BLOOD SAUSAGE!

As some of you may know (fuck knows I post enough shit online about it) I am writing a perverse serial killer novella at the moment. 

So I’ve been doing some research online about British serial killers and mass slaughter to get in the mood for some good old fashioned blood and guts.  But there was one thing that was bothering me while trawling through page after page of Harold Shipman and Fred West case files and news reports.  Some of the family photos are particularly funny by the way.  How can they smile with all they have done floating around in their heads?  Mental! 

There hasn’t been a good serial killer in the British Isles for quite some time.

There was that guy in Ipswich that killed all those prostitutes but he was a mass murderer due to the timeframe and body count.  It was quite fun watching it all unravel on the TV especially when the bodies started to pop up all over the place.

But for fuck sake, isn’t there anyone out there stalking whores or collection gay men for sex dolls?

There must be. 

I read somewhere that at any one time there are at least eight active serial killers in the US as I type this so by the law of averages there must be at least one over here.  The numbers must be triple in Russia; those pricks are severely fucked up. 

Have you seen that video ‘three men one hammer’?  Let’s just say once you have seen it you can’t un-see it! 

So fucking wrong on so many levels.

And as for that Andrei Chikatilo character, fuck; the bizarro doesn’t stop with this guy’s story.  This dude dubbed the Rostov Ripper (among other titles) sexually assaulted, murdered and mutilated at least 52 women and children from 1978 until 1990.  This dude was into it all from cannibalism to paedophilia. 

And what did we have at around the same time, some old chap with a folk guitarist’s beard that poisoned old ladies.  But to be fair Shipman’s body count was insane.  250+, and from a bloke that looks like he knows a lot about old MG soft tops and enjoys a pint of nut brown ale with a pipe on a Sunday. 

It’s true that Europe has had its fair share of nutters but the US has really cornered the market on funny as fuck sick bastards. 

The list is almost endless when it comes to ‘celebrity’ serial killers and the sub culture they have spawned is almost like deity worship. 

I know tonnes of people that are well into serial killer culture and for the most part I find it a little disturbing.  Grown adults glorifying the tortured last moments of innocent people at the hands of deranged serial maniacs is something I will never understand.

So this is what my ‘modus operandi’ would be if I got off my lazy arse and acted out some of the stuff I write about.

I would start locally, find some right fucking wife beating scum bag that drools over their kid’s friends and make his life a misery before I ended the prick.  There’s nothing like making someone suffer mentally before you pull out all the stops. 

Then I would hunt him/her like an animal out in the woods.  They would be naked and slightly drugged while I track them with a crossbow.  Of course there will be several traps set out along some sparse trails; punji sticks covered in shit and the like, really fuck them up. 

Then end it all with a nice slice across the throat with a bowie knife right at the point when they think they’ve made it out alive. 

I haven’t decided whether I’d eat them or not but never say never, right?

And you do get some great cuts from the human body.  You could also make some great pate if you had the time and inclination.  Force feeding people in an isolated barn somewhere like geese until their livers burst.  Human foie gras.  The secret is not to over poach and season well.

Or, thinking along those lines I might become a class war killer.  Open a village butchers and take out rich pricks to turn into pastes and sausages and cuts.  All the posh pricks from around town will come to taste my products and rave to their friends how good my stuff is.  All the while I’ll be sizing my customers up for my new batch of blood pudding.

Yeah I like that, the Butcher of Hawkhurst or something like that the papers will call me when I finally get caught eviscerating Lady Phyllis from the big manor house.

My fridges will be full of prime cuts and mince of the finest and leanest quality.  The queen will have even eaten my sausage at some overblow garden party paid for by the common man.  She was even over heard to say “Fuck me backwards, that’s sausage roll was the fucking bollocks!”

I’d even have jars of rendered human fat at Christmas on the counter labelled up with “for the ultimate roast potatoes” and charge £10 a jar for the shit. 

Little did they know that for 15 years they were eating their friends, relatives and business associates at every well to do function they ever got me to cater.

I might have to write a short story about that at some point. 

Might even put it up on the bucket list board in the kitchen.  A little post it that reads ‘Make sausages from some posh cunt then sell them at the farmers market.’

That reminds me, better get my string bag out as the farmers market is in town next weekend, might have a look at the village butchers stall. 

