Being 'fucked off' by an expert

Very chilly this evening coming home from work. But an unexpected volley of abuse infused me with a shot of the warmth, the sort you can only get from having a good old 'fuck off' laugh at yourself and the circumstance of the moment.

As I wheeled out of the ‘We Are 336’ carpark on the Brixton Road earlier I spotted another wheelie and gave her one of those esoteric nods we crips deploy as a means of greeting.

As she shot past me I heard someone roaring their head off. People roaring off their heads on the Brixton Road is the norm. If you stroll along this busy thoroughfare and don’t hear someone venting their spleen at the world, then be afraid, for the world will have tilted off its axis.

As the source of the riotous roaring came level with me, resplendent with can of electric soup in one hand while the other was brandished a magnificent spliff, he spat out:

“Fucking waste of space you cripples; and she’s the fucking same! Go and get a fucking job!”, aimed at me, but also pointing to the young woman who was by now way off beyond earshot. 

Of course I could be completely way off the mark, but the guy imparting these invaluable pearls of advice to me and the young wheelie looked as though he was very well acquainted with the state of drunkenness and no stranger to being smashed out of his box on a variety of what it takes to fuck around with his loaf. But I'll go out on a limb and say he was both pissed and smashed; and that he spends most of his time elevating this life style to the levels of the fine arts.

Oh well, as Oscar Wilde might have quipped: “There is only one thing in the world worse that having fucks thrown at one, and that is not having any fucks thrown at one.”