Enough is enough is enough.

The other day, a group of three Chavs, perched on a hill, called me a 'Spaziak'. This spelling is phonetic.

I think I can guess at what they were inferring, but the term is generally new to me. And it's all because I looked at them. They were positioned beautifully, high up on the other side of the train track, in order to begin the spectator sport (a sport consisting of yelling abuse at commuters). I looked at them, because I couldn't figure out how they'd abseiled down the hill to the spot in question. And thus, I was christened 'Spaziack.'

It took me back to the weekend before when a Chav addressed me as if I was a cat, rubbing his fingers and making come hither noises, before asking, 'Does Kitty want a f**k'? I was very tempted, as you can imagine. Particulary after his friend had a wee all over my driveway. And they say romance is dead.

Then there's the balcony bunch, who seemingly have rented an apartment on the High Street of Morley, in which to sit, eat crisps, and spew forth wisdom. It's a balcony in a cage. They manged to squeeze about five of their chubby bodies, and plastic chairs into the meshed space, established like dirty kings on a throne. They laughed heartily at an old man in a motorised scooter, who was struggling to negotiate the garden furniture outside the American diner.

Would it be so wrong/illegal of me to start carrying a weapon? I'm not talking about anything too severe, like a potato gun. I'm talking about a samurai sword, or a rifle.

I feel inspired to take the law into my own hands, my own blood thirsty, dagger wielding hands.

It's not like Morley couldn't handle a few body parts, the streets are already strewn with litter and dog poo.

And aren't I supposed to be part of a pro-active, out-spoken generation who believes in change and forward thinking, albeit a somewhat violent, lethal kind of thinking?

Who will join me? We shall march out onto the streets at dawn with our machete's raised high,  and our tonsils vibrating with the cry of war!

Anyone?

TMC - The Modern Chav (in its natural environment)

Today's Chav has evolved far beyond wheelie bin theft and trousers tucked into socks. Today's Chav is a philosopher, an entrepreneur. Today's Chav, is a traveller, and will soon be coming to a bus near you.

In a rare, but thrilling encounter, yours truly got close enough to one such creature on the 221, close enough to absorb 30mins worth of The Modern Chav.

Here is my expose: Whilst still sporting the baggy tracksuit bottoms, and the tendency for a lot of hand on crotch action, TMC, has been working hard to drastically improve his communication skills. And like other great thinkers (Socrates, Pythagoras etc), had loud wisdom to share, "You should never hit a woman, like, directly in the face. But if no one finds out, then it's okay." A skill TMC has mastered all too well, is the delicate art of persuasion, seen here, as he convinces his bus fellow Kim to pretend she was with him, when the girl in questions claims he, "knocked her teeth out." Not only cunning, but rich with logic, "She had it coming, because of her massive love handles."

TMS is more loyal that ever, supporting and defending his loved ones, but still prone to crass language and public displays of violence. His only reason for going into town, was to buy his 21 year old sister nit shampoo, which he has forgot. "Shit, wank, fucking bastard, the fucking shampoo." He strikes a defenceless seat, and then kindly asks everyone to, "Excuse my French, shit."

Now, although cheating on his girlfriend of one year and two months, he does eloquently summarise that it's not his fault, because "The thing has been going on for two long, I mean that's a long time." Kim agrees. Only later does TMC reveal, that he intends to have sex with Kim. Only this time he warns, "Do not fall asleep,"

I am hooked reader. I am so close, I'm practically snogging his acne riddled cheek.

Despite the majority of the bus being stacked to the roof with pensioners, our lovable MC, plays Kim a charming video, to which the only soundtrack is intermittent screaming. He offers Kim his coke bottle, "Go on, have a suck, or I won't let you off the bus," and goes on at length about how can she be so stupid to not know what pedigree spiders are.

David Attenborough - Have you considerd making way for the inspiring observations of a younger generation?

Does anyone know what pedigree spiders are?

Is anyone currently panicking that the MC are breeding massive tarantulas to kill the smart, stylish people, who conform to society and have a reasonable grasp of the English Language?

Nuff said, brap brap, respect Blud.

The Rutter - 1 The Little Shits - 0

I did start writing this yesterday, but stopped and gave into the paracetemol driven, dehydrated hallucinations. I woke up feeling like cack, and forced myself around 9pm to produce the final 500 words of shocking cliche, probably inspired by the hours I spent watching Jeremy Kyle, and Come dine with me. And so hurrah! 50,000 words of iliterate, intolerable garble, which I will now have to wade through on my search for gold. I will also share with you some of the worst writing you will ever stumble across.

In other victorious news; Tuesday, whilst on my lovely morning walk to work, I turned a corner to find three charming boys waiting for me with a look-what-we-prepared-earlier pile of snow. The conversation which thus followed went a little like this.

Rutter: Please don't! I'm on my way to work.
Fat child: Tough!
Rutter: I'll remember this house number.
Fat child: We don't even live here!
Rutter: Yes, but they'll know who the little shits of the neighbourhood are.

Several things then happened dear reader. I realised that with my final sentence, I had officially made the transition into becoming my mother, spewing words commonly associated with the antagonised elderly. And also that I was now being chased, by the leader nonetheless, the fat one. With great cheer I announce that he could not catch me, and between the three of them, struck me once on the shoulder with a snowball. I even commentated on their effots. 'Nice one.' 'Wow, your talents astound me.'

I now realise that all my years of badminton, and my recent progress on the gym treadmil, had been preparing me for this moment. But there was only one sad thought in my mind, as I walked on in my woollen coat. And that was - How much my cag in a bag would've loved to accompany me on this adventure.

Ooooohh, Saucy!

Day 25. 29,147 words written. 41,675 which should have been. 20,853 words left. 5 days to go.

 I am in considerable pain. It's only almost double what it's taken me 25 days to write. It's not like my pride is backed into a corner and growling ferosciously at me. Breathe son, breathe. Here's to a truly magnificent weekend, stuffed to bursting with broken wrists and caffiene. I can't tell you that I'm surprised. It's a classic Rutter move. I put things off. I assure myself that it will work out. Then I feign compete disbelief at the outcome.

In my defence, I was attacked last night. Now, I've been attacked before, by move obvious things; a three legged cat, my brother, nettles, my mother, a headbutt from a drunk girl. But this, dear reader, was much, much worse. I'll set the scene for you. Myself and my boyfriend were innocently walking in the dark, to what one may call the gymnasium. When out of the blackness arouse a squelch. Something struck my face. Now what, what could have possibly offended the man in the passing car, so much so, that this revenge was necessary. Ladies and Gentleman, we had been sauced. I kid you not. A squeezy bottle of tomato ketchup. Our fellow citizens thought we were bleeding to death. But we survived. Although, to add insult to injury, they got James right in the tash. He was walking around Morely with someone elses ketchup in his tash. I fear for his masculinity.

Now, wish me luck in overcoming my recent trauma, and attempting this impossinble feat. Much love x