Cracking Up

Apparently, moving house is one of the most stressful experiences you can suffer. I believe it; we’ve got 2 weeks to go and I’m already teetering on breaking point… The place is a real mess, and I mean far, far worse than usual. We did a day of boxing. We, in this case, refers to me and Tina, who, in a moment of madness, offered to come round and act as moving consultant. Michele spent the day in bed with a hangover. It got the ball rolling but procrastination soon halted it and now it’s almost rolling backwards.
Estate agents really couldn’t imagine how much hate one person, i.e. me, could have for them all. Just walking past the places increases my heart rate and my fists clench. So I try not to ever engage in conversation with them, for fear of spitting blood into their faces.
Sam, the rancorous, rasping voiced, old harriden, from our estate agents was unfortunate enough to have me return a call she made to Michele. They don’t appreciate that as result of the call telling us the landlady wants to squeeze some cash out of our home, we are under real fucking stress. Perhaps they do. Perhaps that’s why she has been ringing regularly to fuck us about. Yesterday, Michele had taken enough and asked me to call them back. Inevitably it ended up with me being unable to contain my anger and telling them how much I hated her and the agency and how I hope we never have to communicate again. This is when the odious old bag used, what she thought was, her ammunition. In her officious, 60-a-day, gravelly drawl, she said:
“Well you say we’ve been bad, but the last time we had someone visit you they told me there was a huge parrot flying around the place.”

  1. It’s not a huge parrot, it’s a small parakeet.
  2. It wasn’t flying around
  3. The landlady had personally seen the bird and told us she was fine about it.
  4. SO FUCKING WHAT ?

I calmly explained the above points to her…and then really got angry…Just writing about this has started getting my blood pressure up so I’ll stop. Suffice to say that if they give us any shit whatsoever about the deposit, I will happily spend the entire deposit on dragging their sorry arses through the courts.
Off work for easter now and spent the day in a productive wa: watching a load of Sweeney DVDs let to me by a colleague. Humphrey has been very friendly recently and watched them with me whilst sitting on my shoulder, preening my hair. At about 4pm the laptop ran out of batteries and so I thought I sould embark on another bit of move preparation. I picked up the phone to call the council and cancel our council tax bill, and was redirected to BT- bollocks, they’ve cut us off. Before I could procede further, I was required to press about 28 buttons only to be told I couldn’t go any further without the reference number on my bill. We don’t have any bloody bills. So I had to dig through the assorted crap in the “important box” and managed to find one from 1998 (before 020 BTW). I called back, entered the magic code and was then put on hold for 15 minutes.

In Syria, where the CIA send their most difficult customers for some unorthadox interrogation, they use a special loop of bizarre music that, like in The IPCRESS File, sends the prisoner barking mad, until he will admit to anything.
BT use this same loop for their hold music. If Al Quaeda really wanted to cause total destruction in the UK, all they’d need to do is Hijack TV and Radio and play the BT hold music. Everyone in the country would instantly lose control and start destroying things.

So that was another 125 quid up my shirt. Great timing. If anyone out there has any reason to charge me some money, then give me a call (when the bloody phone is switched back on) and I’ll be only too happy to hear about it. In fact, even if I don’t owe you anything, just give me a call and I’ll send you a cheque, postal order or the shirt off my back.


Last night had one of the biggest turnouts ever:Ian, Dan, Rakesh, Sam + 1, Kate, Vic, Llynos, R2, Jon, Mark, Nedene, Lisa etc etc. It was probably great.


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