Murder is not the best way to deal with your problems. Like the possession of cannabis, it is technically illegal, but these are difficult times. There’s a culture war on, and in wartime, the rules change. It is in this context that I murdered my neighbours.

The couple downstairs, are, or rather were, the Trolls. That isn’t the name on the blood-dotted Electoral Registration card on their doorstep. I think that was Adamson or Trump or Beige; something forgettable, anyway.

Daddy Troll had a Black Country accent: all strangled vowels and bludgeoned consonants. While I can sometimes filter out this aural torture, there is a certain subset of the local population – overweight white males in their fifties and sixties – whose Black Country accent is an offensive weapon, like the booming of the howler monkey or the rasping, doomy bellow of a fat toad in the mating season.

Mommy Troll had the same accent, but because Mommy Troll had devoted fifty years of her life to the inhalation of tar, her voice had the texture of a cracked leather handbag and the floorboards muffled the worst of her authenticity.

The Trolls lived simple lives. At seven-thirty Daddy Troll gave out a yawn like the triumphant orgasm cry of an elephant seal, and Mommy Troll responded by imitating the death rattle of an anaconda choking on its own tail.

They marked the dawn with some ceremonial door banging before settling into their Trollish chores. Troll culture revolves around odd little indoor rituals, often involving power tools and banging. Daddy Troll could occasionally be seen lumbering to the bins, lumbering to his car or lumbering into the garden, and every two hours, no matter the weather, Mommy Troll waddled outside for a smoke, her crocodile skin rendering her impervious to rain water.

At seven in the evening, they sat down to worship the Troll television and for the next few hours, the entire building reverberated to the sound of whichever police drama murder mystery quiz show soap opera was being broadcast on the Troll channels.

Occasionally, the Trolls invited other Trolls round for an evening of Trollery, which sounded like a troupe of baboons arguing over a bowl of fruit, and sometimes Daddy Troll watched the football, attempting to influence events on the screen with a stream of anguished ejaculatory moans.

At around eleven, the Trolls retired to their pits, marking the end of another day by opening and closing all of the cupboards in their house, and belching to one another until their phlegm-racked snoring signalled the onset of oblivion.

So I killed them.

You may argue that this was inappropriate. The Trolls were not throwing dangerous parties, they did not own a yappy dog and they did not scream at one another into the small hours. Couldn’t I talk to them and reach an accommodation?

Impossible. There was no basis on which to negotiate, no common ground. We were from different planets. Their lifestyle, their culture was an affront to me. It offended me, it inhibited my freedom not to live above Trolls, and it represented an unstated assumption: that they were Trolls, that they were here to stay and that I had to just get used to it. They shoved their Trollishnes down my throat every day.

I am tired of Trolls demanding my compliance with and acceptance of their warped, degraded, stultifying lifestyle. Why should I talk to them? How could I talke to them? They don’t even speak English. Our cultures are mutually exclusive.

By murdering my neighbours, I expect I will be accused of ‘intolerance’, but this is simply untrue. I am a passionate occasional defender of free speech. I have read On Liberty one and a half-times, and I have worked with, drunk with and slept with all sorts of humans, from libertarian Muslims to anarcho-fascist feminist Armenians.

But there are some divides that cannot be crossed, and some cultures that, regrettably, cannot be tolerated, for the sake of our civilisation and for our survival of a species. Trollishness is a disease and these Troll-tards cannot be helped. It is them or us.