Just mowing the lawn.

It is a routine that is followed every fucking Sunday from April through to Fucking October. Cutting, manicuring and preening. Such a sad depressing life this is, mowing lawns to perfection followed by washing the car.

Competition and a one-up-man-ship that each, and every fucker in this drab Mercedes lined street tries to win, at any fucking cost I might add. No one mentions it of course, it just idles away in the background, but it is there and we all fucking encourage it.

Fertiliser, secret potions, with the best and of course the latest mower money can buy. We wouldn�t be seen with last years model, no, no. Perfectly neat straight edges frame perfectly manicured borders and not a single blade is ever out of place.

Henry Muir at no15 is a fucking company director and he brushes his fucking lawn.

Honestly, I kid you not, every fucking morning before he leaves for fucking work, and he isn�t embarrassed about it in the slightest. Not Hendry, no sir, Hendry even gives a wave if you catch him at it.

Wimbledon-esque, a word that would best describe all the effort put into mine. Proud as punch I am. How fucking sad is that?

The kids, Lucinda and Thomas are the fucking same, perfectly manicured to look like permanent catalogue adverts. Honestly, I have never seen any of my kids dirty. Now that I think about it, I hardly ever see my kids.

That�s right, we send them to boarding school. Ten grand a year times two, worth every fucking penny for the peace and quiet alone.

I mean�who fucking benefits from all this competition�I don�t.

All for what, God bloody knows.

Look at the poor bastard at no12, George Green. We never see the poor cunt. George is too busy working every fucking hour that God sends. He makes a fucking fortune and he always pleads fucking poverty.

Poverty my fucking arse. For Gods sake, no cunt, and I mean no cunt, can holiday in St Lucia twice a year and claim to be living in fucking poverty.

What for, why dose the poor bastard do it?

So, Margret, his lipo-sucked, botox injected stupid fucking sleaze bag of a wife can show fucking off. That�s why.

Who the fuck dose she think she is, driving to Waitrose in a soft-top Mercedes, the same fucking car that�s always parked at some �Garden Centre�� where she meets the other sad no life bastards who �do lunch�.

Another fucking thing, George once told me after too much wine at one of the frequent barbeques, barbeques I might add, we only have so the woman of the street can compare curtains�back to the subject�apparently the sleaze bag, Margret, won�t even give the poor cunt a blowjob, never has and never will.

I would bet a thousand pounds the personal�that�s right the personal trainer, he wont have the same problem, no sir, and who the fuck is in need of a personal trainer every fucking day. Professional fucking boxers don�t even have that luxury.

Silly fucking cow and George is the stupid cunt who putts up with her fucking nonsense.

As for Eric...that�s him, the one washing the BM seven series across the street. Two hundred and fifty thousand a year he fucking earns, and he cant get a fucking hard-on. I got a hard on when I heard how fucking much he earns, for fuck sake.

If any sexual activity takes place in that house, it relies entirely on �black market Viagra� and porn, the poor, poor man.

He doesn�t know I know�no, no, no. I only found out when Karen, his sexually deprived wife told my wife Jean at another barbeque. Apparently, apparently, the subject came up when I burnt some sausages, how the fuck they connected the two together I don�t know.

That�s Jean shouting, I�ll have to go now, she wants me to peal the potatoes. See you later.

Currently 8.76/10
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Rating: 8.8 out of 45 votes cast