A supper time discussion last night got me thinking. In fact, it was less the discussion and more the dulcit tones of the feral children terrorising our road that prompted my latest rant about, well, everything.

Rich asked me what the parents were doing letting their children play, shout, swear, run riot and generally abuse passers-by until 10 o’clock at night. Now, we happen to know that the people to whom these little shits belong are living in the council properties opposite our (soon to be ex) house, and I have heard the Benson and Hedges-tinged voices yelling to their spawn to “Get your arse back in ‘ere” with my own ears. This latest phenomenon in Underworld Road (in the Wycombe Shitbowl as we lovingly call it) has only really started in the past few weeks, leading us to believe that a new family has arrived. The last lot must have moved on after their BMW – yes, I kid you not, they owned a Beemer on the dole – was torched at 2am one Monday morning, throwing 20 foot flames leaping into the air, scorching the telegraph pole and generally terrifying the road’s inhabitants.

I digress. I started by quite calmly and reasonably saying that these poor kids have nothing better to do than to hang around on the streets. Their parents don’t want them indoors (presumably so they can shag bloke number five to spawn child number 8 ) and with a woeful lack of organised activities (assuming they would go, that is) there is little else to do except throw litter into our garden and let the neighbour’s rabbit out of its hutch, prompting some comedy bunny chasing on my part to avoid it becoming a “Hot Squashed Bun” over the Easter period.

I then got a bit cross. Had I perhaps taken it upon myself to accost one of these filthy little beggars and politely request that the volume be turned down, I could not be sure that our house and cars would remain intact. Visions of dog poo through the letter box and bricks through the windows flashed through my mind and I realised that while an Englishman’s house might be his castle, he cannot defend it without fear of recrimination and revenge. How can this be? How can normal, hardworking people be penalised for having pride and respect, while the country’s ne-er-do-wells and Chavs feed off the state, terrorising us and making us pay for them?

These children on our street will never know that they are behaving unacceptably, because they will never experience anything else in life. Their parents will never teach them acceptable behaviour, because they never learned it from their parents. And so the nightmare perpetuates itself. The parents will blame the teachers, passing the buck to someone else as usual, and teachers will in turn continue to bang their heads against brick walls, fearing mad-eyed fake Burberry-clad viragos screeching accusations at them while jumping through bureaucratic hoops instead of getting on with the job in hand. And politicians will say we just need to befriend the hoody-wearing yobbos, understand their wants (surely just more Argos jewellery?) and send them on safaris instead of to Borstal where they belong.

And breathe.