No Spitting

For various reasons I ended up riding the Loser Cruiser round to see Mr and Mrs Crisp-e.
A walk was involved, right through bandit country.
Had to walk past the end of ATM’s road.
I got to Crisp-e’s unmolested.
Handily, their bell doesn’t work and I was left on the doorstep, with a poxy rucksack, looking like a stoned Mormon.
The final indignity was to receive a text telling me to, ‘go round the back’, like I was some kind of “Tradesman”!
They kindly let me kotch with them for the day.

The bus home has me convinced that the number 6 is an annexe of St James’s and runs along a main chav artery.
I had a ‘describer’ to the right of me. The people who give a commentary on the route.
“Cemetery. Passing the Cemetery.. Oooh.. Fratton Park.. Passing Fratton Park. Crossing. Pub.. Pushing a pram.”
Behind me I had the middle aged couple having a domestic.
Then the Pompey Mum, with kids the United Colours of Benetton got on.
Refusing to collapse the pushchair she blocked up the walkway.
The driver turned, looked at me and asked if I could put the pram thing in the storage.
“Um… NO!”
The bus went silent.
The driver stared at me.
“Health and Safety, Mate.”
I put the ipod on and looked out of the window.
Why the fuck should I help?
Not my fecking kids! Not my fecking job!

Parish Council meetings here must have been unmissable!
Spitting!
I’ve seen a priest shout, “Get out of my Church!”
Not at me, surprisingly!
I’ve seen them held up during Mass; I’ve seen them fall down during Mass and on one occasion fall asleep.
But spitting.
Difficult to ‘turn the other cheek’ for that one.
Freaky looking fecker too!