Multi-Coloured Housequarters

Oh, for fuck's sake, Noel, look what you done: mess everywhere, broken windows, doors off hinges, twisted bicycles... "Bonkers Britain!" you cry. "Have we all gone mad!"

No, Noel. Only you. Just ask the 'faceless bureaucrat' (Sue, 47, single mother of three) that you punched in the town hall reception back at the start of this whole sorry episode. That was only two hours ago, but so much has changed since then, Noel. So many lives have been altered forever since you stumbled naked from the car that you drove into that bus stop, bellowing wordlessly with the white-hot fury of a man driven mad by the wind.

So many families, Noel, so many families, lovers and friends left confused and grieving since, crashing into the street from that grey municipal building, you blindly visited upon all and sundry the boiling wrath of the bourgeoisie, rocketing into the crowds at lightning speed like the angry word of a malevolent god, bursting through the fleshy cages of innocents, cars flipped through the air, tumbling tonnes of metal rolling over soft bodies, screaming Death following in your wake.

Whipped up you were, Noel, by Daily Mail headlines and rightwing talk radio hosts, you and all the other frustrated Middle Englanders sitting there frothing in your hermetically sealed rural bubbles beaming images to each other like mad satellites, images of immigrants, freeloading dole scum, teenagers and lesbians gleefully taking torches to Great Britain, kicking down her walls, pissing on her sizzling ruins, letting in terrorists, rampaging through the villages, turning us all foreign.

It sickened you, didn't it, Noel? It sickened you so that you tore the paper to shreds, hurled the radio smash it against the wall and leapt from your bath straight out to the drive and into your car, lurching through the gates - the whole thing was recorded by your CCTV cameras, we saw it - and out into the city. The godforsaken city.

And the journey just made it all worse, because for three miles on the motorway you had to do twenty as the emergency services dealt with the aftermath of a car crash (four dead). Ooh, it made you FURIOUS, didn't it Noel!

And now you sit, Noel, weeping on an upturned recycling bin. I thought they'd be disgusted, I thought they'd finally turn their backs on you, but no, here they are, your minions, they saw you on the TV and they rallied behind you and here they are, continuing your terrible work, taking the middle class revolution to the streets, fighting for the rights of the comfortable man, fighting against: taxes; speeding fines; parking charges; bus lanes and cycle lanes; political correctness; planning departments; the inconvenience of separating glass from paper from plastics; homosexuals on television; Jonathan Ross; modern art; modern music; modern everything; hooded outerwear; the proletariat... And there you sit, watching and weeping.

Because you called them, Noel. You called them and you offered them security and peace of mind, a world free of the strange and alien, a world in which they could happily sit in their neat little gardens safe in the knowledge that no black youths are listening to threatening music on mobile phones on the back seats of buses forty miles away, and they replied in the manner of a million-headed contestant on your tawdry afternoon squawkshow. And when you and your kind are finished with the rest of the country, Noel, then you'll start on each other, ruthlessly hacking your brethren to pieces until that day, that fateful day when all are dead but you alone.

And thereafter you shall beget a terrifying new reality; a new universe built upon hatred, where the moon is wrapped in razor wire and the sun is hidden behind a 15 metre high perimeter fence.

As it is written, so it shall come to pass.