By Jordan Gardner, rattus norvegicus and father of 70
LONDON. The big rancid cheeseburger. The place where dreams are made, or were. Because it’s full and I’m getting out. Here’s why:
Too many new mouths to feed
My ancestors? Been here hundreds of years, mate. One of ‘em pissed on Shakespeare’s lost folio, ruined it. But now there’s rats with none of the tradition rocking up expecting prime access. How’s indigenous rodents getting on the property ladder when every bin’s staked out by buck-teethed pricks from Surrey?
Bins aren’t what they used to be
Back in the day, any bin’s rich pickings of freshly dumped kebab meat and grey chips. Now it’s all empty Huel bottles, vegan wraps and that camel’s piss kombucha. They’ve gentrified our rubbish, and it turns my stomach. And that’s coming from someone who eats turds.
Commuting’s a nightmare
Have you been in the underground lately? Narrow, cramped, hordes of rats, barely room on the next fatberg to East Finchley. The underground barely runs and all I can do with Lime bikes is chew through the wiring.
Sadiq Khan’s done nothing for me
Sadiq’s been in nine years and what has he done to help me and mine? Piss all. Want my support? Cancel bin collections which did wonders in Birmingham, ban traps, every third chicken nugget to be discarded and stop acting like it’s a liberty when I come up your toilet. And cull the foxes, yeah?
The grass is greener
A cousin of mine has moved to Clacton-on-Sea and got a whole industrial dumpster to himself. London, he was in a half-flooded Victorian cellar in Acton. One of those towns that’s seen better days full of obese twats who live on fried food and ice cream, that’s what I’m after. Anywhere they vote Reform.
