Dirty Boys, doing that baggy jean bum thing. It makes me feel all bad inside. Waving their sphinctys in my face and  the only thing keeping their winky brown hole at bay is a slither of thin t shirt matierial that makes up their scary boy pants. Ergh.

Bums coming at you all over the place, and I want to go up and  say,

Up or Down? Up or Down!?!?!?'.

I did this to a guy at a party once, his jeans were so low slung the waistband was right under the curve of his buttock cheeks. Cupping them like a bad bra from anne summers. He looked at me blankly, so  with just one finger hooked through the belt loop of his jean pockets I pulled them down to his knees... and then he acted all embarrassed!!! It wasn;t sexual, he wouldn;t pull them up, so I pointed out how easily it was for them to fall down. And I don;t want boy arse in my face. Quite literally My FACE YOU'RE ARSE! If you don't want your arse exposed, don't leave it hanging out the back of your jeans with your grubby threadbare pants showing. I  half expect to see a skiddy showing through. bleagh. If he'd said 'up' I would have yanked them high in a wedgie victory, and tucked his t shirt in and hurt his bollocks, cos his hairy low slung arse was hurting my eyes. Offensive little bum.

but the worst offender of this 'peekaboo genital contest,' hanging around on every street, was spied in euston station on friday night, this bloke was walking towards me wearing holey jeans, rips all over them. He had a hole running along side his fly, running length ways, slightly larger than a cadburys creme egg and his cock was nestled in teh window of the hole like an action figure in a plastic bubble. He was waving his wang about, thinly remaining on the right side of the law because a sliver of white panty was protecting it from the rest of the world.

I DON'T WANT TO SEE HIS MOUSEY TURDY COCK. I don't want to see his mousey cock out line. I don't want to see low slung arse, oh pleas e great 'youf' of britain, get your shitting shitty arses out of my face and don't even think about letting your cock join in!

AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!

That bloke, the one who sits on Piccadilly Circus, who shouts about God into a megaphone.

That bloke.

I don't like him.

I can be having a perfectly nice day and then he's horrible smug nastiness gets swept into my ear holes and suddenly I'm all grumpy and shit feeling. And he was there tonight, at midnight, still shouting. He doesn't preach love. He just sits there telling us all off. How does he know we haven't been good all day? He's not Santa Claus!

I went to a very liberal united reformed church until I was 15, something I hated at the time but now I'm glad I did. I liked the story of the Good Samaritan. I liked the stories that showed you being good to people was better than being nasty to people and I liked the bit in Isaiah about people having bare bottoms because it made me laugh in boring school assemblies. Bare bums are good. I'd like to be like that all the time, but I'm still a grumpy old cow, so I'll still go off on one. Deep down I know I'm bad.

But the man who rants pompously about God and how we should live our lives and his pedantic shit catch-phrase 'Be a winner not a sinner'… it doesn't even mean anything (like tiny shit unknown bad gay compeer, let s call him Kevin... Kevin Happily and his shit catchphrase 'Kevin Happily, Happily yours!' that doesn't mean anything what are you talking about? Or the 'Comedy Terrorist', whenever he terrorises, nobody laughs, it's just a very hairy, attention seeking, musty smelling man being a nuisance in a public place.)  Sad really. The Hairy Sad Terrorist would work, or 'The Hairy Sad Noisy Bum Hole ' thats it. Maybe he could turn himself into a  character in a childrens book, leave us all alone.

Anyway, that Piccadilly God man, I always want to go up to him and tap him on the shoulder and very calmly say 'Excuse me can you please tell me the way to Piccadilly Circus?'

This would be good in many ways

1)      He would have to stop… surely as a Christian he would have to be nice to a nice girl. And help her, think of the Good Samaritan.

2)      He would have to put down his megaphone. And give directions. This would stop his God babble which is very offensive, even to a lapsed Christian. Jesus wasn't a sanctimonious bully even I know that! (I think even Jesus would hate this man, even though he would try to turn the other cheek he would still hate him and say, ' Dad, honestly that bloke. He's a cunt')

3)      If he didn't put down his megaphone and carried on talking God stuff, he would look rude and would demonstrate to everyone that he is not a true Christian just a nasty man who lives in a bed sit and probably can't sustain an erection in front of a woman.

