Regained possession of my mobile phone. I’m all talk, me. Within seconds I was txting and talking. I can’t live without it.
Our quiet British cul-de-sac has been wrecked on more than one occasion by the gang of teens that all seem to live, parentless, in the house opposite. The eldest boy likes nothing better than dragging a hoop into the middle of the street and playing b-ball, rebounding the ball and himself off various cars before slam-dunking NBA-stylee and, generally, making a godawful racket. Not content with the thud-thud-thud-clatter of a b-ball slapping against tarmac, they shipped in two mopeds today, which they promptly revved for several hours. Now, I know this sounds like the complaint of a grumpy old man but…I just don’t expect this down an otherwise quiet street in York. This ain’t Hull, y’know! It’s only a matter of time before I have to vent my spleen on this one and call them all c**ts before ramming their heads up their exhaust pipes.
Repeat play: Public Enemy’s Don’t Believe The Hype