Poet on a Hill

Monday, 28 September 2009


Maybe It’s My Hormones

I’ve just done a trip on the motorway and it jogged my memory about the people I must add to my – List of Arseholes. This is on top of those who are already well and truly there, like:-
The lazy buggers who are too idle to flick their indicator switches when I’m trying to work out what their next surprise move will be.
And those others – the cross-eyed gets who park their cars on the footpath to leave more room for other vehicles on the road. ‘Sod pedestrians, wheelchairs, the blind and kids on bikes. We motorists must stick together.’
Hey! Blank-face! People on footpath! Cars on road! Ah – never mind. It’s too complicated.

Now come two more groups who had slipped my memory for a split second.
First up are the arse-licking creeps who crawl past speed cameras at 5 or 10 miles an hour slower than they need too. If you ever wondered what happened to the class sneak from school
– the one who always sat bolt upright, straight back, neck stretched, arms folded, ‘Please sir; it wasn’t me sir; I never done that sir, it was him sir, Gregory sir, not me sir, honest sir, I’m a good boy me sir.’ – well now you know.
It’s that bastard in front, the one who slammed his anchors on to creep past the camera.

Then there’s that other wild eyed group of animals who come shooting down the motorway at 80 or 90 miles an hour, inches away from the car in front. I’ve no sooner said to my beloved, ‘Look at those daft bastards,’ than I glance in the mirror and find there’s one in my boot, maniacal face staring over my shoulder.
If there was such a thing as reincarnation these prats would come back as dogs and spend eternity sniffing each other’s arses.

God Bless Us One and All