Old School Angry Fucking Rant! – (featuring Pornography and R Kelly.)

So today I’m out and about…

My first mistake is forgetting that it’s the summer holidays and there are children every-fucking-where and all I can hear is them pissing about.  Get a fucking job you stupidly loud time wasting midgets.

Then I make the call to go into Tesco because I need to pick up juice and bread.  I instantly regret not going to Royal’s cash and carry when I nearly mow down a child aimlessly wandering around by the doorway.  Its mother was too busy texting someone to see that the child had wandered out into the street.

But I persevere and negotiate my way around the zombies staggering around the isles.

So I get to the bread isle and start having a look at the uncut loafs, I have a thing about sandwiches and like nice bread from time to time.

Now my eyesight isn’t the best so I have to take a step back to see the tiny writing on the shelf labels and as I does so some little prick of a man steps in front of me and stops dead to look at the bread too.  Then he pulls his wife up to look at the rolls even though I know he knows I’m trying to look myself.

And I know he’s seen me, I’m six foot one and covered in tattoos so he must have.  I’d notice me standing there and I can’t see for shit.

So I turn to the person I was with and say “am I fucking invisible today or something?”   To which this little old wanker turns to me and says “what’s up?”  As if he wants to start some shit.  Really, you pathetic little cunt, really?

So I say “just trying to look at the bread then you parked yourself in front of me.”  To which he snorts and turns his back on me.  Not “oh sorry, didn’t see you there” or something along those lines, nothing from this wanker!

The guy’s got to be about 55 and must be half my size but it took everything I fucking had inside me not to chop him in the throat and stamp on his head.   I feel sorry for his poor wife who looked slightly embarrassed by the rudeness of her husband.  I bet he likes to slap her around after a few pints down the Con Club.

He did turn a little white when I said I’d be waiting for him outside.  But I left as I saw him make a bee line for the security guard and I’ve seen that mad Iranian fucker go off in that store and it’s by no means pretty.

It’s been a seriously long time since someone has really pissed me off while I’ve been shopping and to tell the truth I haven’t missed it.  Not one bit.  I came home with the serious hump and I was just itching to punch something.  Even now I can see the guys little rat face taunting me as I type this.

So what have I done to chill out?  Well… 

I’ve put on the show ‘Mighty Ships’ and made a cup of coffee.  But I know at some point I will either have to take a cold bath or have a half hour angry wank.  Spend a little time beating myself up as it were; take the frustration out on my genitals.

But seriously I might have a wank.  

I went through a phase a few years ago of only watching American porn produced in the early nineties then redubbed in German for the cheap, over the counter euro markets.  I find something hilariously sinister with the German dialect especially when it’s used in pornography.

I can only imagine that Germans think the same thing when they watch English speaking porn.  Probably not, they just hang their head in shame at their conduct during the war while they masturbate.  Shed an efficient single tear then shit their pants on orgasm.

I believe it’s called ‘lonking’. 

I’ve never really understood the idea behind ‘scheiße’ porn.  I’ve witnessed it, taken it in and made the decision not to have anything to do with it.  It’s one thing to corn hole someone but another thing all together to want to eat someone’s shit.

I was in hospital a while back and my brother and mum came to visit one Sunday.  While my mother went to get some coffee my brother took out a piece of paper and handed it to me.  I unfolded the scrap to be presented with a picture of what looked like a blond woman sucking a big brown dick.

“What a kind gesture” I thought.  Here I am laid up in hospital and my brother has brought me some porn to take my mind off things.  Then I looked at the picture again; it wasn’t a cock the girl was sucking on… unless the guys cock was growing out of his arsehole.

I still have nightmares. 

We all know that some people are only doing porn for the money but I mean some stuff you really have to be into.  “Don’t worry about the cash, I’m just here to have loads of men use me like a festival toilet.” 

How do people find out that they are into stuff like that?  At what point in their life did they get so bored with sex that they thought they’d spice up their love life but eating turds straight from the source?

I get the bondage thing, we all like a little pain and restraint when bumping uglies but I have never been so drunk that I wanted someone to piss in my mouth.

I have however been so drunk that I nearly urinated inside a girl… ended up pulling out but couldn’t get the condom off in time.

