Car Disco

    It’s not living next to Ushuaia, opposite Space or having planes pass
    50ft overhead that’s keeping me up at night. Nor is it the tractor
    going up and down Playa d’en Bossa beach dragging the sand, the little
    bas**rd mozzy in my bedroom or the fact that as I write this I am in
    bed alone at 4am, bemoaning my lack of success on national threesome
    day. What’s causing my absence of somnambulistic activity is the
    f***ing dickheads in the nearby car park playing shitty loud music
    from their Opel Corsa, sitting on foldaway chairs even a fisherman
    wouldn’t be seen dead on, drinking warm supermarket lager, whooping
    and hugging each other like they’re in DC10. Not a cool thing to do
    when you’re 18 never mind doing it in your 30s/40s with the kind of
    self-satisfied smugness usually reserved for the more expensive table
    in Pacha. You aren’t in a club, you’re on the street next to a car
    that should have been crushed years ago so get a life you ridiculous,
    retard, inbred c**ts!

    Where’s an air rifle when you need one? Actually f**k it – make that a
    sawn off…