The night before last I lay in a half sleep for what seemed like an hour but probably was only 20 minutes. You know how it is. There was enough noise being made outside for me to be conscious of it but I was hoping it would ease off and I wouldn't have to make my way up to the surface of full consciousness. Nice idea. I thought I heard some racist abuse being shouted, loud music then enormous crashes. I was awake and at the window...just in time to see the streaker. Ye gods, half three in the morning and a big, fat, pasty and frankly, unimpressivly endowed male is running up and down the road with his hands in the air. More racist rantings, more shouting, more music, more throwing of wheelie bins. I'm assuming there's an unforgiving mix of alcohol and student involved in this unsightly performance.
7 am sees me up for work and banging the hell out of their front door in the hope of really, really getting on the wrong side of them and pointing out how irritating it is being woken up. Sadly they were dead to the world. Or preferably just dead.
When they eventually surfaced, they would have found a letter on their mat telling them to keep their naked bodies and racist abuse inside the house. I wish I could have seen their faces when they realised there had been an audience. On the other hand, I think I've seen more than enough of their faces and everywhere else to last me.