Revenge on Neighbour

Often on Sunday mornings, I lie in bed and say 'Oh Lord, I want to die, I want to die.' in a groaning voice.



This is because I've had too much to drink the night before and I get the most amazing hangovers. My head pounds like the Ballymacarret Loyal Defenders are practising their Lambeg skills inside my cranium.



I might also call out 'Oh Lord, I want to die, I want to die' for the additional mental anguish as the terrible and stupid things I did the night before come back and haunt me. Like trying to do sex with other men's' wives. Or stealing a bottle of Rose wine (Blossom Hill) offa large lady at Groomsport festival as I did on Saturday, causing her to angrily bawl me out (I thought she'd gone home, I really did.)



Anyway, one Saturday night a few months ago I was having a rare night off the devil's buttermilk and was lying in bed listening to the shipping forecast on the radio, as you do. I had the window open and heard a bit of noise from next door as my neighbour was having a few friends over for a drink.



I wasn't really listening as they were just being the usual loud and lairy drunk folk. Indeed, I was just about to close the window to block them out, when suddenly I became aware that my neighbour was doing an impression of me!



'Oh Lord, I want to die, I want to die,' he was saying in mock agonised tones and laughingly telling his dreadful mates about my behaviour.



Well, I angrily slammed my window and went to sleep.



In the intervening months, I have exchanged pleasantries with this gentleman. About the weather and our respective gardens and that. But I have never forgotten the remarks he made.



So when I arrived home on Saturday night/Sunday morning in the wee small hours, and found him having another drinking party, I saw my chance for revenge.

In my garden, I have a rose arch. It has a big bushy rose and a honeysuckle growing up around it. Inside is a bust of Julius Caesar. That's not really relevant, I'm just painting you the picture. My neighbour was in his garden behind his hedge with his drunken mates, about ten feet away.

Now I don't really know anything about the bloke, his name or his habits (apart from smoking) or employer or anything. But I do know that he has a bald head.

So I nestled down in the deep foliage beside Caesar and the the rose and the honeysuckle and sang him a song:

"Oh Bald Headed Neighbour

Bullet Headed Man

Smooth Head, Smooth Head,

Billiard-Ball Headed Man

Look at your moon head"

etc etc.

I can't tell you the tune because I made it up. Think mournful Irish air/Japanese national anthem.

After I sang it for a bit, the party fell silent and listened to me. I can't tell you their reaction, because I was still rather drunk and just kept on singing and singing about his bald head.

Then I crept inside and made a sandwich and fell asleep.

When I awoke the next day I had a hangover and began groaning 'Oh Lord, I want to die, I want to die.'