'king Street!

Looks like someone left the chimpanzee cage door open in 'king Street again, last night.
I wouldn't describe myself as shy and retiring or the nervous type, but I don't walk along there after dark, if I can help it.
The problem with that, though, is I live there, which kinda makes it difficult to avoid!
I don't even understand the language that they use, and I've a sneaking suspicion that they don't either. As I walked past one knuckle dragger, his 13 year old girlfriend and their imp-chimp-mobile, all I could make out of what he was shouting into her ear was something that sounded like "woo arrgh gob went innit an' be wada fat cunt, uh".
What the Hell does that mean?
In the meantime, a particularly sunken eyed and slope foreheaded young gentleman decided to lay his bicycle across the path in front of me, presumably so that I didn't have to tread in all the little puddles of spit outside Bolockbuster, before disappearing into the place. I wonder if he'll manage to work out why his bike has suddenly developed a bit of a wobble, now that a good deal of his spokes are bent to buggery?
And then, of course, there's the York Arms smoking room (thanks to the government, now on the pavement in front of the pub), which is constantly full of some of 'king Street's finest. I don't recall, ever, walking past the place without some kind of lewd proposition being lent in my direction!

I suppose that'd be the road's only redeeming feature, really!

So glad to have got that off my chest (as was suggested that I do with my bra, outside the York Farm last night)!