Living where I do one has to expect a certain amount of late night noise. It is after all a main route for people going from Old Town pubs on the hill to the town centre and the myriad theme bars that compete for business, never mind the nightclubs at the extremities of both areas. Last night was, however, exceptional. A veritable parade of late night revellers strolled, ambled, and fell over outside my home, in a series of favourite sing-alongs and comedy routines. I'm sure our civic authorities would prefer that festivities were more culturally based and officially sponsored, but last night the Swindon Midnight Carnival was in full swing.

Business As Usual

One of my neighbours has taken to playing their stereo at some volume just lately. The problem is that for some reason the sound travels directly into my bedroom and it isn't a welcome feature of living here. Yesterday I kind of lost my temper over it. I dragged a speaker cab into the hallway, plugged in a rythmn machine, and pressed play. A suitably loud (and distorted) soundtrack echoed away to my hearts content. it worked too. The neighbour went quiet after fifteen minutes of mind-numbing 4/4 beat. That is, of course, until they'd realised I'd stopped. Business as usual.

Our Turn Next

The problem with our special relationship with America is that eventually everything gets imported to us. Coca-Cola, burger bars, hurricanes, guns, sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. Sadly it now appears that the oil slick from Louisiana is also coming our way. With petrol being the price it is, and the usual south-western prediliction for scavenging off beaches and ship wrecks, one wonders if the more opportunistic members of the british public won't be down on the beach with jerry cans. Okay, it's crude oil, not nice perfect petrol, but since when did a small problem like that stop the british scrounger? They might even help the clean up too.