Nelson Galaxy

I do not understand why random members of the public continue to assume that my name is Wayne Carr. That is not my name. I do not understand.

As I walk along the streets of Olde London Town, both gentlemen and ladies call to me, believing my name to be of the Carr variety. They stand in my path and leer into my face and spit the name with vitriol. This Wayne guy seems to be very unpopular.

There was a certain fellow who stood underneath my window last night. He shouted the name over and over. He was very angry. His cockney twang echoing around the cobbled streets of Stepney. “Come out Wayne Carr. Come on. Come on out Wayne Carr.” Red faced and sports-casually dressed, his ugly bull dog straining at its leash, it seemed he had an important meeting with this Wayne. I felt like Robert Neville from ‘I Am Legend’.

The joke is on him though. My name is Nelson, you silly sausage.

When I suggested he exit the area he kindly threw a half full can of cider through my open window. I did not catch it but thank you none the less. He must have realised his mistake and felt an apology was in order. Not quite sure what the brown stuff was that he shoved through the letter box, but thank you. You are forgiven.

And people say there is a problem with anti-social behaviour. Bah!