Saturday morning, bright and early. You barely slept because of the cunts a couple of doors down having a party till 4am.

You could barely hear the dawn chorus as they were all whooping along to Wiggle It by 2 In a Room from the 90s - because there’s a 90s revival, if you hadn’t heard, even if the 90s was only about HALF A FUCKING HOUR ago.

FOUR AM! Four o clock in the fucking morning!

I’m not anti-party. But I am against asymmetric-haircut buffoons clocking off reception-work in some godawful media company in Soho so they can come to a flash mate’s flat conversion in the East End ‘burbs and whistle and holler like they’re at a nightclub, when in fact there’s an 80 year old woman trying to kip next door.

Anyhow, you’ve had a cup of tea and it’s sunny, so you can nap later, after you’ve gone for a stroll and bought some groceries. But… hold up! What’s this on the pavement outside of Barclays Bank on Mare Street?

It’s one of them!

All crashed out, mewling like a sick kitten and clearly wrecked after a night on the boutique lagers and face-powders! Look at his silly pink socks! Check out the crayon-blue skinnys!

Breathe in that Ill-fitting cheque shirt and undercut quiff combo!

It stinks!

What an irredeemable, spluttering twat! No wonder he feels the need to dowse himself in other people’s piss down there on the paving. It’s the essential punishment for being a ridiculously-dressed wreck of a Saturday morning, and for not having the common courtesy of sleeping it off on a park bench - as is the compulsory tradition!

You might feel for poor diddums here. You may feel it’s cruel to expose someone so vulnerable on a blog like this. He might’ve had his iPhone snaffled, mayhaps, or he could have had his fixie nicked or his earnings swiped.

I’M GLAD HE’S A FUCKING MESS.

I HOPE HE GOES TO PRISON.

I HATE HIM BY SIGHT ALONE.