Then @billyboy, a rather more seasoned tweeter joined in, used the relevant hashtag and soon got a volley of abuse from those that wanted their countryside without the interference of mud and weather.
He got sworn at and threatened but this Billy held his own until @WhiteEye joined the mob and tweeted he knew where he worked (it wasn’t that difficult Billy had his uniform on in his avi) and was coming tomorrow to ‘fuck him over'. A non specific threat which whilst lending itself to the 140 character limit still made Billy fearful enough to delete his twitter account.
With two accounts deleted @Big-Billy joined the debate.
He was a countryside campaigner.
Was a verified account with a blue tick to his name.
His following was massive.
He tweeted and @WhiteEye was instantly on the attack. He threatened him. His family. Big Billy didn’t respond with words. He simply screen shot the offending tweets. Retweeted too, just so a record was there and to expose the slimy troll.
Then the newspapers took up the story and @WhiteEye was tracked to a Brighton Semi with a range of aliases to his name, arrested and is currently still awaiting trial.
Billy kept it clean. He kept it polite but within seconds @WhiteEye had responded calling him a reactionary fucker. Now Billy was new to Twitter and didn’t know not to feed the trolls and he tweeted back which turned into a rather unpleasant exchange.
Billy had unfortunately followed his daughter’s account as soon as he opened his and soon she started getting White eyes (this time rather personal) vitriol too and within half a day he and his family had to close their accounts due to the abuse they were getting from those in favour of the Bridge Cross development.
Once upon a time, actually last month, plans were leaked about a development just off the M6. Affordable housing. Shops. Hospital. Leisure Complex. I’d go on but basically there’d be something for everyone.
Everyone except fans of the Lake District which was the site of the proposed new town.
Bridge Cross would still have a domed area of outstanding beauty which people could visit for a fee.
Opinion was divided. As you’d expect.
Billy was enraged. He opened a Twitter account, kept his avi as an egg. And @Lil_Billy proceeded to vent his anger using the hashtag BridgeCross to tweet.
Her face composed again to relief at the next bedroom. Nigel's domain, she thought, as she sat with a sigh on the bed.
"The master bedroom!" Said Joe swinging open a door.
Her expression crumpled. No storage space, simply a huge bed dominating the room. And at its head sat three large deliciously plumped pillows. She faltered, clutched her clipboard tight and struggled to find words.
"I think I've seen all I need."
She left immediately without even seeing the basement playroom. Promised to be in touch by the end of the day but they never heard from her again.
When Derek came home from work just as she was admiring the latest Philippe Starck Toilet. She rose. Paused and took a sharp breath.
Was simply not right.
Relief flooded over her in the next room as she saw what she thought was Derek's bed. Just as Nigel got home.
She ran immaculately manicured nails over the Lincrusta walls as they walked down the landing blessed with both picture rail and coving.
"And you all live here together? How very... " She tailed off as she struggled to find an appropriate word. Her face twisting to a sneer.
Enter the third.
She arrived promptly at the prearranged time in a well buffed mini. Surveyed the street and nodded appraising at the row of well tended gardens. Her sleek blonde hair, teased into a neat bob, glinted in the June sun as she pushed open the well oiled gate to the three bear’s house.
She oozed a brisk efficiency. Ran an approving eye over the long tiled hallway. Up to the period features.
“Original coving?” She asked
“Throughout.” Assured Joe.
She cooed over light fittings. The kitchen's easy close drawers. Couldn't resist a sit in a Bauhaus inspired chair.
And so as the story begins they are sat up in bed googling local Estate Agent details.
The first estate agent that they saw was simply too hot and they decided he couldn't possibly be put in charge of getting the right price for their fine abode. But between you and me they kept his number and met up again one delightful weekend late in August. (A tale I'll save for another day.)
The second they called in on seemed just too small. They wanted more exposure for the property and really needed someone with a much bigger online presence.
I don't know what circles you move in, that would make me some crazy stalker. But personally I've never met an actual bear. I do however work with a very large man called Joe. Joe is incredibly hairy. He lives with two other men. Just as large. Just as hairy. Can you see the picture I've painted here? Does it need embellishing or can I put my brush down?
Come with me now to their Chingford home in the London Borough of Waltham Forest. And while perfectly placed for travel into London every day they had simply outgrown the place.
Freja and Klara argued over everything. Today it was the bed they’d shared for over a decade. The mattress was too lumpy felt Klara as she tugged it off.
“I’m taking the fucker to the tip!”
Now, the tip was far far away and en route their car, an old Austin Princess, started to smoke. They bickered by the roadside until Freja (sensitive bladder) needed to pee so ducked behind a bush. And there she found three other mattresses!
They both agreed one more wouldn’t hurt.
