Written by Anonymous.
There’s nothing quite like the deafening howl of an aging 1.4 Escort’s exhaust tailpipe the size of a dustbin at 3am Sunday morning to help you with a restful sleep.
My flat overlooks a main roundabout in the middle of this small town in Essex where between 10pm and 3am on a Friday and Saturday, you can periodically witness pock-faced chav-rats in ‘Barried-up’ shitbox cars negotiating the feature at speeds that defy the laws of physics.
They race around the town timing their laps with their two-bob gold plated Romford market watches; they usually start out in Asda’s car park just around the corner from me. They sometimes tackle the roundabout at such high speeds that all four tyres will scream for mercy as if it were a chicane at Silverstone; the speed is sometimes unfucking believable
As the howling slowly dies away into the distance, you can for a few minutes enjoy peace and quite, until it nears once again which will be either the same shitbox or a rival car as equally as worthless.
I am amazed that no one has been killed instantly while crossing this road while staggering home after a night on the piss with their mates. However, I am hoping for the day when I hear an almighty smash and look out of my window to see the smouldering remains of a car full of cheap cider-piss swilling hood-rats on its roof, provided that no one innocent gets hurt; maybe the police would then actually do something. There is a police station not two hundred yards away that is the size of the Taj Mahal, I s**t you not, but surprise surprise, it closes at 7pm! Shock Horror!
When I was recently pulled over by the police in town one afternoon for having a number plate with the wrong sized letters and fined (I’m such a criminal I know), I asked them about the boy-racers, and basically they fobbed me off and didn’t give a s**t.
Late at night I sometimes get so f*****g angry at these selfish, inbred scum that wake up half the town and put lives at risk, I’m tempted to lie in wait with a bucket of tyre spikes and throw the lot across the road in front of one of the bastards and get the job over with. At least once the crackling, hissing and popping noises from their burning car has died down I’ll be able to get a good nights sleep; and what’s more I don’t think there will be any complaints from the neighbours either!
As it stands, I’d rather take an evening stroll through downtown Baghdad with a Stars & Stripes bandanna tied around my head than risk crossing that road in the wee small hours; the survival odds are better.
It’s a typical situation once again really though, a minority of scum blighting the lives of the decent majority with the police either unable, or simply unwilling to act!






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