I’ve been angry for a long time. Ever since I walked in on dad eating the chocolate hob nob Charlotte and I left with a cool glass of milk for Santa on the windowsill. I think. I’m pretty angry now. I’m angry that there is only one plug socket in the room. This means it’s either this laptop or the stereo. I’m punching the keys. I’ve accidentally underlined a word. I CAN’T EVEN SMOOTH THIS MOOD WITH BJORK!
You see, I’ve been getting these intense crippling migraines. Ones that make me blind and give me pins and needles down my left side. My speech slurs. I struggle to think straight. I’ve had to leave work. I’ve become too scared to travel in case I walk onto a train track. I tell people. They say ‘take a paracetemol.’ This makes me more angry. It’s lucky I can’t see them.
I’ve been putting it down to this anger – this complete irrational fury at the little old ladies who insist on walking REALLY slow on narrow pavements. This anger at the Pez dispenser I bought that turned out to have NO Pez’s in it. I mean they just don’t sell them. ANyWHERE! This nauseating anger at the blank cd’s that ‘mysteriously disappeared’ from my room, knowing full well that I left them at my old flat - I have often caught site of myself in the bathroom mirror PUNCHING myself on the side of the head. I have woken recently to find a few hundred stressed hairs looking up at me going ‘why are you so angry?’ I’m angry in my sleep. More than once I have had a fight with Elmer Fudd, because the cunt slurs his words when we’re chasing that ‘pesky rabbit.’
I recently lost somebody who used to regularly end conversations about me with ‘…and Matt was outraged!’ I lost this person because I was angry.
I’m angry at Bill Gates every time I place another number into the never ending Excel spread sheet I’m lost in at work. I’m angry at all bus drivers in the world. I’m angry at my bank for cutting my overdraft. I’m angry at YOU. But recently I’ve found the ultimate symbol to channel this never-ending stream of utter hatred towards. They are my new muse. You may have heard of them. They go by the name of… estate agents.
Now, it’s nothing new to think that every estate agent is an utter cocky prick, but to skin these money grabbing pigs alive with the very keys they open the shithole flat they’ve taken me to see? Is that a natural reaction?
If you think I’m coming on, let’s say, a little strong, let me set the never-ending visceral stream of inconvenience scene they have orchestrated since the beginning of the year.
Me and my future live in buddy have had some minor hitches. First it involved racism (the estate aget brought an Asian kid round to view a flat with us and constantly referred to it being ideal for his ‘large family’ and his ‘curry cooking.’ (Reside)
A second one didn’t turn up (Rocodells).
A couple of brothers turned up for the third nearly an hour late only to show us into the property, knock on the door and find it had already been rented out. Nobody told them apparently.
However, by the sixth viewing all was forgotten. I was a brand new property and had wood floors, a brand new kitchen, one of those stand up radiator things. He even said he’d get the landlord to throw in some beds! Too good to be true???? We said we’d take it. We exchanged a holding fee, signed a contract and were promised the move would take place on the Sunday. It was the Tuesday. Too good to be true???? When it got round to the next Monday, the Tuesday and the Wednesday and we couldn’t contact the bloke we began to telepathically feel the pangs of an error. Eventually, he called us in a state of apologetic beaver. There was a problem. The water wasn’t right. It wasn’t turned on. Or fitted. Or there weren’t any pipes at all? He didn’t know. This bloke couldn’t even get the answer phone message right on his mobile without forgetting who he was and without a minutes worth of silence before the beep (by that time you’ve already said your message to absolutely nothing).
It was going to take a month to fix. But did we pull out???? Did we fuck. Buoyed by the fact that maybe he was just a bit clumsy, a bit of a fool, a doughnut - we cut him some slack. We reasoned it could take us a month to find somewhere else. THIS SHIT HAPPENS.
As the four weeks encroached on us like my inherited Alzheimer’s, we began to worry yet again. TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE???? With only sporadic news from our hero throughout the month, we were anxious to set a date to move in. After leaving three text messages, an angry voicemail and several unanswered calls we were informed that it wasn’t the water (!) but the electricity (!!) that was the problem. It was going to take another week. Now, these seemingly polar opposites of the energy worlds can be merged sometimes we figured somehow so, ya know, we cut him the last bit of slack.
A week and no calls later we get the news that it ACTUALLY WAS THE WATER and the flat had changed owners. ‘It may take another few weeks,’ he croaked.
We are now still trying to get our money back off him (Bambos – Sirus Lettings).
My heart pressure rises every time I think of his bald fat head. But there is room for one last gemstone in these shit thick rent islands. Completely disheartened by our previous experiences we found another place in deepest Brockley. From the outside it looked pretty grim, but we’re both working class heroes so we gave it a go. The rest happened in this order -
- Guy turns up without keys.
- Guy has never even set foot in the flat.
- Guy doesn’t even know how many bedrooms it is, what number it is, what floor it’s on, how much it is a month.
- Guy precedes to tell us that they only do long term lets (18 months), says we should higher our budget because this is the best we can hope for with our ‘small’ budget (we’ve seem 6 other flats that are better and for the same price), wants us to give him a £500 holding fee, then a £300 admin fee for a flat we just said to him looked like someone had died in it. Someone had died in it. There were bags of the dead woman’s clothes tied up in some spare room.
He then claimed the place was completely wood flooring while we are standing in a room with carpet (Ludlow Thompson).
Some people say anger is the strongest emotion. That it is a purer more real expression. That in display it must be aimed, because it can be so irrational and spontaneous. But however pure it is, I don’t want to die of some brain aneurysm, completely bald on a bus quietly exploding my brain in swear words because some kid won’t turn his phone down.
It either isn’t suppressed anymore (and I turn into that MENTAL FUCKING NUT BAG OF AN IRRATIONAL FRUITLOOP from the Greyhound bus in Canada and hack some kids head off and start eating his fingers because he’s fallen asleep and the song he’s listening to is REALLY QUITE LOUD AND ANNOYING!) or I calm down and shrug a lot more. I ignore these fools, these money grabbers, these rogues of capitalist Britain and give them an ironic high five on my way through.
Either this or I lose more people.
So coming to a bus near you, turn your phones with your home made MCing UP, UP, UP….
I’ve chosen the latter.