Lessons from Crawley...

You know me. The last thing I want to do is jump on this bandwagon that takes pleasure in stereotyping British teenagers. I’ve known many teenagers in my life (I used to be one for Christ sake so I knew a fair few then!), and the vast majority have been pleasant and humble, going about their daily business just like the rest of us. But unfortunately, there’s always one. Or in this case, two…

As most of you will know, I live in Horsmonden; a small village in South-West Kent where the signature dish is countryside served with a side of rich medieval history. I make no secret of my love for the place, and why should I? There is a sense of community here that is scarce in the majority of towns across the UK. People leave their doors unlocked. When it snows, snow is removed not simply from one’s driveway but from the pavement beyond it that is used by fellow-villagers. When a pensioner falls over on ice, they’re not filmed on a mobile phone; they’re helped to their feet and if necessary escorted to the nearest General Practitioner.

But this harmony has recently been pushed to its very limits by a pair of teenage hoodlums who call themselves ‘Ez’ and ‘Smeg’. I do not know if they are real names or chosen aliases. They ride around on very small bikes, often cycling directly across front gardens. Just yesterday, they thought nothing of cycling over an elderly woman’s prized-patch of fuscias. Fuscias are notoriously difficult to cultivate. And that’s without bicycle tyres screeching across them. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that BMX tyres are not an ideal part of horticultural processes. Then they stop, often at the War memorial (a place which is naturally of great significance to the village) and start rapping aggressively. I have nothing against the rappers, but stand by what I’ve always said about them; given their offensive and potentially dangerous tone, they ought to keep their rap music to themselves, and out of the often innocent or naive earshot of the general public.

- Various Rappers. Note the Parental Advisory label at the top. As if that's somehow a selling-ponit!

And that’s just the beginning. They litter flippantly. They stick chewing gum on commemorative benches willy-nilly. They spit in the direction of wild animals. They chase birds. They shout at cats. A neighbour told me he even saw Smeg at a supermarket in Pembury harassing a disabled trolley-collector who works there. Can they get any lower than that?

Yes they can. They recently drew what I will describe for reasons of decency as parts of the female anatomy on to a Mini Metro, whilst the 85-year-old owner, who has Parkinsons, sat helplessly inside after falling asleep upon his return from the local shop. And that, in my opinion, is as low as mankind can get. 6000 years of civilisation, and then that….

Working at the Police Museum I have of course not only become familiar with the methods and techniques of detectives but have also acquired some fairly high-profile acquaintances. I have therefore decided to take a short-break from work during a forthcoming school holiday. During that holiday I will, within the parameters of English and Kentish Law, monitor and report on the activities of Ez and Smeg over a continuous period of time. I shall then forward my findings to my acquaintances in order to find a lawful solution to this problem. Because, quite frankly, I want my village back. This is how it begins. Firstly, it’s a couple of trouble-makers, then it’s ten. Then twenty. Then a hundred. Then a thousand. And before you know it, you’re Crawley, and you’re overrun with yobs. As hard as it is to believe, Crawley was once as peaceful as Horsmonden. I’m learning lessons from Crawley…

Best

M

NB: Crawley is a nice town, but just happens to be the perfect example of a town overwhelmed by misbehaviour. I do not mean to cause any offence to a town with a genuinely rich history, which has been inhabited since the Stone Age, was a centre for ironworking in Roman times, and more importantly, has recently had a terrific FA cup run!