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What a wonderful day, the sun is shining, birds singing, somewhere in the distance I hear children laughing and playing in a paddling pool (or maybe a fishpond, but there's definitely water involved.) A beautiful Summer's day in rural England.
But wait, there's a blot on the horizon. The pikey chav fuckers down the road have dragged their pasty white carcasses into the garden along with their piece of shit hi-fi and are polluting the neighbourhood with what I believe is called "speed-garage" (I thought that was a shed you kept vast amounts of imported drugs in, but apparently I'm wrong). They are giving it the full Ali-G. Wicked, Boo-yakasha.
Now, they may have not been very successful at school, nor college, nor the Adult Education Centre (Joey Deacon Memorial Hall), but today they have learned an important lesson.
They have learned that when one of their neighbours politely asks if they can drop the volume a touch, please, there's good fellows, it is not really clever to ignore him, nor to drag out a 1x12 DJ monitor they skanked from somewhere, and crank it even louder.
No, not a good idea at all, especially when that neighbour owns a PA company, and is such a cunt himself that he is quite prepared to go to his warehouse, bring home some serious cabinets and blow them into the Middle Ages.
Oh, how I love my Martin Audio stuff, compact enough to get in the Landrover (albeit 3 trips), punchy enough for there to be NO question who the Daddy is around here.
I've treated them to "Angel of Death", "Rock Bottom", the whole of "Lovedrive", "Killers", "Vulgar Display of Power", "MOD for USA" among many others. My other neighbour has a barbecue going that looks like a crem oven, currently cooking my tea (he particularly enjoyed "Sabotage" and "Vol 4"), and I can see from here that the Middle England Massive Skunk Posse have slithered back into their cave, their tinfoil BBQ smouldering like, erm a smouldering thing.
A lesson learned, I think. Don't fuck with the Wands.
Game on!
But wait, there's a blot on the horizon. The pikey chav fuckers down the road have dragged their pasty white carcasses into the garden along with their piece of shit hi-fi and are polluting the neighbourhood with what I believe is called "speed-garage" (I thought that was a shed you kept vast amounts of imported drugs in, but apparently I'm wrong). They are giving it the full Ali-G. Wicked, Boo-yakasha.
Now, they may have not been very successful at school, nor college, nor the Adult Education Centre (Joey Deacon Memorial Hall), but today they have learned an important lesson.
They have learned that when one of their neighbours politely asks if they can drop the volume a touch, please, there's good fellows, it is not really clever to ignore him, nor to drag out a 1x12 DJ monitor they skanked from somewhere, and crank it even louder.
No, not a good idea at all, especially when that neighbour owns a PA company, and is such a cunt himself that he is quite prepared to go to his warehouse, bring home some serious cabinets and blow them into the Middle Ages.
Oh, how I love my Martin Audio stuff, compact enough to get in the Landrover (albeit 3 trips), punchy enough for there to be NO question who the Daddy is around here.
I've treated them to "Angel of Death", "Rock Bottom", the whole of "Lovedrive", "Killers", "Vulgar Display of Power", "MOD for USA" among many others. My other neighbour has a barbecue going that looks like a crem oven, currently cooking my tea (he particularly enjoyed "Sabotage" and "Vol 4"), and I can see from here that the Middle England Massive Skunk Posse have slithered back into their cave, their tinfoil BBQ smouldering like, erm a smouldering thing.
A lesson learned, I think. Don't fuck with the Wands.
Game on!
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