I lived in Liverpool for nearly 33 years (32 if you count the 6 months in Sheffield and the 6 months I’ve lived in Brierley). During that time I lived in L25, a fairly wealthy area with moderate crime rates (my mum and dad only got broken into once and that was like after at least 35 years of living there). I also lived in a rough bit of L15 for 3 years, an area with a higher rate of crime the ground floor flat of the building in which I lived in was broken into once and someone once tried to break into the antique shop opposite.
I have even lived in L8 which was probably an area with one of the highest rates in the whole of Liverpool though I only witnessed one hobbo beating, several counts of prostitution, a breach of planning regulations, my old Citroen AX being lifted and turned 180° and the theft of a fire extinguisher by some local youths. Liverpool and its occupants had a reputation as a bunch of thieving scrotes. Ask any non-Liverpuddlian about Liverpool and you will be regaled with stories of blackguardry, brigands and other crimes. Most of which are unfounded and more than likely exaggerated.
Now, in 6 months of living in Brierley, a quiet sleepy village on the borders of West and South Yorkshire, I’ve had to deal with a gang of 20 youths and the vandalisation and the possible theft of a digital camera from the wife’s car. To top it all off this morning the following events took place.
I left the house at about 8am as usual and walked to the garage to take out the Vectra. The wife’s car is parked across the entrance so the door is only able to be opened very slightly. Indeed, the door, when locked, will lift up giving about a 2 – 3 foot gap between the wall and the floor. Not wide enough for an adult to squeeze though however. I noticed that the door was sticking up a bit. Sometimes this happens when I haven’t been able to get the car completely into the garage at the right angle so I didn’t think much about it.
I waited for the wife to arrive and move her car and I noticed in the distance that the gates to the private lane were opened yet Gareth’s car was still parked and Mrs Owen only goes out on a Tuesday morning. I thought maybe it was one of the other neighbours coming back late at night and being lazy. The wife moved her car and I opened my garage door. It was then that I noticed glass on the garage floor. Further inspection revealed that the drivers side window had been smashed and not only had my cigarettes been stolen but my crappy in-car stereo had been ripped from its mountings.
Six months. Six fucking months and three twatting crimes. I swear if I find out who is doing it, and I’m fairly certain that its the same scrotes that attacked the wife’s car, they will enter such a world of discomfort they will want to seek psychiatric help before they even consider doing something like that again.