I've always held with the maxim, "Each to his own", but I've long since come to the conclusion that this bunch have become a national pariah.
FIVE Saturdays in succession we have been sitting at the window, trying to enjoy our breakfast and the lovely flowers which fill the garden--and FIVE times in succession we have been invaded by Jehovah's Witnesses. Sometimes there are just half a dozen, which is half a dozen too many--last week there were twenty of the bloody things, knocking on doors and getting unpleasantly sent on their way, or just ignored.
You can tell these people a mile away. Clothes they appear to have been wearing since Mafeking--skirts up at the front, down at the back, tweed jackets and World War II hairstyles. And if they get close up, breath which smells like boiling cabbage, and that overall aroma of mothballs. And those little shopping-bags. It makes one long for the days of one's youth, with the pavement running directly under the upstairs window so that one could fling it open and reward them with the contents of the chamber-pot. And like everyone else in my street, when these old biddies of both sexes come knocking, we rush into the kitchen and pretend not to be in.
And these people very rarely practice what they preach. Most of them wouldn't give a blind man a light. Some years ago, I was visiting my very dear, very loquacious (aka gooby) but sadly now departed friend Terry Cooper, when a JW knocked on his door. He was a young man, aged around twenty, very good-looking and waving his copy of "The Watchtower". When Terry opened the door, the young man froze in his tracks and turned crimson when Terry asked him inside. The boy's mother was standing on the path next door.
Young Man: Sorry, but I think I've made a mistake coming here.
Terry: You weren't sorry last week, Simon, when you were sucking my cock in the toilets at Rockshots!