Here’s the story of noise, temper, and yet more noise.
I don’t care if it’s a bloody police helicopter, if it hangs around as low as it is for much longer, I swear to God I’m gonna throw my shoe at it. Oh, sure, you might think I can’t hit you, Mr. Pilot. Do you want to take that risk, punk? Well, do you? Nah, didn’t think so, you lily-livered piece of codswallop. “Oh, but we’re trying to protect the neighbourhood.” Oh, well, that’s sure dandy, but do you mind doing it just a couple hundred feet higher? I’m pretty sure 100 feet off the ground isn’t safe and hey, guess what? It’s also deafening me and making me a touch angry because I CAN’T GET ANY FRIGGIN’ SLEEP! You’ve broken me down, man. You’ve crushed my spirit. I’ve arrived at the point where I’m practicing my shoe throwing. And believe me, you do not want my boot in your noggin’…
Loud? LOUD? No. You know those big long horn things they blow into in the Alps? If somebody put one of those horns on the end of my bed, at five in the morning, and blew as loud as humanly possible, that would be quieter than the frickin’ police helicopter!
I’ve seen these police shows. The police helicopter chases are on them all the time. Yet the area of my town that I live in has a high number of vehicular crimes, in particular, theft. So that police helicopter is clearly not doing its job. It’s a bloody big waste of money. That I paid for! WITH MY BLOODY TAXES! I’m paying to keep myself awake at night, yet I have no option. Those taxes must be paid for. It’s like a bloody Orwellian nightmare.
Honestly, why do the criminals only come out at night? Can they not wait until morning?
There’s that much car theft around here, it’s got to the point where I’m wondering how there are any cars left to steal. By now, criminals are probably stealing cars from criminals who stole them from other criminals who stole them from their original owners.
Calm. Calm. I’m calm. I’m really, really calm. Breathe. Ah. That’s better. Just needed a little breather and all is well again. Calm. I’m calm now.
I’m not at all pissed off about the five days of constant helicoptering. In the same way I wasn’t at all pissed off when I landed in New York, after a reasonably long flight, and was looking for a nice quiet night’s sleep. Which is, obviously, entirely possible in downtown New York City. There’s definitely not sirens going off 24/7 in the same way there aren’t a bazillion American flags on and in every bloody building…
Oh, and I had dad snoring as well. He sounded like a constipated elephant. I had to sleep in the bathroom with earplugs lodged firmly in my ears. I had a pop-up bed, so I wasn’t on the floor for five days, in case you’re wondering. Oh, and the earplugs? Yes, you know, the hotel supplied them. They had a big box full! I’m clearly not the first tourist to complain when you have a big box full of earplugs!
You think I’m angry? You haven’t even heard my rant on New York’s pigeons. Oh, bloody hell, do not get me started on New York’s bloody pigeons…
Do you know what else has got my goat this week? The fly. The fly! And he’s the trickiest bugger you’ve ever met. Trust me, he cannot be caught. We got this fly spray, right, but it’s basically poison. If you spray enough of it in a room, you will quite easily kill a human. So I sprayed this fly and it flew off. So I sprayed it again. And it just wouldn’t die! It got to the point where I was starting to feel lightheaded. So I faced a dilemma, readers. Do I keep spraying and run the risk of poisoning myself to death, what with all the fly spray poison in the air. Or, do I give up? What did I do? Oh, come on, you know me by now. I stepped up my spraying campaign. Be damned if I die, for this little beastie is worth my life! And I sprayed, by God I sprayed to my heart’s content.
Still didn’t get it.
It’s been Guy Fawkes Day this week, too. A day when we celebrate the terrorist plot to blow up an icon of London… by blowing up millions of small bombs. That’s what fireworks are. Small bombs. A bit more colourful than your garden-variety bomb, but still a bomb. “Yea! We defeated a terrorist gunpowder plot! Let’s celebrate with gunpowder!” It’s like celebrating 10 years sober… by downing a gallon of whisky.
