I’ve heard that moving house
is one of the most stressful things a person can do, but to be perfectly honest
I’ve done it plenty of times so the stress of the whole debacle washes over me.
You see, I’ve moved home a lot in my time. Growing up, my mum seemed to want to
constantly move house, we moved around more than gypsies and it’s not like we
moved up and down the country [apart from that short time we lived in Plymouth
a.k.a. The Arsehole of England], we predominately stayed in the same shitty
little town. Obviously when I moved out to come to University, I’ve continued
to bounce around form overpriced student house to even more overpriced student
house, continuing the trend set by my mother. To be perfectly honest I’ve lost
count of the amount of homes I’ve had and to top if off I’ve just recently
added a new home to my never ending list.
Towards the end of January me and my housemates discovered that we were to be thrown out of our house as it had been sold. This news carried me into February, which as it stands was possibly the worst month of my life as the clock began to tick on one of the most significant relationships I’ve ever devolved, I am of course talking of the news that House MD was defiantly going to end, me and the girlfriend also decided to part ways. My future was looking bleak; girlfriendless, Houseless and soon to be homeless.
But as they say; “you can’t keep a good man down”, and while I’m far from a good man the thought of living out of a cardboard box inspired me somewhat to find a new place to live.
But before we get down to my house hunting, let’s speak on where I was getting kicked out of. My old house was a lot like Anne Robinson; cold, heartless and although there’s been attempts to make it look slightly better you know it’s old, decrepit and rotting away on the inside … it was also really draughty [a super injunction prohibits me from informing you of Anne Robinson’s draughty vagina – but hopefully you were clever enough to figure out the route that joke was taking]. Due to these factors, our bills were expensive; to be honest the amount of money we’ve spent on gas/electric could have easily armed a small Middle Eastern country with AK-47s and enough ammo to [over]kill the entire Chinese population. But at the end of the day I’m a pacifist so genocide is not on my “To Do List” … but half of the Chinese population is [ahh… in-jokes]. The house was situated on what estate agents may refer to as “vibrant”, which translates as “a place filled with scum”; chavs, rude boys, smackheads, pissheads, Eastern European drug dealers that scream at each other in the street gone midnight, that guy that waits on the corner, asking you what time it is, hoping you pull out your phone so he can snatch it and run. You know those kinds of vibrant characters. Although none of that bothered me, I got to watch a smackhead OD on the street once from the comfort of my own home [he survived if you wondered/cared]. Towards the end of our stay things were beginning to break anyway; downstairs toilet had been broken for time, sparks were happening inside the microwave when you turned it on and the freezer door was being kept closed with a brick [I'm known to embellish stories, but this is all true].
You see, we just ignorantly lived this way, not realising that we were in a first world country living in a third world house [now I’m embellishing]. So getting thrown out was the motivation we really needed because nothing drives your incentive like the thought of being homeless, yet judging by my last house it wouldn’t be a massive step down.
So we began trawling the internet for possible new homes. Myself and Mr. French [my Brother from another Mother/spiritual advisor] compiled a list of ten houses/flats we were interested in. Luckily we don’t have high standards [in homes… or women], so our criteria were limited, as long as it had white goods and double glazing we were happy.
The first place we viewed was just around the corner from our current house. It was above a solicitor’s office. Alarm bells starting to ring when we were taken through the office, up two flights of stairs to a door that leads to the flat. The thought of there being a single door between my home and the business ran by the landlord was a scary thought, especially when you take into consideration what I do in my recreation. The flat wasn’t that bad, although the bedrooms weren’t too great, the smaller one of the two simply had a double bed in it with about a foot of room either side upon realising that there would be no room for a PC desk and no PC in my room is really going to ruin my sex life [yes, that's a masturbation joke... although not as funny when you point them out], we soon opted out of that place.
Will Ben and Frenchie find a home?
Find out in the next slightly-thrilling instalment of [*insert blog title here, when you can be arsed to come up with one you lazy prick*]
Towards the end of January me and my housemates discovered that we were to be thrown out of our house as it had been sold. This news carried me into February, which as it stands was possibly the worst month of my life as the clock began to tick on one of the most significant relationships I’ve ever devolved, I am of course talking of the news that House MD was defiantly going to end, me and the girlfriend also decided to part ways. My future was looking bleak; girlfriendless, Houseless and soon to be homeless.
But as they say; “you can’t keep a good man down”, and while I’m far from a good man the thought of living out of a cardboard box inspired me somewhat to find a new place to live.
But before we get down to my house hunting, let’s speak on where I was getting kicked out of. My old house was a lot like Anne Robinson; cold, heartless and although there’s been attempts to make it look slightly better you know it’s old, decrepit and rotting away on the inside … it was also really draughty [a super injunction prohibits me from informing you of Anne Robinson’s draughty vagina – but hopefully you were clever enough to figure out the route that joke was taking]. Due to these factors, our bills were expensive; to be honest the amount of money we’ve spent on gas/electric could have easily armed a small Middle Eastern country with AK-47s and enough ammo to [over]kill the entire Chinese population. But at the end of the day I’m a pacifist so genocide is not on my “To Do List” … but half of the Chinese population is [ahh… in-jokes]. The house was situated on what estate agents may refer to as “vibrant”, which translates as “a place filled with scum”; chavs, rude boys, smackheads, pissheads, Eastern European drug dealers that scream at each other in the street gone midnight, that guy that waits on the corner, asking you what time it is, hoping you pull out your phone so he can snatch it and run. You know those kinds of vibrant characters. Although none of that bothered me, I got to watch a smackhead OD on the street once from the comfort of my own home [he survived if you wondered/cared]. Towards the end of our stay things were beginning to break anyway; downstairs toilet had been broken for time, sparks were happening inside the microwave when you turned it on and the freezer door was being kept closed with a brick [I'm known to embellish stories, but this is all true].
You see, we just ignorantly lived this way, not realising that we were in a first world country living in a third world house [now I’m embellishing]. So getting thrown out was the motivation we really needed because nothing drives your incentive like the thought of being homeless, yet judging by my last house it wouldn’t be a massive step down.
So we began trawling the internet for possible new homes. Myself and Mr. French [my Brother from another Mother/spiritual advisor] compiled a list of ten houses/flats we were interested in. Luckily we don’t have high standards [in homes… or women], so our criteria were limited, as long as it had white goods and double glazing we were happy.
The first place we viewed was just around the corner from our current house. It was above a solicitor’s office. Alarm bells starting to ring when we were taken through the office, up two flights of stairs to a door that leads to the flat. The thought of there being a single door between my home and the business ran by the landlord was a scary thought, especially when you take into consideration what I do in my recreation. The flat wasn’t that bad, although the bedrooms weren’t too great, the smaller one of the two simply had a double bed in it with about a foot of room either side upon realising that there would be no room for a PC desk and no PC in my room is really going to ruin my sex life [yes, that's a masturbation joke... although not as funny when you point them out], we soon opted out of that place.
Will Ben and Frenchie find a home?
Find out in the next slightly-thrilling instalment of [*insert blog title here, when you can be arsed to come up with one you lazy prick*]
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