Thieving toe-rag shyster

Yes, those are three of the thousands of words that could be used to describe the little sister-fucking shit licker that robbed my childhood home last week. For over a quarter of a century my mother has defied the laws of common sense and the best advice of Crimewatch UK by leaving the front door key hidden in very bait little cubby hole in the porch. Convenient as this placement of the key was for avoiding those fearful moments when you return home shitfaced, paranoid about having lost your keys, I think it’s now fair to say it wasn’t worth it.

The wee fucker’s light fingered nature first became apparent to us last week when mother dearest realised she no longer had possession of either front key – at least not the ones kept cunningly in the porch. Her Spidey senses began to tingle still further the next day when she received a strange phone call from Morgan Stanley. Their system had crashed the previous night and they needed MR D Bennie’s pin code to reactivate his credit card. Thankfully, it wasn’t “Oh, how kind of you to call” but more like “I suspect you’re crack-thirst over the phone, you wee slag”, or something more motherly in tone. It turns out that the five-finger discount-toting pig excrement felcher had stolen all the post the Muv had been keeping safely for me in the (fortress like) porch. Included in amongst the alumni bullshit and begging letters from Nigerian crack-whores with million dollar, unreachable inheritances was a new credit card. Why the arses bother sending me replacement cards when I have only used the thing once 3 years for a balance transfer is beyond me. In any case, the Miss Marple like qualities of my mother persuaded her to call to the police, who were very interested in what she had to say and arrived about 15 minutes later to fingerprint and ask questions….

Well, the thing is Sheila and Mick, to name the razor-witted protagonists, were due to go on holiday the very next day. What to do? They bolted the external door, top and bottom, and left the ground floor lodger, Kiwi John in charge. Now, John can talk in the style of a garrulous

Shortland Street doctor and smoke a few fags, but he’s no substitute for a few savage dogs on the home security front. Nevertheless, the tea-leafing little mummy chafer took no chances and avoided any potential ear bending by coming back during the day; John works 5am to 13pm shifts. The chav bashed his way though the stained glass and wood at 11.30am with a broom handle. And all this in broad daylight on a main road. What a crack hungry granny-toucher. He got the things he’d obviously priced up during his reconnaissance mission – when he also got the digital camera plus extra sim cards apparently. No doubt a fair few family memories have gone up this fiend’s nose, in his weakened viens, his filthy crack pipe or more likely up his ass in suppositories shaped like children’s digits. The brazen bum-bungling badger baiting batty bopper.

Well, this has been more sarcastic and more vicious than I’d intended, but it seems to have helped. The fear heads are right though – NO ONE IS SAFE. STAY INSIDE, THE STREETS ARE ALREADY LOST. Well, maybe not, but I can see how these feeling take hold. I think Kiwi John is safely in the land of Fear and Festering now…Soon the Mirror will become the Mail and there will be no way back.

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