Let's get on with the siege then

There's always one. He's the sneery kid that has just enough cunning (let's not call it intelligence) to get the dumbest kid on the road to do something he's not supposed to, then he isn't around when the second kid is getting caught.

"I'm turning into my father," I forlornly told Herself on Saturday night, when, instead of being able to sit comfortably in front of Doctor Who I was craning my neck to see what a little fecker nine-year-old in a green Republic of Ireland soccer shirt was up to outside.

A tennis ball had clunked against the window twenty minutes before. Nothing unusual in this, other than it was the fourth time in twenty minutes that it had clunked. Accidents can happen, fair enough. But we were being targetted.

I immediately pulled on my bullet-proof vest and kevlar helmet, cocking the belt-fed 2,000-round-per-minute fully automatic tripod-mounted machinegun, while Herself piled sandbags at vulnerable points on the back of the sofa.

Herself rushed out.

For reasons best known to themselves, Greensleeves and his blondy pal abandoned their bikes and ran like hell for the corner. When they're 15 and doing Post Office raids, I hope they remember why they came by car.

Naturally, Herself stole one of the bike. As you do.

The following conversation was conducted at a gap of 80 yards between the participants.

"She has me f**kin' bike!"

"You're not getting it back until you apologise."

The quavering voice of the blondy one: "I did nuttin'. It was him. It was an accident."

Greensleeves started to smirk. I don't like smirky kids. Face it, I actively hate this little greensleeved brat and I only know him 30 seconds.

A woman passing by looked briefly about. Herself nodded to her.

"They're not getting it back until they apologise."

The woman looked past Herself's left ear and hurried on. After all, they were nine-years-of-age! Anything could happen!

They got the bike back when Doctor Who started. No-one can keep a Mexican standoff going when the opening scenes of Doctor Who are playing.

Next day, there was an unmerciful thump as another ball hit the front door. This time I went out.

Being intelligent little chaps, they walked back from around the corner, hurleys in hand, to see if anyone had appeared.

"Come here, you two!" I roared.

They stopped where they were.

Smirky split his face. About now I think I'm going to make a Greensleeves popcicle, if only I can lay hands on him and his hurley stick.

The weak link crumbles again:

"I didn't know it was your house. I was just hitting the ball to my friend," says Blond Features.

"If I see either of you up here again with a ball I'll call round to your parents."

Stand-up comedy isn't my thing, but judging by the reaction of the pair of them to this diresome threat, I should start a club and make some money.

I could conclude this tale by saying things about parenting these days and respect and all that, but I won't. We've heard all that crap before. What I will say is: Greensleeves didn't lick it up off the road. I bet his old man has the same fetching sneer.

Wonder if his Momma is a blond?

Pic from Lavender Pillow