top black monstrosity charged past just as we were waiting to cross the road so I got the opportunity to call him a bastard wanker and retard but judging by the noise of the engine he won’t have heard.
The mentality of this regular occurrence though is nothing short of embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for these silly little Pakistani ‘men’ driving around in hired supercars like they own them when all the town knows they don’t. During the course of the night at least one will find itself on it’s roof somewhere in Bradistan. Then the coppers will intervene but not a jot will be done when they discover not only was it not insured and was using his dad’s, uncle’s, cousin’s licence.
I dream of the day I conceal myself behind my ceanothus bush with a sniper. I will also be taking out the man with the strimmer that hits my neighbouring church garden every three weeks and the fucktard on his disability scooter that forces pedestrians into the road.
Bring it on.
