I f$%&ing hate the f$%&ing Slimes

Last week, a top notch story dropped into my lap.
A 70-ish man has gone outside his house on the weekend to confront some kids on trail bikes that were tearing up the school oval across the road.

After speaking to them, they dismissed him and proceeded to drive particularly close to him, spraying dirt and kicking up grass.

Tragically, the man had a heart attack and passed away on the spot in his next door neighbour's arms.

So the next door neighbour rings me to do a story.

After speaking to him, I agree to call him later in the day and arrange a time to pop round and see him.

But when I ring back, his wife answers and tells me the widow of the man who died does not want his name in the paper at all. Fair enough, I say.

Then on Sunday morning, I wake up to the front page story on the Sunday Times, and yes, you guessed it, the widow is on the front page of the paper.

Grr doesn't even begin to describe how I'm feeling right now.