Neighbour invents superior method of trolling

A resident of de Beauvoir, Islington, has come up with a solution for one of today’s most pressing issues: how to lambast someone without knowing their twitter handle. The game-changing innovation was first noticed by fellow local, Sally Jones, on her routine walk home on Tuesday afternoon.

‘I saw an A4 notice duct-taped to 12a’s door – it was hard to miss. My first thought was, “oh, maybe Mark and Louise’s friends have left them a friendly note saying hi” or something.’ It was only upon closer inspection that 26 year old Ms Jones realised she was privy to something special.

‘When I took a closer look, I realised that, actually, this wasn’t just a note. It was genius. I feel really quite lucky to have seen this first hand, and for this to have happened on my little street.’

The note reads:

‘Hey fella! How about a more positive input and respect your local environment? Instead of the fly-tipping and disposing of cig-butts into the drainage system! Acting oddly venturing into private land with no business of being there! Not least the absurdity of teasing a cat on leash with no real prospect of free natural enjoyment is questionable, if not abusive! Think you can step up to the mark?

Other locals have been quick to enthuse the pioneering move of anonymous. Raymond Rogers, 74, from “across the way”, says ‘I had no idea that my neighbours were dicks. I am so glad that someone has done the whole street the courtesy of telling us. What this world needs is more acts of kindness like this.’

According to expert troll, @cuckiller, the typed note succeeds on multiple levels. ‘In some ways,’ he tweets, ‘this digitally produced analogue document goes beyond twitter. Theres [sic.] no character limit for a start, and front doors are big so u can say much more. Because its [sic.] typed u don’t know who wrote it and lots of people can c it. And unlike twitter, u get to see people’s faces. The best feature tho is that cos no1 knows who stuck it up no1 can respond. U have the 1st and last word evrytime [sic.]. ‘

As is standard practice, the identity of #banksytroll (as the internet has christened the note’s author) remains under wraps. What is clear though, is that the vigilante of de Beauvoir has and will continue to inspire.

‘I’m glad I got to see it before it was taken down,’ reflected Ms Jones. ‘I like John upstairs, but I can hear him shit. Finally I can let him and the rest of the street know.’

One woman’s day(-to-day)

Two days ago a teenage boy in the street belched loudly and threw the bottle top of his radioactively blue drink at me. Last week (same street) a middle aged builder shouted down from the scaffolding ‘hello love, it’s good to see a woman smile.’ Today I was crossing the road next to my house. A man (late 20s) driving a white van clocked me accelerated towards me bounced over speed bumps swerved at the last minute and laughed as he drove off. To clarify: a man pretended to run me over for lols.

I’m not going to sermonise pontificate or shout. I am not going to state the bloody obvious. But I wonder -

Why was it funny to van-man to give me a scare? So he can go down the pub with his mates and say ‘yeah, boys, gave this blonde a bit of a fright didn’ I. I was like going full pelt over the speed bumps and shit putting my foot down steaming towards her, and then – [hands smacked together] –  swerved at the last minute. Shoulda seen her face. A proper picture. Fuckin’ effin and blindin at me mate.’ Swigs slams and splashes pint to a chorus of bants and laughs.

The builder turns to the scaffold crew and says with warming sincerity, ‘it’s just nice when they smile, boys. Women. Got to be always so effin miserable! If I have to look at the face on my missus every bloody night, least I can have is the smile of nice looking girl to brighten my day.’ Here’s his laugh. He’s got his.

And the teenage boy. (Struggling to invent something for this one). But anyway, here he is, combining his penchant for littering and distaste for unknown women. Not a sophisticated display, but original(ish) – a new generation of ‘lad’, with his mates and blue syrup drink, in a succinct display of not giving a shit.

I am pretty used to getting my narrative written by someone else, getting my self told to me. So today I’ve had a go at writing the narratives of those that made me feel uncomfortable.

It didn’t feel good – presuming and assuming, guessing accents and backgrounds, guessing words. It didn’t feel good speaking for another. But then I want equality – which is not the same as getting even.