Squatters

So unrealistic-nothing ever happens in the country...

This post is scatalogical. Be warned.

This week I walked out of my house, and down my sleepy little village road, where nothing ever happens, unless you discount the robbery and attempted murder in June of an elderly farmer, and the brutal fatal stabbing of a woman in the sheltered housing by her neice later that same month.

Yeah, so nothing ever happens, unless you count the fact that I once saw the toddler of the chipshop owner up on the chip shop's flat roof on a tricycle wheeling around like a suicidal character in Chorlton and the Wheelies. And yes, let's not mention the time my friend's teenage son stole a JCB digger after pub closing time  and drove it drunkenly across the bowling green and took off the corner of the clubhouse.

Anyway as I say nothing ever happens in this sleepy little village. Unless you're  remembering the fact that those three Chinese guys that rented that house on the Wimpey estate and filled all the rooms bar one with hash plants, stuck on massive growlights and grew themselves up a mini dope plantation and then got raided by the police who had been going round the are with heat seeking devices and raided the house. Yeah, not counting that. Or the bloke who my friend found standing in her living room when she came out of the shower wearing only a towel, who the police couldn't charge because it was "her word against his".

Well, imagine my surpise when I went outside into my lovely chocolate box little village street to see man bending over. And then staying bent over. And why is he not moving? And oh...oh...those aren't cream coloured trousers he's wearing. That's his actual legs for his real trousers are oooohhhh! ROUND HIS ANKLES! And what?  Is he?  Oh my god, he is....Yes, I saw a man doing a crap on my street. 

Sick eh?  You want to know what's even sicker? That my first thought was to take my i-Phone out and take a photo of him for that day's Blipfoto (I didn't...don't worry). And my second thought was to tell everyone on Twitter? ( I did- folk were outraged. Even Stephen Fry. Probably.)

Ok. Now, based on what you've read above you can now start your essay on "What is wrong with society". 5,000 words, double spaced, and have it on my desk by Thursday.

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