A Load of Rubbish

There's loads of rubbish about these days. Literal rubbish, I'm not talking about Saturday night telly or 98.09% of all blogs.

Apparently, twice a year, we're likely to miss a rubbish collection due to the whims of the council calendar. In a place where seagulls are like massive flying, shit-eating rats with razor sharp beaks, is it really desirable to have bags of refuse wrapped in flimsy black sacks left out for a fortnight?

And the answer isn't the feted wheely bin either. They don't fit everywhere. Not everyone can use them.

The problem isn't actually the collection either, however late it is. It's the aftermath of the split bags and shredded, rotting rubbish left behind. The joys of skipping through a minefield of mouldering potatoes and nappies is fucking depressing, and you can hardly expect the lazy twats up my road to get out there and tidy up their own crap.

It's an outrage. Of sorts.