The cats of Hyde Park don’t love you
These four-pawed fraudsters are just stealing your food and using you, you mug
A rustle, a gentle miaow, and a look that warms you to your very bones. You swiftly invite this furry ball of delight into your home. You pet him, you feed him… maybe you even name him. Is he lost, hungry or cold? You must help.
You’re being taken for an arsehole. You’re being taken for an arsehole and you don’t even know it.
These are no ordinary cats, these are Hyde Park cats: fickle little buggers that’ll play you for your student-loan-financed Bernard Matthew chicken breast.
We investigated the truth behind these sneaky home invaders – and the poor students they have made their bitch.
Evie, a second year Edwin Road dweller has built up a relationship with a black cat – dubbed Meow Meow by her housemates.
She says: “This cat is fussy, wouldn’t eat my tomatoes. We think it may have fleas and now we don’t let it in the house.” Fair enough, Evie.
Meanwhile, over on Kensington Terrace, regal “Prince John” runs the roost.
One of his loyal subjects tells us “Prince John deffo takes the piss out of us.”
A Brudenell Road local told the tale of Original Gangster, a black and white fraudster who stole his heart. “He likes tuna, chicken, (sometimes) milk and turkey. He’s not so fond of sprite, cigarettes or nuts.”
However, O.G.’s victim was shocked and saddened to learn of our suspicions of his nomadic tendencies. “You mean to tell me that ours isn’t the only house that O.G. has made a home?
“This kills me. Deep inside, and I just won’t believe it.”
From this point onwards, he declined comment.
They’ll look you right in the eye, steal your heart, steal your white meat then softly pad away without a second glance.
Worshipped by our Egyptian ancestors, domesticated by witches, equipped with nine lives and a penchant for landing on their feet, you would be forgiven for thinking that the life of a cat is pretty damn smooth-sailing.
And guess what? It just got even smoother for the roaming paws of LS6. But don’t be disheartened at the revelation your furry friend doesn’t give a rat’s arse about you.
In the words of a Brudenell local, “I’m not fussed. I get plenty of pussy anyway.”