The Hills Have Eyes meets Dad's Army

As Warden Hodges (a character I have based my entire persona on) might intone: "RUDDY HOOLIGANS!"

It was like (the Sly Stallone/Davide Carradine film) Death Race 2000 trying to cross the road this morning. 

Two social outcasts were bearing down on me at the speed of sound (I could tell, as the Abba medley they were blaring out reached my ear as they drew level). Only their twisted grimaces were visible through the grimy windscreen - the kind you see backwoodsmen driving in those horror road movies which invariably involve a digit or two being lost to a rusty blade. 

And how apt, for 'twas the kings of the rusty Stanley blade themselves. The fearsome duo who walk around local shops just to wear down their carpets in an evil plot to garner business. The cads!

Some foul abuse was thrown from the open window as the driver cursed about my shop not selling suitable receptacles for Freddo Bars as the passenger (ensconced within what locals, with a wobble in their voice, call the "offcut van") laughed with a blood-curdling chuckle (the type only a hired-help can truly master over countless cups of tea).

Passers-by cowed in horror at the sight of such anti-social behaviour in broad daylight, though it may have been at the graffiti written on the back of the van (finger in dirt style), employing various cuss words and questioning the parentage of the boss of Carpet Rite. Who cares? Er I mean, who knows?

Then with a Speedy Gonzalez (and deeply racist act of cultural misappropriation) shout of "andalé, andalé" (though in hindsight it may have been "underlay underlay") they were off with a wheel-spin to the rough end of the high street where the police will only patrol in pairs and the grannies have tattoos with swear words. 

I barely escaped with my life. It's true. Honest.