Shit. Shit shit shit. I seem to be unable to adjust to the fact I live along a street now. That is to say, have a bedroom facing the street. You see; the fact I have an unobstructed view onto the street leads to the common deduction that the street, and the people on it, have got an unobstructed view into my bedroom as well.
   Not a big problem. The fact I sit at my desk in the morning with a cup of tea and a towel with an elephant motif draped over my head is not something future biographers should have to interview ex girlfriends for. They can ask my neighbours. Except for the cunt with the saw.
   Unfortunately I have the irritating habit of opening the curtains in the morning to see what the world looks like. Not a bad strategy of survival in modern day Edinburgh because it seems all it needs is a bad fuse and say bye bye to a building older than the United States of America.
   Of course I also sleep in my bare arse. Again not a problem, though the combination of the two can sometimes lead to scenes preferably avoided.
   This morning, for example, despite it not being Monday, I woke up with the mother of all early morning erections. It is times like that I realise why I don't wear anything in bed. So, just to make sure breaking up with my ex wasn't just a wet dream I inspect the other half of the bed, apologise to my penis and stumble out of bed.
   I stick on Deep Purple and wonder whether it has snowed yet. So, I draw open the curtains and peer into the street, which seems to be peering right back at me with approximately thirty-seven eyes. Two very unattractive classroom aides, and seventeen nine-year-olds, all wrapped up in warm clothes and mittens.
   It is not until the one with the lazy eye points that I realise it is my third leg they are all so obsessed with. Even more worrying is that only one of the aides is moving the kids away.
   Personally I am not a big fan of children. I know they play some kind of indispensable part in the procreation of the human race, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Of course there are those that have to be with kids as often as possible. This is good. The more people do this, the less chance I have of being stuck with one.
   Then of course there is the group of people that want to be with kids, but shouldn't be allowed anywhere near them. These people are known as men with sweets. Also paedophiles.
   To stop these people the government has set up various programs. Task forces, electronic tagging, parent teaching, an offenders register and elaborate screening of key personnel. Others have taken it even further and ban making videos of their kids.
   All very nice and well meant, but what about the obvious step? The one thing that draws thousands of minors and encourages them to be turned on my middle aged men promising them all kinds of things. Surely that would be the first thing any healthy organisation would abolish…
   Unfortunately the Blue concert was allowed to go ahead. The idea is the following. You cram about ten thousand thirteen-year-olds into a hall in Glasgow, stick four blokes twice their age on a stage, let them take their clothes off, have parents pay twenty-five quid for a ticket, get these girls into a frenzy, mop the floor and seats after and then tell them not to go home with boys twice their age.
   How does that work? We were escorting ten-year-old out of the theatre while they were begging to get a plastic bottle their favourite twat, I mean singer, had put his mouth on. They wanted to lick it, taste it and do God knows what else with it.
   Paedophilia has entered a new era. Parents pay for their kids to be lured away and seduced. Dirty men touch themselves in front of your kids and get away with it! It is a disease that must be stopped! Open your eyes! Ban Blue!