Brullen - To Roar

In the jungle, the mighty urban jungle that is Norwich, any roar heard echoing across our sprawling metropolis is more likely to originate from a souped-up Vauxhall Nova than a lion or tiger. Which is unfortunate. I’d much prefer large, ferocious members of the cat family roaming the city streets at night than the sort of pricks who speed around in ridiculously modified cars. Of course encountering either is fraught with dangers, but at least there a chance of meaningful dialogue with the big kitties should they gear up for an attack. Carrying two pints of full cream milk and giant saucer to be deployed the instant any growling or hissing is heard would probably be met with pragmatism from the feline side. Coupled with a little soothing, but carefully uttered so as not to sound patronising, “Here, puss, puss, puss,” the chances of placating your lion or tiger assailant wouldn‘t be that bad. Supposing they could talk, they’d be all “Hmm, well thanks very much, perhaps we could reconsider our unprovoked attack,” They might even let you stroke them. Now, on the other hand, idiots inside their spoiler-topped, logo-plastered cars are impossible to talk down. Once they step out of their shiny cock-mobiles and start making enquiries as to what-the-fuck-you-looking at, you know you’re in for a rough time. The fact they put seizure-inducing lights under the floor, play ear-achingly shit music at ear-aching volumes while shouting and throwing stuff at you makes the question a little redundant. “Me? Looking at you? I’m so sorry, I barely noticed the lights, music, shouting and milkshake on my face. I was staring at the cardboard box across the road and…” at which point they interrupt with the classic “You’re taking the piss!”/punch in the face combo. I would suggest carrying around a pre-emptive two pints of vodka and a giant shot glass to pacify such a cockend, but chances are you‘d only get alcoholic shards smashed in your face. In conclusion then, even if your diplomatic efforts with our big cat friends fail, being taken to hospital for a vicious animal mauling is a hundred times more newsworthy than your average assault by a thick-as-shit boy racer. If not everyone is quite so convinced, the easiest and fairest way to settle it is to just put both groups a gladiatorial arena (the Birmingham NEC will do) and let them fight to the death. Big cat lions and tigers vs. fuckwit modified car drivers. It sort of almost rhymes. The victor wins the honour of ruling the vast urban expanse of the Fine City when the sun goes down. Go Wild cats!