4)      If he didn't put down his megaphone and gave directions over the megaphone, that would be weird and embarrassing as he'd have to say that you were right there. Already.

So this is my plan. If you see the  Piccadilly God man. Please go and ask him directions to anywhere, it could be a London land mark, a station,  it could be anywhere in the country, but please just ask him a simple question, involving directions and do it with a lovely friendly smile

AND MAKE HIM STOP TALKING PLEASE!!!

Why doesn't vagina have a D in it? It would be far better. more onomatopaeic? Vadg ina?

Hmmm.

I have to stop looking at my space so often.  I need a life.

So the flat gets sold and refurbished and a quiet Canadian guy moves in… or so it seems. Haven't had much dealings with him, he's old and well enough to make his own dinner. I smile and say hallo a lot and when he got mugged during Notting hill carnival I was sympathetic. He listens to a lot of Jock Rock, so I knew I had no need to be his friend properly.

And then a few months ago, late at night all sorts of commotion comes from his flat at 2am on a school night and I open my front door and he's got two screaming whores (I know they were whores because

 a) I live in Bayswater… whore central

and b) they wore the stacked up sandals that lap dancers wear.

They were also screaming

'oh come on what do you do for a living?' which led me to think  they weren't long term friends just dirty ladies he picked up that night. Anyway he sent them away, quite forcefully, they screamed and clattered down three flights of stairs hung around the front of the house and then buggered off.

The next day there was a great big turd by the front gate. HUGE. People had opened the gate over it so it was smeared everywear. My first thought was that it was a very dirty dog but then I saw that the shit was also on the TOP of the gate, too high for even an alsation's sphincter… IT WAS A HUMAN POO!

SOMEONE HAD SHAT ON MY GATE!

I pay £2000 a year in service charges… don't get me started. So I rang Westminster Council who own the freehold. It's answered by thick people, they don't say hello, they say 'hrgh' when they answer the phone. They also say 'west MINI ster' when talking about themselves. I want to pull them up on it and say, 'what? has it got smaller? What the fuck are you talking about?' but I don't because I'm a crabby old cow just moments from subscribing to the daily mail and then I can truly hate myself for ever. So I say 'there's no nice way to say this, some one has shat on my gate' (knowing full well it was those cackling whores from the previous night who thought of it as some hairy turd revenge for being kicked out. ) The idiot girl on the end sounded as disinterested as I was disgusted and send she would send someone round, she was true to her word. Within hours a crack team of council trained flies appeared who commenced to eat it over the next 4 days. There is still a tiny bit left on the top of the gate when apparently one fly turned to the next and said. 'no fuck it, that was fucking lovely but I can't eat another drop, I'm absolutely shitting well stuffed.'

I don't use that middle gate anymore, I use the ones on either side, so I don't have to associate with the whore turd gate.

I didn't mean to write about this. I meant to write about the fact that because of him and his drunk drug fuelled rantings last night, he kept me awake till cunting 5 am. And then his junkie drug dealer came round at 9.30 and rand on my doorbell, well leant on my doorbell, for ages until I screamed out the window as I don't have an intercom (damn you West mini ster Council.) And asked if Terry was in, like I'm his fucking mum. I swore a lot. Perhaps I've turned into that farmer that shot those burglars… Tony Martin, that's him. Yeah Lizzie Martin.

I disapprove whole heartedly with guns… unless its me using them… to take out those gangster punk kids who play their shit rap music through their tiny phones on the bus because they can't bear to be parted from their homophobic, sexist identities.

The only other places where guns should be legal is in cinemas and theatre. They should have a massive one at the back with a big silencer on and anyone whose phone goes off, or unwraps sweets or has a conversation is just taken out swiftly with a bullet to the back of their head… those sorts of people never listen to reason, it's just quicker in the long run.

Let's kill all the people that make us tut.

Bring on my Nazi democracy!