Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today, I'm standing on Gloucester Avenue near Regents Park, NW1.

One street northeast of the bloody killing by the grieving elephant keeper.

Four doors down from the first possible victim of the Blackout Ripper.

One street northwest of the posed body of Gladys Rennie Hanrahan.

And as an unnervingly similar case in almost that same place, another body would be found.

Coming soon to Murder Mile.

Regents Park is a lovely place to rest, relax and read a book.

Or at least, it should be.

Only swarms of piss-poor parents always unleash their shitting little seeds of Satan onto this tranquil adil. As their over-sugared

sexcrement screams, I want, I want, wah! As it attempts to stand to death the park's wildlife

population, like a veritable pole pot of pigeons.

And should anyone dare to chastise their sprog?

Through a 3pm haze of Valium and Vodka, their parent always says,

Oh, leave him, he's just having fun. Brats. They cry, they crap.

And if he bought one in a shop, thinking it's faulty, you take it back.

For the first four years of a child's life, when its personality is forming,

it spends most of its time with its

parent, listening and learning. If a child turns out polite, kind, and decent, the parent

has every right to proclaim, oh yes, it's all down to good parenting, you see. As they've done the hard work.

And yet should their child, who was born a blank canvas onto which the parents' morals are projected,

should their little angel spawn from a devil in a diaper to a schoolyard Stalin?

...