There's a guy who lives down the road who I hate. His name is John. He used to wear a faded green 'Jag Men' t-shirt every day, but I think his mum must have wrecked it doing the laundry.
At first, I didn't hate him because I thought he was retarded, and you aren't allowed to hate retarded people. Then, one day, I heard him talking to another neighbour like he thought HE was retarded (an almost exact replica of this Little Britain sketch). That's when I realised John wasn't retarded - he was just a socially inept dickhead... and a nosey one at that.
Since that realisation, when I've seen him walking down our street, I've scurried inside. When I've seen him up at the shops, I've pretended to send a text message or be deep in conversation (which may seem like overkill, but once when I acknowledged him in 'the village' with a greeting, he said 'hello' back, and then asked how I knew him...grrrr). When he watches my car as it drives up the street, as he does every car that drives up the street, I play the focussed driver, eyes fixated on the road.
Today, as I turned into the street and found myself again the subject of his watchful gaze, I brought back an old rebellious friend: the 'sneaky stinkefinger'. As I fixed my gaze determinedly upon the road ahead, I extended my middle finger in John's direction, hovering safely below the car window where he could not see... but where I knew I was doing it.
Cop that, John, you dickhead!
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