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Their inherent cheapness affords me the opportunity to feel like a big shot for once in my tiny pathetic life. I can buy things purely on the basis that they are funny or tacky and then give them to my permanently dismayed friends as gifts. Sometimes these international versions of products throw up some bizarre phrasing or statements such as this bottle of Harpic.
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It was cheap, it was huge and it was in the middle of everything. It was an impressive feat that for a while I feared was a sign of some sort of brain trouble, maybe even a tumour, but I relaxed into it reasoning that if my body could operate this well without me then perhaps it could take control from Monday morning to Friday evening and then give me back the reins for the weekend, thus allowing me to live in a perpetual state of holiday.
Sadly it could only manage the first 20 minutes of my day and the odd drunken voyage home. Other then that it ran like a well oiled machine that only failed me once in a regrettable incident I shall call Morning Glory-gate. I digress… So as a concept this house was perfect except for one small thing…the house itself. As a concept it worked, in fact it sounded like a dream, no, it sounded like a sit-com.
Two guys, two girls, all kinds of crazy shenanigans! In reality this house was a vile beast that I think it wanted us dead. One of the things that kept you on your toes about the place was that you never exactly knew from one minute to the next if you were going to be plunged back to a standard of living unthought-of since the seventeenth century.
The kitchen for a while developed a real taste for electrocuting people. If you touched the kettle, BANG! The toaster, BANG! A piece of cutlery, BANG! It was just insane. We complained but our landlords were deaf to our cries of electrocution and injustice. The only option we had was to stop paying rent and then of course a hasty dialogue was opened. One of the only times a qualified workman visited the house, he looked at the wiring, balked and packed up his tools saying the risk of death was just too great for the wages he was on.
The whole house was a veritable museum of unsafe, illogical and dangerous D. It was as if when they had put the place together a lunatic had been ordering them what to do. Light switches appeared askew on the walls where they had been stuck on with masking tape. Pipes inexplicably appeared from a wall only to plunge equally inexplicably back into the wall further along.
Wires from unknown sources protruded from the corners of the ceiling, the copper wire glinting menacingly at our curious eyes.
Strange smells of ancient evil would emanate from different areas, lurk for a week or two then vanish. Paintwork was slapdash and mostly the colour of baby shit. A hastily built kitchen extension housed an external drain inside the house and had floor tiles that appeared buckled by possible tree roots underneath all. It looked like a WWII bunker from the outside. The kitchen had so many built-in cupboards there were virtually no work surfaces. The back door never locked, the front door locked sporadically.
There was not a single straight angle in the house. In each room the floors, walls and ceilings seemed to be battling to get away from each other. It was like living in a house drawn by a child making their first forays into the world of perspective. The whole place may have been slowly falling over as from the outside it appeared to stand at a crazy angle with the chimney dangerously leaning in over the roof just above where my bed was positioned in the attic room.
Apart from the threat of being crushed to death in my sleep by falling masonry I also had to endure sub-zero tempreatures in the winter and tropical heat in the summer as well as the risk of permanent back damage by the constant stooping and crouching that was necessary to navigate my room without hitting my head.
Because it was such a wreck naturally it became a great party house. It made our hardships more bearable. The fact that my room became a bedroom, lounge and rudimentary kitchen for the entire household for three weeks had the sting taken out of it by the brilliant impromptu boxing match that took place outside the house at 5am after one summer party. The months we had to bail out the kitchen like a sinking dinghy every time the washing machine was turned on were offset by the time we transformed our horrible concrete yard by covering the ground with big cushions , putting the TV outside , drinking beer, barbequing meat and laughing until the neighbours complained.
It was shitty but it was fun. I only found this out after we began to receive weird mail. We received quite a bit of correspondence from this one particular patient and never knew what action to take. If we ignored the letters would it just encourage them to send more mystifying missives or if we responded would we one day open the door to find a wild-eyed, homicidal maniac waiting there to collect our souls?
We chose something we were all adept at; inaction. I think we were lucky to leave when we did. No maniacs ever turned up or at least if they did they probably just let themselves in, noticed the vile stink and left, even the clinically insane have standards. What do these letters mean? If you have any theories please comment below. The landlords complained we never paid our rent on time and we in turn complained that they always ignored our requests for a less barbaric way of living.
We then found out that Asshole had been holding onto our rent for sometimes up to a month before paying the landlords and then blaming it on us. They were the greasiest, most penny pinching people you imagine. One of my fondest memories of them is when I received a call to discuss our ever leaking washing machine.
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It was cheap, it was huge and it was in the middle of everything. It was an impressive feat that for a while I feared was a sign of some sort of brain trouble, maybe even a tumour, but I relaxed into it reasoning that if my body could operate this well without me then perhaps it could take control from Monday morning to Friday evening and then give me back the reins for the weekend, thus allowing me to live in a perpetual state of holiday. Sadly it could only manage the first 20 minutes of my day and the odd drunken voyage home. Other then that it ran like a well oiled machine that only failed me once in a regrettable incident I shall call Morning Glory-gate. I digress… So as a concept this house was perfect except for one small thing…the house itself. As a concept it worked, in fact it sounded like a dream, no, it sounded like a sit-com. Two guys, two girls, all kinds of crazy shenanigans!
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