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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

We were walking back from the pub in the dark of Saturday night, over the bridge that crosses the railway tracks. Earlier on Saturday, we’d taken the same route, and had heard children screaming and shouting, making that noise that children make. “Oh good,” He Who Only… had commented to me at the time, “they’ve released the children on to the tracks again.” “Excellent,” I’d responded in that way that I have, “they’ve got to do something to keep the numbers down around here.” You see, and I’ve mentioned this before I’m sure, along with being frankly over run by comedians around the Stoke Newington area, there are far too many people having children. A cull is apparently necessary before these tiny people take over completely, and setting them to play on the railway tracks like a modern day Jenny Agutter meets Battle Royale seems a sporting way of going about it. I’m new to London. Who am I to question their ways?

As I was saying, night time, train tracks. The surviving children had obviously camped down for the night, and there was as much silence as there ever can be in London. But as we crossed the bridge, some new screeching began. A sound like foxes and cats being dragged down a blackboard. How you’d imagine Jordan and the Andre sounded moments before the conception of their hell spawn. Horrific screeches. Unworldly. Echoing. Unnerving. Howling. I turned to He Who Only… and cocked an eyebrow in question. He informed me that the sound I was hearing was the sound of squirrels having sex.

Ladies, Gents, Moo: I’m now in my 29th year on God’s good and green (but mostly blue) earth. How is it possible I’ve never heard that sound before? London: every day is a new experience.


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