Fucker blew up like a dirty water balloon.

Night, night xx

JAM! JAM! JAM! JAM! JAM! JAM! JAM! JAM!

Someone the other night asked me why I smoked.

She was a cute little thing in a floral dress.  She didn’t smoke and wondered why I did.  So I had a little think for a moment and weighed up the pros and cons.

Then the words just fell from my mouth.  “If I’m going to die it might as well be from something I’ve paid for.”  She laughed and said she’d message me on Facebook or something.

I continued to get drunk with my pals… then I woke up on a beach craving a kebab several hours later.

I had run out of cigarettes.

The real reason that I smoke is that I got hooked early.  I started smoking at around 14/15 and have never really wanted to quit.  I guess at some point I should, it’s not the healthiest of past times and it costs a fucking fortune over here.  I remember a time when you could by 10 snouts for 99p; long gone are those days.

Mind you the minimum wage back then was probably £2.10

Neil Diamond’s ‘Love on the Rocks’ just came on the radio and I wept for three minutes and forty seconds… solid.

But anyhow…

There’s now a guy in my local market that makes his own jams and pickles from stuff that he has grown on his allotment.  Let me just tell you this my friends, he makes the best hedgerow jam and pickled scotch bonnet’s I have ever had in my fucking entire life.  And the mustard, fuck off!

A mate of mine used to work on his fruit and veg stall and told me to try some so I bought a few jars of this and that and was instantly hooked.

I ate a whole jar of raspberry conserve with half a kilo of Colston Bassett stilton and a packet of muti-seed thins.

That night I had a dream that involved James Bond and I skinny dipping in Malta… Roger Moore era Bond of course.

Recently I have taken to eating loads of cheese and necking a bottle of red wine before bed… every night.  It helps me sleep and has got rid of my acid reflux while sleeping.  A lady friend stayed the night and was awoken by me stuffing my face in the kitchen.

Years ago I never used to like blue cheese and would turn my nose up at it but now I can’t get enough of the stuff.  I wait with anticipation for the arrival of the farmers market every third Friday so I can stock my fridge with kilo upon kilo.

Last time the cheese lady was there I spent next to £30 on three blocks of cheese.  I have a problem.  I think this is my new addiction and I’m finding it harder to give up than smoking.

But enough about gourmet preserves and superb cheese. 

There is another market that I often attend called Farm Foods.  It’s pretty much my local supermarket.  It’s all frozen stuff and cheap knock off brands but they do some awesome products and I can make a little money go quite a long way.

Now, I was in there the other day with aforementioned lady friend to pick up some bits for the week and we noticed there was some sort of altercation going on in the back of the store with security.  Thinking nothing of it we continued around the Ikea style runs of chest freezers and piles of discount fruit juices (69p for a litre of pineapple juice, bargain.)

But when we got a little closer we noticed that one of the local junkies was in hand cuffs and being restrained by two police and a couple of community support officers.  He was not being at all quiet at this point.

He was politely pointing out to one of the support officers the he really didn’t like the man and didn’t want him anywhere near him.  I believe the term he used was “you big prick, you’re a fucking prick.” 

The woman that was with him was adamant that the junkie had possessions of hers in the man’s shoulder bag; I believe she said something about diabetes medication… probably meaning heroin.  Either that or she just wanted to keep hold of the stuff they had stolen earlier that day so that he didn’t have any evidence on him when he was inevitably take to the police station.

Needless to say I filmed part of the fracases and put it on the internet, as one does.

With the man gone and the security looking at me like I was some kind of cunt for filming the event but powerless to do anything I continued my shop.  I got some really nice minted lamb steaks, a gigantic freezer pack of chicken dippers and some of that cheap pineapple juice.  I got my veg down the grocers.

It has been quite some time since I have seen a nutter go full retard in a store and a little part of my soul was refreshed by the experience.  Like as little part of my mind was recharged giving new life to my creative parts.

Before that I think it was the nutter at the bus stop playing with himself or the bloke getting beaten up by the taxi rank because he tried to slap his own shit on a woman.

Though saying that I did see a shoplifter get properly taken down with a rugby tackle by the gym by some hench guy a few weeks ago.  That dude’s head hit the ground so hard I heard a few of the old biddies at the bus stop gasp.  Even some of the beef-cakes catching some rays out front winced a bit.

