Bloody Door.
Bloody Lock.
Bloody banging of door in the wind, bloody lack of security and bloody missing underwear (which has never turned up, by the way)
So the knackered old door has now been kicked in by stupid fecking neds so many times that nothing short of 3 Giant Screws of Death will be needed to hold the lock on. As I said before, there's already one of these protruding out onto the street side of the door but I'm tempted to go to B&Q after work and get some more.
And then putting up a notice.
The notice will go something like this.
"The security of residents and businesses in this tennements is important to us all, I'm sure you'll agree.
This door and it's lock will not take any more kicking-in.
Thus I suggest that you PLEASE tell all your dodgy ned mates, alcoholic uncles, drug dealers and PUNTERS to please stop kicking the sodding thing in!
And while I'm at it. Would whoever has blocked the back door with a gargantuan lawnmower for the past three months please remove it? It is bigger than our ACTUAL FUCKING GARDEN
Thank you very much."
Well... Not that many years ago I lived above a brothel in the Grey Toon in Scotland. Out of a confused mixture of irritation and amusement, I started to blog about it.
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