Another day, another battle to fight. Yawn.
I wouldn’t want you to think I go looking for trouble, or that I’m some sort of aspiring vigilante, or worse, a dedicated Mr Grump recently regenerated from the Victor Meldrew misery mould, but I’m buggered if I am going to live a life blindly turning the other cheek while the inconsiderate bastards of the world run roughshod over our daily lives.
The Scene: 8.30am this morning, I am getting into the car outside my home. A white van pulls up, a bloke with a blood-burst face in his late 50s steps out, hobbles a few paces then angrily hurls a poly-wrapped magazine in the direction of my front door. It lands in a puddle near the bins. I quickly retrieve it and see that it is my weekly edition of Press Gazette.
I chase after him. “Excuse me, do you reckon that’s the right way to deliver this magazine?”
“Yeah. I’m double parked…it’s a fucking nightmare here, what else am I’m gonna do?”
“So it’s going to sit there all day in the rain, until I get home?”
“Yeah,” he said getting back into the van.
“Er, I know the people who run this mag. The least you could do it put it through the letter box – like you are paid to do. Can I have your name?”
“Nah. Fuck off. I’ve got enough fucking problems…” Cue the screech of an engine and the burst of fumes. An absolute delight to make your acquaintance.
Now, do I forget about it and forgive this poor unhappy chap for the off day he is clearly having? Life really is hard enough, we all know. Or do I shop him to the hard-working, decent owner of the magazine who pays tens of thousands a year to the “courier” company that employs such an oik?
I’m not keen on being a sneak, but I think we all have a duty to help sift out the objectionable, useless grime that pollute the service industry.
One day it’s the police, the next it’s the courier business. I know, I am emerging as something of a Super (Local) Hero. It’s not easy, but someone’s got to do it.
Tomorrow: motorbikes.
Arghhhhhhh!