And so they left it. The car cooled. And they headed to Mattress World.
Sig Orso sat in his favourite chair watching his pretty wife. She was different. Had a lightness in her step. A curve to her lips he'd not seen in an age.
In bed that night he found a single long golden hair. So he knew his raven haired wife had that day, had company there.
On his breakfast coffee cup he saw a smudge of lipstick in a shade his wife never wore. He knew then. Somebody had been drinking from his cup.
But rather than mention it he just enjoyed her buoyant mood.
And they lived happily ever after.
He hid behind many aliases @Ruidoquedito and @tom-tit-tot were but a couple. Penny didn’t know his real name. He lurked online, anywhere his anonymity was retained. Preyed on those that were low, those needing a trade. He chose his victims with care.
Always petite Blondes.
Mostly widows, desperate for company.
He looked such a nice chap. (Stock image. Well worth the investment.) Had a flattering line in patter. After time with his tale spun. He’d arrange a meet. Cash transfer first though. Then completely disappear.
Penny was lucky.
The first time she heard his name was in court.
She couldn't remember what she'd gone in for. Ran through the usual suspects. Biscuits. Teabags. And couldn't see much of an emergency beyond the lack of these so prowled the aisles slowly thinking maybe she'd just come out to stretch her legs.
It was then unspoken wishes were answered. She didn't even have to rub a magic lamp.
'The secret to eternal happiness.'
'You CAN have it all.'
'The no exercise body plan diet that doesn't involve eating less.'
She exhaled slowly. Moved forward to check the price. And at £4.95 with a free hand cream nearly bought two copies.
In their permanent evening they dreamt of rolling in mud, straw to sleep in or even escape to the UK where they would be slaughtered younger and not have to be castrated without anaesthetic to stop boar taint seeping into their meat.
And so one fine day, their story ends when one of the little pig’s dreams come true at last and they arrive on UK soil for processing. And it seemed then that supermarkets here could label their meat as from the UK because it was processed here. So really what the fuck rulings were for, nobody quite knew.
Journalists tried and failed to enter the multi-storey pig buildings so there was no chance of a big bad wolf getting in.
These piglets didn’t need to build something to stop the baddie getting in, it seemed he was already in and very much in charge. It was academic anyway they didn’t have any straw. Not even for bedding or rooting in. Their floor was slatted, so their waste was easily sluiced away.
Time passed and the three little pigs grew and were kept in the dark. I’m not being metaphorical. Not giving them any light made them quieter.
Now all three of those little piglets were born with very sharp teeth.
‘All the better to bite you with’ they’d squealed together that very first day with their mother, not knowing the second day they’d be having them clipped. Their tails docked too. It was against EU regulations but no one saw into that vast windowless space and with not so much as a ball to play with tensions ran high. So, in the inevitable fights it stopped them doing any permanent damage to each other or the thousands of pigs they shared their tiny concrete floored home with.
Once upon a time, not so long ago (2009) on the border of the provinces of Limburg and Brabant three little Dutch pigs were sent out by their mother to make their fortune.
Unfortunately she’d been held in a sow stall along the A67 and so by the hair on her chinny chin chin she’d barely had room to move through the three months, three weeks and three days of her pregnancy.
But, three weeks after their birth she left. She hadn’t got the fat on her to nurse her young any longer and this is their story not hers.
Her paper hid her victorious face. Catherine rose, said
“I think perhaps we should return home.”
But as she walked the heel of her stiletto skidded on the floor and she slipped and broke her back.
The pain spilt her face into a bitter grimace as the nearby child smiled widely with relief. There was nothing that could be done. Bed bound for ever more. No one came to visit her. Her husband worked increasingly later each day.
Snezana grew more beautiful with each passing day, never did model but took a degree. Campaigned for Greenpeace in her spare time.
So, Snezana tried and tried to slurp milkshake up the straw.
A futile task we all know. A group of children on the next table, seven in all, tried to help. One offered his coke. She nodded and held the ice filled cup to her mouth but realised she couldn’t talk. Unnoticed by all, one child wee'd on the floor.
Snezana's lips were swollen and redder than ever. Blistered and sore. It was a petty victory but the stepmum felt boosted, peered briefly over her paper and with mock concern asked.
“Snezana! My darling! Are you OK my dear heart?”
“Come, come now eat it while it’s warm” Catherine urged.
The hot crisp fried exterior of the pie lifted its cinnamon smell around the table. She stroked Snezana’s hair as she said.
“Come on now my pretty.”
And because it was weird, and to stop her touching Snezana took a bite.
Oh how her face melted in shock. Twisted in horror as the filling scalded and burnt her tongue. Took a layer at least from around her mouth.
And her Stepmum pretended to read her paper, but watched her like a hawk, a smile at last returned to Catherine's face.