Seriously.
I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite rotation, of most excellent spokie-dokies: and now some cunt has nicked him and fucked off. I hope they die.
Yeah, that’s right. So, firstly, let me congratulate Nottinghamshire Constabulary for being absolutely fucking useless. I realise that a bicycle stolen from a garage is small beer to you trained professionals, but I kind of expected something more than a crime number and complete and utter apathy. You pricks are quick enough to try and stop me taking photographs in town – an activity that is entirely legal, by the way – yet are apparently disinterested to hear about genuine crimes. I don’t want to tell you guys how to do your job, but you might want to research just what it is the public pays you for for fuck’s sake.
I don’t interact with you very often – well, except for when you’re being dicks about photography – but every time thus far my experience has matched the above. A crime you say? Oh, really? That’s too bad, here’s a crime number. Good luck! I find this approach dispiriting and beyond useless. That said, it’s really no wonder that public opinion sees a shower of feckless tits if you’re the same way with everyone else.
Secondly, I’d like to thank the insurance company in advance, and due to the current financial climate, for being utter, utter bastards about paying up so that I can afford to replace Sir Wheels-a-lot with his cousin, Baron Von Cycles-Farr. I realise this is perhaps a touch cynical of me, but I can feel you lot gearing up to be arseholes about the whole thing. Stop it.
And finally, a few words about the abhorrent little scrotes who stole Sir Wheels-a-lot. If there is any justice in the world, those involved will meet with horribly painful accidents that will leave them disfigured, crippled, and of even less use to society than they already are. They will have to lie in a hospital bed that they are unable to stop themselves from repeatedly soiling and listen as grief piles upon misery while each and every one of those they hold dear suffers and dies around them in agony. Finally, after decades of anguish, it is my hope that they choke on their own vomit and die, unloved and forgotten, to be buried in a pauper’s grave that tramps later use as a toilet. I genuinely wish them nothing but ill-will, misfortune and woe.
I would deny them, if I could, any joy or happiness for the rest of their miserable fucking lives.
Now, I’ll admit that that is an incredibly petty and spiteful desire on my part, but I look at it like this: If I’m not allowed to track them down and beat them to death with a claw hammer because it’s against the law, I have to make myself feel better somehow. Currently, imagining them so miserable that they beg for death because they don’t have the faculties to kill themselves is doing a pretty good job, so just roll with it for now.
Obviously the fact that those responsible for stealing Sir Wheels-a-lot are probably, and I apologise for getting a bit Daily Mail here, out of work and living in a house that the rest of us pay for doesn’t help. The knowledge that while I was at work earning money that I’m taxed on, those who receive more benefit from those taxes than I do were in my garden stealing my bike has only served to render my rage insensate. I mean, I’ve essentially bought them a bike while at the same time working to give them dole money and housing benefits.
And society still maintains that I can’t smash their thieving fucking faces in if I catch them? How is that fair?