The guy looked amazingly dazed when he was scooped up like he had been hit with a Taser.  The big guy probably was a rugby player too judging by the size of him so he knew what he was doing.    

A police man shook his hand and said he was an asset to the community. 

What a nice bloke. 

The shoplifter will probably sue him at some point. 

Also, on a personal note… I fucking love jam. 

5 men died bringing this information to us!

 

Years ago I used to love a political rant/debate but these days I just find it a total waste of my time and effort. 

Nothing kills a party more than a fucking political bore.  

Seriously, these people suck any kind of atmosphere from a gathering with their self-indulgent one-sided banter.  And I say one sided because these people are closed off to any other opinion other than the ones they have cultivated from whatever quip made them smile on some fucking website. 

9 times out of 10 these people only ever bring up politics to cover the fact that they are the least cultured people in the room and have to make up for their intellectual ineptitude. 

Imagine trying to chill around someone’s place after a club and there’s two or three people arguing about UKIP. 

Mood killing pricks.

And the funny thing is that in a few years’ time most of the opinions that these fun vampires are sounding off about in their holier than thou manner will pretty much mean fuck all.

So as I say, I tend to stay away from political debate nowadays.

But recently I have been almost strong armed into political opinion with the amount of crap being shovelled at us via the media.  The European elections, Scottish independence, Israel v Palestine, the crisis in Syria, Russia wanting to restart the cold war by starting a hot one, ISIS scaring the shit out of the entire world and Korea getting pissed off with some douche-bag actors and declaring war with everyone… again.

You know what, fuck all of you; humanity can suck my fat one.

Most of you don’t care what’s going on in the world around you and the ones that do are so fucking boring that those of us stuck in the middle want nothing to do with you. 

But listen to me going on about politics and war.

I’m in danger of becoming a politics bore myself at this rate and I really haven’t got time to spout personal policies or a manifesto to you lot.

You guys don’t want to hear me banging on about my opinions, I know what you want… drugs and porn!

Am I right?

Have you ever been that one lone person at a house party that has taken drugs?  I know I have. 

I walked to a party that was well out of the way near a farm on my own thinking ‘everyone there will be trashed by the time I get there’, so I double dropped ecstasy before I got there.  A forty minute walk took two and a half hours as I came up quick and hard and had to sit in this little wooded park thing to get my shit together. 

Then when I turn up the two people that I was supposed to be meeting who would have also been tripping balls weren’t there and everyone else was just drinking, and slowly. 

Everyone was looking at me like I was some kind of cunt and what made it worse was that I didn’t really know the people that were throwing the party. 

I sat in the front garden for a while and some girl came out to see if I was okay.  She explained that she was pretty much in the same boat friends wise and said she didn’t really like the people throwing the party.  She also asked if I was holding, I said yes, she double dropped and she stole a bottle of vodka from the party and went to go chill in the little wooded park for a few hours.  When I say chill I mean we got drunk and had bareback sex on ecstasy in the woods out near this farm by the motorway. 

At the time we thought there were people watching us in the woods but we put it down to the state we were in, I mean we were a mess.  If the police had pulled us up walking back we would have spent the night in the cells.  Looking back it’s with a shudder down my spine that I realise that there were old men wanking in those bushes. 

Some of the best house parties I have ever been too have ended up in violent drug orgies fuelled with booze. 

There was one where everyone decided to bum rush some guy that was upstairs hanging out of the back of some girl.  When the door was kicked open we found them mid-coitus with the girl’s fingers inside the dude’s arse and interracial porn on the TV. 

They both saw the funny side after what can only be described as a riot.

I have said on many occasions that if I won the lotto I would take everyone I know to Lake Como and buy them a jet ski and we’d get absolutely mashed for 10 days. 

Imagine being completely off you face on hallucinogenic love drugs with the sun beating down, the spray of the water hitting your body as the jet-ski skims and bounces across the crystal clear lake.  It would only be a matter of time before someone got naked. 

Party time!

Then, in the evening we’ll slip into some designer shirts, shorts and flip-flops, hit the town and hoover up enough cocaine to put half of Peru through college.  The wine will flow and the women will be loose and drunk. 

Sounds like some kind of insane heaven doesn’t it? 

