Bastards

Me and The German (more of him later for newbies) moved down to Hove (insert obligatory ‘actually’) about seven months ago. It is a fine place. Salty licks of sea air wallop London’s cancerous smogs into the back end of next week, 52 times a year. My lungs have been pure singing.

However. In renting a small slice of ground floor joy, with sash windows, a parking space and room for the Teuton’s monster barbecue, we also gained a set of mental neighbours. Fully certifiable, marbles auctioned off, sandwiches sent to the soup kitchen, all out farcical fucking loonery.

Hilarious as living next to the real life inspiration for Shameless might appear to be (soothing pan pipes; Frank’s wasted eloquence), in truth it’s been about as much fun as eating a shit-flavoured Revel. And six months after the cunting and witchcraft started, we’re shipping out.

I hate moving house. It’s a ballache I can do without. The organising is just so crushingly dull I want to stab myself in the head for some light relief. But the silver lining comes in the shape of a rent free, swanky pad to occupy while we save up some wonga to buy a place. Erm. So yeah. We’re moving into my Mum and Dad’s place. Fact is, they’re never there, so it’s pretty cushy. Still, never thought I’d be seeking the temporary refuge of the family home at the age of 27.

In the meantime, I hope the evil bastards upstairs get their commupence in the shape of an eviction notice, a skanky council flat and a diet singularly devoted to shit-infused chocolates.