It’s almost mocking Fawkes, isn’t it? It’s like locking up a diamond thief and just out of reach of his jail bars is a table full of diamonds. In fact, the original celebration was to light a bonfire and throw an effigy of Fawkes onto it. That was far more appropriate! Now it’s as if we’re celebrating a terrorist. I mean, if this was some kind of super brilliant police work, years in the making, which led to the foiling of the plot, then brilliant! Let’s bake some sponge cakes every November 5, so we can remember a great moment in our nation’s history. But nope! Some bloke was walking around under the Houses of Parliament and just happened to bump into Fawkes surrounded by gunpowder. It’s like a Mr. Bean sketch…
“Now, now, now. What’s all this then?”
“Erm, you know, mister, I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure why you’re surrounded by a dozen barrels clearly labelled ‘gunpowder’?”
“Erm, well, you see, I was, erm. Kidnapped! Yes! I was kidnapped! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve found me. I’ve been shackled up here for days!”
“Ah. And where are the shackles?”
“A goat ate them.”
“You were going to blow up the Houses of Parliament, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, I was.”
He sounds like a ******* idiot…
Yet we’re not allowed to forget this moron, are we? In the run up to November 5, fireworks are let off constantly. Some do it because they’re going away on holiday. Oh, fair enough. Yeah, you do that. Don’t worry about my lack of sleep, you carry on until three in the morning. I’m really swell with your entire operation. But can I have one of your hotdogs? Pretty please? I mean, it’s the least I deserve considering I have to get up in a few damn hours. Oh, but I’m not gonna eat it. Oh, no. I’m gonna slather it in ketchup and throw it at you.
Honestly, the one day of the year the police helicopter isn’t out in force and it’s because of fireworks. Gee…
But then there are the other people. Kooky types. I don’t like kooky people. Life is logical and ordered. Kooky people think they’re being anarchists, defenestrating the rulebook, slapping on their war paint and mooning Mother Fate. No. They’re just stupid. There’s ‘having a character and a personality’ and then there’s turning that up to 11.
“Why not have fireworks on November 3? It’s a scrumptious idea! And, and there’ll be caviar and chocolate fountains and unicorns! Everybody will be naked and we’ll discuss armadillos and play chess on the ceiling! All whilst singing ‘Kumbaya My Lord’ with pencils sticking out our ears! Because I’m kooky, kooky, kooky!”
Oh, get off the hippy juice, you daft bat…
I hate people like that. Life if logic. It’s measured. It’s ordered. It’s sensible. There’s nothing sensible about me doing blog research on a Wednesday AFTERNOON when suddenly, a huge explosion rips the sky apart. Who lets fireworks off on a bloody Wednesday afternoon! Mrs. Kooky over there, I bet. You’re driving me nuts, darling! You are, the helicopter is, the fly is, the New York pigeons are… OH MY GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THOSE GODDAMN PIGEONS!
I’m gonna have an aneurism in a minute…
You may think all this is only trivial. Ally, come on, fireworks night is only one night a year. Oh, poor you. It’s not. It’s really not. It’s a slippery slope, people. Ooh, the neighbours didn’t complain about the fireworks, so why not have a party or so every month? And ooh, why not paint the house pink? Ooh, and you know what, since nobody complained about those things, let’s buy a giraffe! Complaining is what makes Britain great. Without it, anarchy rules! Nobody stops anybody from doing what the hell they like! We need rules, logic and order or nothing makes any bloody goddamn hell pineapple sense!
You think I’m being ridiculous? Our next-door neighbours once had a street party. Did they get the requisite papers and council permission? Of course not! They’re bloody hillbillies, and not the fun kind. That party went on until two in the morning. A big group of them, all drunk, music blaring out. And we confronted them the next day.
“Oh, well, we had fireworks the other day and you didn’t mind that, so we didn’t think you’d mind this.”
Oh my God, what the hell is happening? Helicopters, fireworks, flies… more fireworks. What, eh, who, huh – I can’t breathe…
You can’t win, readers. There’ll always be flies. There’ll always be idiots. There’ll always be a police helicopter. There’ll always be fireworks. You just can’t win.
I think I need a lie down.
And if a firework goes off, I think I’m going to scream…
Peace Out :|:
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