I could do with some of that right now actually, my house has become some kind of kiln in this heat and the idea of jet-skiing on a lake in Italy is giving me the fucking horn.  If only I had the money to bugger off for a few weeks, even if it was on my own just to escape for a while. 

Shit… I need a holiday. 

Moaning Twat Tsunami!

So hey…

Don’t I think it’s fun when people message me on social networks after I’ve posted something on my blog telling me that they hate me or something I’ve written has offended them.

I don’t mind it so much when something I have written is a little autobiographical because a lot of my posts are and some people out there genuinely give a fuck about my welfare (something that I will never understand.)

But when it’s just to have a whinge because they have identified (by chance) with something that I have bitched about to tell me how out of order I am, well my usual reply is “well fuck off then.”  The email I usually get starts thus, “I usually love reading your stuff but…”

But fucking nothing!

I dunno whether you read the little disclaimer in the ‘about’ section of this blog but it does state that you should view everything here a little tongue in cheek and if you get offended, tough.

The thing is some of these people actually know me out side of the interweb so they know that I’m a giant piss taker with the sense of humour of a junkie clown rapist.

I bet I get an email over the clown rape thing; “clowns are people too you know and because they dress the way they do doesn’t mean that they want a bucket of water thrown over them.”

The last couple of emails I got were quite sweet and were done (as I read them anyhow) with a certain level of sarcasm; I’d like to think because they have been reading my stuff for a while and kind of get it.

But a while back some American kid decided it was time to really put me in my place and wrote what I can only describe as a ‘hate speech’ in which he stated the ways I was wrong, how I should be punished by god and how much he was looking forward to my death by cancer.  Seriously, a 15 year old child was wishing death by cancer on me because I said something about Jesus, who is after all a fictional character.

Maybe next post I’ll slag off Bilbo Baggins and see what happens.

For the life of me I can’t remember what post it was about; I just replied saying it’s emails like this that make people want to smash planes into New York.

There was no reply email. 

I dunno, maybe he was hit by a car on his way to buy baseball cards or on the way to his cult meetings on that Sunday morning.

We live in hope. 

But this is indicative to the west, only today did I see a report on the ‘flooding’ from the storms in the south east over the last few nights and I was shocked at what I saw.  For a start they were reporting from Canvey Island so my eyebrow rose at the beginning of the piece and I was right to do so.

Our first port of call was at someone’s house where a toothless woman and her shirtless son were moaning about having to buy a new carpet, at least that’s what I could make out.  Years of inbreeding has done nothing for their vocabulary.

Then we are whisked away to a woman hosing down a large selection of dead ornamental Koi Karp with a man complaining that he had had many of the expensive fish since they were quite small; I kid you not, I nearly shed a tear; those poor people.

Then my mind jumped to the disturbing footage of the Japan Tsunami a few years back and how the people of japan conducted themselves with decorum and dignity during what, in my memory was one of the worst natural disasters in modern history.

I then looked back to the bloke with the dead fish looking to poke blame at his local council because they didn’t do enough to prevent nature from killing a load of his pets.  Because, let’s be fair, we pay our council tax and that should be enough for the powers that be to prevent rain fall and stuff like the wind… right?

I was literally waiting for the guy to say “this country” and put his hands on his hips and shake his head while his wife held up the corpse of a ghost koi.  Then a scrolling number for compensation by some legal firm specialising in taking people to the cleaners because fat people shouldn’t be up ladders would roll across the screen.

When we had the flooding at the start of the year all the coverage that I saw was people in waterproofs looking to blame people in government for a natural disaster.  And that, more than any politician blaming flooding on god punishing us for homosexuality, really does sum up how stupid and selfish we as a people have become.

And with this and with heavy heart I come crashing to the end of this post.  I look forward to the mail I’m going to get over the next few days and really hope my inbox is fit to bursting by morning with the amount of people that want to see my corpse lowered into the ground.

Or, as one email requested, “to be burnt alive by an electrical fire caused by my laptop that is the root of all this servile, malignant banter.”

I love my fans xx 

Put the beers in the tin bath grandma, I’ll fire up the grill!

Oh, you fucking bastards.

The temperature has properly jumped up over the last few days and according to the blond with the nice boobs stuffed into a tight sweater dress (offset with an oversized buckled black belt) on the ITV weather news, it’s only going to get bloody hotter.

