Some words of advice to the parents of children under the age of ten who live in my neighbourhood...words that, hopefully, they will pass onto their illiterate off-spring verbatim.
1) Kids: When standing exactly fifteen inches away from your ignorant friends there is no need to shout at a volume approximating that of the World Trade Centre falling down. Not only will it send yourself and your idiotic mates deaf but it also annoys the shit out of any poor sod who happens to be trying to watch the television down the street. Such behaviour, whilst not actually being against the law (or at least children under the age of ten who shout persistently in the street aren't very likely to end up in court for doing so), it might still result in a bucket of water accidentally-on-purpose being emptied from my bedroom window onto your heads. Probably a bucket of water with several turds in it. So shut the fuck up!
2) Whilst attempting to pick the pointing from my garden wall with the end of your shitty plastic swords might be amusing for half an hour or so, it will only prove very costly for your parents in the long run. That goes for trying to uproot any pebbles from my garden path that might be within easy reach of the back gate as well, and any stone cladding that might be attached to the house. It isn't worth it! For thirty minutes of what, even to a ten year old, must be extremely boring activity, you'll just end up having to fork out your pocket money every week until the day you leave school or die...whichever comes first. So bugger off!
3) Knock-a-door-run, whilst being traditional, isn't as cool and clever as you might think. Especially considering that by the third time you rattle my letterbox I'll be waiting behind the door with a cattle prod plugged into my mains. My defence in court will be that I thought a burglar was trying to break into my property. Your defence will have to be made personally to Baby Jesus, seeing as he'll be the next person you meet after 9,000 volts of electricity has wracked your limbs into smouldering twigs.
4) Kicking footballs into my garden is not recommended. Far from cheerfully throwing said football back, I shall remove it from my snapped and knackered honeysuckle, stick a knife through the top and then hold it up in front of you so that you can watch it deflate pathetically with a sad, dispirited wheeze. And don't even think about climbing over the wall to retrieve it either. There are illegal mantraps in my garden and several banned mines that would get Princess Diana turning in her pet cemetery grave.
5) Swinging from the ivy hanging over my garden wall and into the alley is also not advisable. I have coated said ivy with a venomous poison collected from Amazonian tree frogs. To date fifteen sparrows, one seagull and a wandering puffin have all met their makers through venturing into the ivy's verdant leaves.
6) Take your stupid fucking toys home with you after you've spent the afternoon holidaying down the ginnel. I don't care if they're bust in half or if the heads have come off the Action Men. Failure to remove your disgusting orange and yellow scraps of plastic will only result in them all being heaped into a cardboard box, placed on your own front doorstep, dowsed with petrol and then set alight. The scenes of carnage that would follow such an event whilst being excellent fun for most people living in the area wouldn't be terribly beneficial to yourselves and your families.
