Your Niece Smells Of Hammers

A filthy mix by the irrespressible Your Niece.

Tramp Party

So, smelling my way to work - from the overflowing drain in the yard past the bacon sarnies of the factory workers opposite, through the Olympic stadium where they are seemingly building the foundations with manure and onto the stinking canal, I smell the party before I see it.

Now, one of the benches along the Union Canal has been inhabited by two tramps for a while. Every morning I pass them, worried about waking them up with my bell as I alert the other cyclists to my presence in the tunnel. They hunch, coats zipped tightly over heads, sleeping upright - or more probably not sleeping upright. I wonder about the feeling they have when their situation dawns on them. When they stop dreaming and realise they are outside on a bench in North London.

Anyway, yesterday as I rode home there were three of them. All awake and drinking - seemingly in high spirits.

This morning, there were about seven, all smokes and jokes in the orange light. Safety in numbers.

Sick

Oh My God.

I take it all back. Having just seen this footage of the police pushing Ian Tomlinson to the floor, I have re-evaluated what I think of the London MET.

I had previously given them the benefit of the doubt but this video makes me feel physically sick.

Bullies, massive baton wielding, frightening, gutless bullies. The police need policing - in a riot situation they think they can do no wrong and are free to terrorize innocent, peaceful people. It's terrifying that people like this officer are supposed to be the guardians of law and order.