Now I don’t want to sound like a misery here but I really don’t like the heat and I think this time of the year can be a proper drag.  Don’t get me wrong there’s loads of fun stuff going on and if there’s a BBQ or pool party or a trip to the beach or the fun fair or all day gig I’m all over it but can someone just turn the fucking temperature down in my fucking flat please.

I’m fucking melting here.

Right at this moment I’m sat in the buff with a desk fan pointing at my genitals at full blast as I drink my body weight in chilled cherry and berry squash.  I take a cold bath every night to try and cool down but to no avail, I still end up laying there sweating out like a shaved bear on a big hot rock.

Swear down, you could have cooked eggs on my buttocks last night.

And you’d think that I couldn’t find anything or anyone to blame, it’s just the natural order of things, just Mother Nature’s way of rewarding us for not dying through the harsher months.

Well fuck Mother Nature!

And I have got someone to blame, you lot; all you fucking sun chasers huddled together during winter praying to the elements for a good summer so you can go out and develop melanomas on some beach somewhere.

In some mad twist of reality all you sun worshiping prats have found some way of awakening some long forgotten astral deity that covers the world with fire for three months of the year.

I hope the amount of times you inflict sun stroke on yourselves leaves you a jabbering, wheelchair bound wreck with a blanket over your legs, unable to string a sentence together by the end of the summer.  So weak that when the cold of winter slams into your withered bones you’ll be found frozen solid in a park or layby somewhere, clinging to your Zimmer frames like Jack Nicolson at the end of the Shinning.

But seriously, it’s so fucking hot in here.

If a lizard was to walk in here right now he would ask if I had the heating on and would I mind turning it down a little.  I’d offer him a chilled lemonade which he would politely decline as lizards don’t drink lemonade ya fucking retard; and I don’t care how much ice is in it!

I can also blame the Iranian dudes that run the barbers downstairs because they have openly told me they don’t know how to work the timer on their heating and it must come on for about five hours every night.  Just in time for me to start thinking about getting some shut eye their middle-eastern set furnace kicks in and my place becomes a fucking Barbari bread oven.

But having such a hot place has given me the greatest excuse to keep my fridge filled with giant bottles of Staropraman.

That’s the one thing that makes the heat all better… beer.

There is nothing like escaping the sweltering temperatures of a flat or office to a nearby, shady little beer garden and sink a few cold filtered, frosty beers with a couple of pals.

But herein lay’s the danger, dear reader.

How many times have you finished work on a weekday to have a ‘couple’ of quiet pints to ‘cool down’ and ended up in a club at 2am pouring your heart out into the ear of some poor prostitute that only came over to see if you wanted to pay her for a blow job?

… Just me then?

And I do like it when you’re standing in the street outside some watering hole guzzling pilsner and watching people trying to drive home, stuck in traffic without air con.

And there’s you, pointing at people that look like dogs locked in cars with the windows up outside the supermarket while you are as cool as a cucumber, shades on, beer in hand laughing your fucking arse off.

I like doing this because I have been that dog stuck in that boiling car on several occasions; having to take my shirt off and using one of my socks to wipe the sweat from my eyes.  Then the voice on the radio starts talking about how hot it is out and how glad they are to be in an air-coned studio on such a hot day.

My car mounts the pavement. I crash into the packed bus stop at high speed with malicious intent.  Fuck you BBC radio 2’s drive time show, there is only so much Lighthouse Family, M-People and Gabriel a man can take.

Have I mentioned how hot it is in my flat yet.

I nearly slipped on the laminate flooring in my bathroom as the soles of my feet were sweaty.  The last thing I want on my death certificate would be ‘death by clammy soles’.

The heat also brought with it another problem last week when I entered my kitchen to walk into a cloud of blue bottles.  Someone had run over a fox in the ally outside, I left my window open when out at the pub and awoke to what can only be describe as a biblical swarm of flies.

I had to stock up on fly papers and raid.

The worst thing about those coiled fly papers is when you forget they are there and turn around only for it to stick to your face; you are now face first in an insect death camp.  It is funny when you find a dumbass fly has flow head first into it and you can watch its legs spaz out.

