I’ve been re-reading some collections of Jon Ronson’s articles, originally written for The Guardian and other publications and found myself thinking, ‘you know, I could do this sort of whimsical-seeming observations on life, maybe I should try submitting something similar to the papers’. The problem, I quickly realised, is that my observations on the madness of everyday life quickly seem to veer off into the sordid and downright sleazy. As a for instance, we have a problem with bin collections here in Crapchester, in that the refuse collectors refuse to empty bins unless they have, literally, been left on the kerbside. The problem being that many of us don’t have front gardens and our properties don’t go down to the kerb, (my house is part of a terrace raised above pavement level), so our bins are in our back gardens and, traditionally, the dustbin men have come down the communal path at the back to collect them, (in line with the council’s own edict that bins must be placed at ‘the edge of the property’ for collection). But a few years ago, the contractor decided that they couldn’t be arsed to do this, so insisted that, on collection day, we have to drag our bins down the path, down an alleyway and out to the pavement, (where they obstruct the right of way). Well, I thought, if they can’t be arsed, neither can I. So, I’ve got into the habit of going out the night before bin collection, seeing whose bins are already out and shoving my bin bags into them.

Which is fine, except that I’ve increasingly become concerned as to what my rubbish is sharing some of those bins with. One, in particular, always smells as if someone has shit in it. Three times now in recent weeks I’ve lifted the lid to be hit by the stench of what smells like excrement. Whether it is human excrement, I couldn’t say, but it definitely smells like shit. While the odour could be coming from something else they’ve put out in their refuse, I have to entertain the idea that maybe one of my neighbours is shitting in black bin bags and putting them out for collection. (There is, in my own experience, precedent for this – I once had to supervise the repossession of a property for a housing association where the toilet had apparently been broken for some time. The occupant had been pissing in two litre soft drink bottles and instead of pouring them down the drain, had them stacked all over the property. Every room was full of them and several were open, resulting in swarms of flies and a horrendous stench. I was later told that a bucket of shit was found out on the balcony). The bin always has its house number facing away from me, so I don’t know which of my neighbours might be responsible, (I have my suspicions). The bottom line is, I’m not sure that I’m comfortable with my rubbish going into a bin that someone’s taken a dump in.

Not, I’m sure you’d agree, the sort of whimsical musings on life The Guardian, (or any other mainstream outlet), is likely to carry. It isn’t as if any of my other observational exercises end up any better – they have a tendency to turn into rants that make me sound like a cranky old man, shaking his fist and raging at the modern world. The thing is that I strongly suspect that my stances represent the reality of what many people feel, rather than the whimsical sorts of pieces on the vagaries of life that the press seem to prefer. I mean, take those charity cold callers who come knocking on our doors unannounced. I had another one today, ambushing me on my doorstep and attempting to inveigle me into making some kind of financial commitment to their cause. It’s always the same: the spiel about those poor orphan kittens from Romania, or whatever, whose lives would be improved if you could just pledge a modest two hundred quid a week to their charity, obviously designed to tug on your heartstrings and shame you into contributing as, apparently, all your neighbours have already signed up. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be that mean bastard who said no to such a deserving cause, would you?

Well, I have no qualms about saying no – from a purely practical perspective I simply can’t afford to support all of these causes. More than that, though, I just don’t like the emotional manipulation, let alone all that fake friendliness as they try to establish a ‘connection’ with you. (I make the latter as difficult as possible with a series of monosyllabic negative answers to such enquiries as to whether I have children, a wife, a dog or whatever. I’d do this even if I did have any of those things – it denies them an opening). I try not to be outright rude – I spent far too many years knocking on doors trying to enforce civil orders, receiving a fair amount of abuse, hostility and threats. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Still, I guess it was my fault for answering the door – I really should know by now that no legitimate callers ever knock on the door at half past three in the afternoon. Most people are at work or getting the kids from school at that time. I suppose it is one of the perils of being a man of leisure – I’m often at home during the day to fall prey to the cold callers. But it comes to something when a man can’t lounge on his sofa, half watching William Shatner making clear that he thinks all the paranormal explanations in Weird or What are utter bollocks and the people advocating them ‘nut jobs’ (his words, not mine), while idly contemplating going out and putting some over priced diesel in his car, without having someone try to shame him into giving to charity.

I suppose that it could have been worse, it could have been one of those fast food couriers who has got the wrong address. This happens frequently to me. Despite telling them that not only haven’t I ordered anything, but I never use the likes of Deliveroo, I inevitably have to waste time arguing with them as they insist that they have the correct address. Often the problem lies with the fact that there is a similarly named road a few streets away and the address has been taken down wrongly. Often, the problem is that there are several properties divided into flats on my street and the delivery is actually for ‘Flat 1’ of one of these. Because I live at number 1 on my road, they come here, despite the fact that this is clearly a terraced house, not a flat. Actually, even worse than those guys are the parcel delivery guys trying to deliver stuff to people who have never lived at this address (again, somebody has taken it down incorrectly). I’ve known some of them to get quite aggressive about my refusal to take stuff I’ve not ordered. Even worse is when they’ve left it with one of the neighbours and I refuse to accept the delivery. I’d like to say that these sorts of things enliven my day, except that they don’t. It’s got to the stage that I’m seriously contemplating not answering the door at all if not expecting someone. That’ll show them…

Nope. I don’t think that Jon Ronson has anything to worry about – I’m just not cut out for turning his sort of stuff out for the broadsheets’ weekend supplements.