I gazed at him as he clambered out of his extravagant car, bored stiff and waiting for my bus. He stared back as he unlocked his front door and entered his house. My eyes wandered over to the next-door window which had some sort of sign stuck to the inside. It was a British National Party flier, it being the EU elections, but with “F*** the” written above the big BNP letters.

The man came back out of his house chomping on a white-bread cheapo-cheese margarine-slathered sandwich. I stared at him, daring him, daring him to do something, daring him to relieve my boredom. His eyes met mine. His jaws stopped in mid-bite. His eyes narrowed. He tore at his sandwich ferociously, munched on the enormous bite, and gulped it down. Tossing the rest of his sandwich onto his anti-BNP neighbour’s lawn, he leapt into his customised ’95 Vauxhall Corsa.

The Vauxhall symbol was stencilled in sliver onto the rear window, whilst ‘Corsa’ was painted in huge letters on the side. The mini spoiler glinted in the sunlight, matching his shiny alloys. He started the engine and blue neons illuminated his skirts, flickering slightly as he revved up. Suddenly, he threw the car into a breakneck reverse, and it sped down the road, half still on the pavement. He then did a 90° power-slide and zoomed, still in reverse, across the road at 20mph, backed into a car park, then turned out and sped off down the road, radio blaring, a finger stuck out in a gesture of defiance.