There’s more crime in the c*untryside than in cities, K— because there’s nothing else to do there.

It just isn’t reported on, because …

a) it’s boring — nobody cares about cow tipping, prize pumpkins being sabotaged, the Morris dancing mafia or cheese rolling feuds.

b) it isn’t discovered in the first place — the police are too few and far between and either 1) the perp(s) themselves, 2) related to the perp(s), 3) too inbred to detect it in the first place, 4) more than one of the above.

As for there being less noise, you must be stone deaf, if the bloody dawn chorus doesn’t wake you up.

A lack of light pollution is nothing to be proud of either — all it does is highlight the fact that you’re all still living by candlelight ¹.

¹ We beat the Spanish, btw — they’ve erected a statue of Lord Nelson to commemorate it.

— Me, some years ago, replying to ‘K’, pointing out where the argument in favour of living in Zone 3 fell apart.

Ah, yes … Zone 3.

For the newcomers amongst you, I’d better establish some groundrules, before I proceed.

The rest of you can quit your pitiful whining, you miserable ingrates and be thankful for what few crumbs of enlightenment I can bear to bring myself to waste on you — because, as E. Scott Alighieri ¹ knows all too well … basically … I’m fantastic!

So … where was I before I was, so rudely, interrupted?

Oh, yes … Zone 3 <shudder>.

Well, I wasn’t obviously … thank goodness … but you take my point.

Or rather you don’t, do you … not yet … I’m getting ahead of myself.

Look .. read this/these

… and then come back — it’ll make Life much simpler for both of us ².

All done?


So, anyway … I can’t find all the links right now. They’re somewhere, but not here and, frankly, I’m surprised I found even the one I did …

There’s another link to an article about generations old feuds between cheese rolling families in Gloucestershire (attempted murder and everything) … another on people sabotaging others’ prize pumpkins prior to … wait for it … prize pumpkin growing competitions (oh, it’s all go in the c*untryside) …

So, you can see why I wouldn’t have bothered to pay too much attention to what hard drive they might be on or where in the World (let alone nation) that drive might currently be found (it’s probably in storage) … or indeed might have suppressed the memory of ever having read them myself …

Or maybe you can’t.

I don’t know … who knows what passes through what passes for your mind? For all I know Morris dancing, cheese rolling, pumpkin growing or whatever (please, don’t tell me) might very well be significant elements of your life — or, if not, you might wish them to be … as I said, don’t know (nor do I care to).

The point is, you see the below two articles

… that’s where you live, that is.

So, you see, E. Scott Alighieri, it was worth waiting for after all, wasn’t it, you ingrate!!?!


One last thing … as I am sure veteran reader of my nonsense Quasimodo will attest …

¹ Whom I must, now I come to think of it, ask why he named himself after a murderer. Or was it a desert? No, wait … I’m thinking of a squid. Although, that’s not actually a dessert, now I come to think of it.

² Well, it’ll make mine simpler anyway — which is what matters ³.

³ I’m gonna have enough on my plate with E. Scott Alighieri whining at me about how fantastic I am as it is, without the extra burden of having to a) explain everything to you and … and it most certainly is gonna be an and … b) deal with his whinging at me, like a little girl, about repeating myself .

⁴ Which, casual misogyny aside (not that the ungrateful wretch will thank me for it), I’ve only done for your benefit in the first place, so the least you could is read the linked posts, don’t you think? </grumble> </moan> </emotional blackmail>

⁵ ̶W̶o̶m̶e̶n̶ E. Scott Alighieri: can’t live with ̶’̶e̶m̶ him, can’t hit ̶’̶e̶m̶ him with a shovel.

⁶ As ever, the reader comments are a must-read.

⁷ Yes … you.



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Where Angels Fear

Where Angels Fear

There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live and too rare to die.