I’m a very placid bloke, but if there is one thing that really gets my goat its littering and flytipping.
Okay, that’s two things. Still, they make me cross.
The reason I bring this up is a small one, but nonetheless something that has really bothered me. An empty cigarette box has appeared on my plot this week. To most, this is an insignificant occurrence, but the sight of the discarded packet, floating around the little piece of the world that I try to keep as neat and tidy as possible, has irked me.
Someone, somewhere, brazenly tossed the packet into the environment with no care to where it might end up, or the blemish and affect it would have on the surroundings. This attitude is unacceptable, but most of all, one that confuses me. There’s no justification or logical reason for littering. It’s entirely inexcusable.
Moreover, they weren’t my pack of fags, but now I’ve got to dispose of the litter. That’s selfish.
I followed a bloke in my car this week too, merrily chucking unwanted paper out of his window for about a mile. It takes a fair amount to get a swear word out of me, but my car was blue. I simply cannot understand the thought processes behind this sort of thing.
Not Going to Rant. Funny Littering Stories Involving my Dad.
Anyway, I’m not going to rant. We’re smiley, happy folk around here, but while I’m on the subject, I will share a couple of my favourite stories about my dad, which strangely enough involve flytipping and littering.
I grew up down a little unmade lane which was great for us kids to roam as we wished, but unfortunately, it was equally as good for covert dumping. One winter’s evening, a guy in a van decided just that and relieved himself of a washing machine. Unbeknown to said flytipper, my dad was watching.
He jumped in his car and followed the fella home, before getting on the phone to my granddad (a tough old bugger if there ever was one), popping the washing machine into granddad’s box trailer and unceremoniously dumping it back into the flytipper’s front garden.
Never Judge a Book By Its Cover
Dad also had a bee in his bonnet about littering, and if someone threw their rubbish on the floor, he’d politely stop them and inform them that they’d dropped something. A couple of years before I left home, a big black van was parked up at the end of the lane. Me and dad were in the front garden when sweet wrappers started coming out of the van windows, piece by piece.
Before I knew it, dad went marching down the road and banged on the window. Suddenly, a loud, aggressive ‘Oi, what’s going on’ came from the other side of the van, and the biggest, scariest looking bloke I’ve ever seen came bounding out. It was like something from a cartoon, as the bloke blocked out the sun around dad and leant over him.
‘Well?’ he said thunderously.
I could see dad cowering. I really hoped I wouldn’t have to go and help him. I didn’t fancy a pasting. ‘Erm. There is litter being thrown out of your van.’
The man’s face became even more angry and contorted, and suddenly he turned back towards his vehicle.
‘You two! Get out of here now and pick this rubbish up!’ He turned back to my dad, and apologised profusely for his daughters, informing dad that he’d not seem them throwing the litter on to the floor.
I have never seen a man so relieved in all of my life.