Flakes

Little could put a smile on my face more than the thought of David Cameron squealing back to London with his sphincter firmly clenched at the thought that everything might possibly go totally tits up for his government of privilege. Especially since we spent most of the weekend in the dark because the local scaghead had whipped out our electricity supply isolators in desperation so he might sell the copper and buy one last shot of smack, and Tower Hamlets had outsourced all it's emergency services to totally flakey so called service providers, who in any reasonable world would be renamed service non-providers, who sit in vans in laybyes somewhere scratching their balls and finding each others jokes, practical or otherwise, utterly hilarious.

The unfortunate heroin addict, in any reasonable world should be looked after, given his heroin, cleaned up, given a room and care so that he might, just might, slowly get himself out of whatever hell he's in now. The conglomerate service non-providers, the Mears and Morrisons of this world, have grown too big to know anything about what they are doing at all, and probably spend all day fiddling the books while the non-operatives sit in their vans reading The Sun.

Two whole floors were out; families with babies, old people, those who don't know what day it is, those who can't speak English and don't know what the Council is. We phoned the council on the hour every hour (when we weren't sleeping) but by Monday morning, almost twenty hours later, Mears hadn't even heard of us.