So I’m minding my own business, keeping myself to myself, as I tend to do on my days off when I get interrupted by the local chavs in the street. It’s dark but it’s not late.
There’s 4 lads & 3 girls, the lads are talking in this bloody stupid affected twat-speak which makes them think they sound like a black dude from Harlem but actually just makes them sound like a complete tosser. They’re so used to listening to pumping vibes on their stolen iPods that their eardrums are blown to hell, I think that must be the case ‘cos they always speak to each other like they’re on different sides of the town rather than standing next to each other.
The fence across the road belongs to Stan & his Mrs. They’re always spending their pension on men in lumberjack shirts to replace it because the local chavs think it’s great fun to kick it down of a Friday/Saturday night on their way through to the estate that progress forgot.
I glance out, as I usually do – hey, I can’t afford spare wing mirrors so prevention is cheaper than cure – and I see the group just approaching Stan’s fence. As I watch them expecting the inevitable boot to rise in the sportiest move they’ve done since they played truant during games lessons, & chav a takes out a crowbar from under his tracky top. He swings it high above his head & proceeds to belt seven bells out of 2 panels.
It must have been the day before going back to work or something as I was probably in a bad mood. Rather than picking up the phone I take it into my head to chuck on a pair of trainers & approach the group, stealth like, to voice some displeasure at their high jinx.
It was dark down the alley & they couldn’t see me approach, so Chav A got something of a surprise when he was grabbed from behind, disarmed of the crowbar & put into a Home Office approved restraining hold before he could shout ‘Oh my dayz’.(seriously, when he realised what I was doing he actually said ‘Oh my dayz’.)
Chav B & C get even more mouthy than before & threaten all sorts of things they’re clearly not capable of but a swift kick in their direction with a few chosen words of warning leave them in no doubt what will happen if they come any closer than that. The girls are threatening to call the old bill which sounds good to me, so I helpfully provide them with the number in case they’re too thick to remember 999.
I drag the bBrain of Britain to the local shops just round the corner. If he’s said the old bill won’t do nuffin’ ‘cos he’s got ADHD once, he’s said it 37 times. Sadly, I have to confess that’s about the only true thing he’s said in the last 10 minutes.
I needn’t bother ringing 999, someone from a nearby house has done it. Except not only didn’t they recognise me even though I’ve lived here for over 12 years, they’ve also told the 999 operator that ‘some bloke is attacking a group of teenagers & he’s got an iron bar’. Still it gets the effect desired & the local police are on scene within 5 minutes. Fortunately for me they didn’t wade in without finding out what had gone on.
Mind you, a lift back to the house would have been nice.