I always think of Vincent Price when I go to make food now… for some mad reason unbeknown to me.

Rent… not just a musical about AIDS

So, I’m having a few problems with my landlord at the moment.

For some strange reason he hates me and talks to me like I’m some kind of prick; he really talks down to people like they are peasants. 

I think the modicum of ‘landlord’ has really gone to his head. 

It wouldn’t be so bad but his son is slightly reasonable and I have spoken with him many times about my situation and he has always been lenient only to have things instantly crushed by his money grabbing father.

So, first thing Monday morning I get a phone call from the wanker telling me that he wants me out in 7 days and wasn’t nice about the whole thing. 

So, I’m in a panic as soon as I get out of bed and rush to get to the council to find out where I stand.

Now after a long wait I go over to the info booth and who shall be sitting there by the computer; a middle aged woman. 

I may have mentioned this in previous posts but I have an almost magical power over middle aged women, I’m like the pied piper of women on the cusp of the menopause.

She looked more than miserable when I strolled over but I threw her a cheeky smile and she melted, I mean she got that look over her face that I have seen a thousand times, that ‘I just want to put him in the bath and mother him’ look.   

It’s a gift that I like to exploit; free bread from the bakers, jumping the train when the right guard is on board, jumping the queue at Tesco and getting two for one on cheese twists every now and then… magic.

But the woman at the council assured me that he can’t just throw me out and they will do everything they can to get the situation sorted out so that I don’t end up in the street with a cloth-bag on a stick and a hole in my shoe.

Anyhow, back to my landlord. 

This old guy is a bit of a cunt, dresses like a homeless librarian (all tweed) and smells of piss. 

He never lets me know when he’s sending people round to do gas inspections and what not and one time I was at work he sent two men over for the gas meter.  My girlfriend at the time was asleep in my bed and woke to find to strange men standing over her watching her sleep. 

I hit the fucking roof and rang the men threatening to stab them if they returned unannounced when I was there. 

He was also notified that the water heater was broken around November 2010; it is still faulty to this day. 

He had electricity meters fitted without our consent even though it stated that the electricity was part of the rent in out tenancy agreement. 

The communal area has been without lighting for nearly six months; the light in the bathroom had been knackered since the first week I moved in and part of the kitchen cabinets are held to the wall using two of my old BMX frames as a counterbalance and remain empty.    

Can you see what I’m dealing with?   

What he doesn’t know is that I see him at our local football ground every now and then as his ‘company’ is a team sponsor; but he hasn’t seen me. 

Last time I saw him there I was more than tempted to throw my meat pie at his head. 

My friend talked me out of it because he didn’t want to get thrown out, we continued to get drunk and watch the match.

But to be fair there are many worse landlords out there and for all the bad stuff there is one good point that he has.  As long as the rent gets paid he leaves me the fuck alone.  I can count the amount of times I’ve seen the man on one hand, that’s a good thing. 

I’ve seen his electrician more times in the last month than I have ever seen him. 

It’s a bizarre situation and no mistake.

Speaking of bizarre, did anyone see on the news that flat that was for rent that was the size of a shoe box?

It was that small you had to fold away the bed to be able to open the kitchen cupboards and front door.  What the fuck?

Some poor estate agent had to keep a straight face when showing someone around that place… quickest pitch ever.

Opens the door – “There’s your lounge, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and hallway… would you like to look around because I can’t be fucked to fold the bed away?”

There was even a place for rent that didn’t have a roof, great in the summer and the views at night are very nice… and someone was living there; there was a bed stuffed into a corner with loads of roof insulation hanging down over it. 

Nice!

How can these people get away with letting properties like this and how can the estate agents even consider showing these places to people?

And the real kicker in this is that people actually end up paying shit tonnes of money to move into these places because they are desperate and need a place to live.  The councils that pay for these properties should investigate these so called land owners and crack down on the exploitation of people that haven’t got the freedom off savings and income. 

I happen to be in a tight spot and at the moment have a roof over my head but if the worst comes to the worst who do I turn to, the council?  For the last two months they haven’t given me much faith in their services and to be honest I’m not holding out on a decision in my favour.

Worst case scenario, I’m homeless on Monday with nowhere to go and no money to be able to get anywhere… but on the Brightside there’s an  on at my local on Saturday.