” The guvment? Politishuns? Yez have dun nuttin’ for me! Shure, it’s not worth me while even workin’, is it?” He barks, beer and Pringles off his breath at 11 in the morning, and slams the door of his council house on you, going back to watching Sky Sports on his plasma TV, snug and cosy behind his new council installed double glazing, glowering in indignation at the screen and pondering how hard his life is.
Next door is the woman who coughs up a lung chain smoking, giving out yards about the proposed incinerator up the road and the dangers of dioxins. ” I have kids!” She declares, gesturing at the nine year old Jabba the Hutt ball of Borza fuelled lard sprawled in front of the playstation, trying to shield his eyes from that weird energy coming in the door, what’s it called, oh yes, daylight.
Just up from her is the woman who complains about the lack of affordable housing for her daughter in the area, and then whinges about every single attempt to build new apartments or houses in the area. Presumably she’d like some sort of Independence Day-style housing estate just floating above “the area”. Then she could start complaining about how it is blocking out the sun, and if the government really cared they’d give it a cloaking device.
Across from her is the man who says that government doesn’t care about “ordinary” people like him, and is only interested in looking after the rich. And immigrants. And public sector workers. And the nurses. And the teachers. And businessmen. And publicans. And farmers. And women’s rights. And gays. And the people from the country. And the people on welfare. And the unions. And single mothers. Nobody is interested in “ordinary” people like him.