Falconer of Leek

I’ve never met him, but suspect he wouldn’t like me,

Boston Celtics v New York Knicks - Game Three

No one knows what city he’s from but his name’s  Spike “Whitey-Lover” Lee!

He wouldn’t like me because I’m a Dallas Mavericks fan. Not because I’m white. I assume he loves our historically adorable race. Everyone does…

So a dollar short and about 8 days late, this blogpost has shlepped over the line like someone doing a no-prep marathon. Thighs glazed with urine from mile 15, head swimming with gone-off adrenaline and the body digesting its own hair for caloric input.

Hey, who wants to go to the hospital?

I really should be asleep or doing something more recuperative than clickety clacking my nonsense on a filthy keyboard. And yet I clack on.

Meg and I moved this weekend from our unnecessarily large and modern apartment (which with the best will in the world was a bit, Christian Grey) on the high street to a maisonette. AKA bitch-sized house. Truthfully the move couldn’t have gone smoother but nevertheless we are now strung out like we’ve been inhaling oven cleaner.

Because we have been inhaling oven cleaner. I can’t tell you if that oven is any better looking than when I started, but I am now unburdened of nose hairs and I can see a great falcon in the sky that protects me while forcing dread into the hearts of my enemies.

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The ultimate irony is that my arch-enemy is the still-dirty twin brother of my own oven. I slept with their sister. It’s a Melrose Place thing.

The endless cleaning and the general joint-straining sweat festival of moving has completely kicked Meg and my little butt-butts. We’re now constantly starting sentences that go nowhere and decisively placing wooden spoons on chairs and then walking away with a nervous smile like we’d accomplished a great deed. The falcon will be pleased.

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You can’t tell from this angle, but he’s got a total rager right now.

As well as moving house and eschewing the profreshional (fell like someone in the housekeeping industry owes me a few shekels for coming up with that one) cleaning of our vacated premises I am still periodically recording podcast episodes for an upcoming invasion of your earbuds. It’s going well despite events having superceded our topic for episode 5 and forcing us to require recording some edits. Thank you very much Mossack Fonseca.

That gives it away that the topic was Panama, but I’ll never tell you what one we recorded this weekend it was the Isle of Man. Didn’t think I was going to tell you that did you? I’m a PR master.

Bringing up Panama allows me to plant this little beauty here. Top Panamanian songsmith El Chombo, with Maccaron. He’s made it into the blog before. Because he’s the king. OOOOoooohhhh yeeeaaahh! Listen on.

He keeps me honest. This was the quality of madness that didn’t get included on the Panama podcast. The Isle of Man by comparison has the longest underwater AC power cable in the world.

.

…..

……..

thud.

You stink Isle of Man!

The job this week takes me to the Warsaw of Eastern Europe… Warsaw! As my body jerks periodically in its frankly arrogant bid to stop me flopping into unconsciousness like one of those rangy mixed-martial arts guys at the end of a fight just before the other guy jumps on him and rubs his athleti-thong (patent pending) on his fallen opponent’s upper lip.

 

It’s the cup of grace. It really is like ballet or some of that deep “sensitive” shit you guys.

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Kill! Kill! Kill! Now go limp and tell me how this is an allegory for the birth of Czech nationalism. Sensitive.

 

Apparently there’s a miniature golf course at the rural Holiday Inn we’re staying in (your jealousy is frankly embarassing), so I have brought my swimming togs (incidentally –og is one of my favourite vowel-consonant pairings) in part assuming there might also be a pool, but if I’m being honest it’s moreso to intimidate the fellow patrons of “Put-Put Polska!” Parties of ten get a free round of Sprite.

 

On my love of the -og (which sounds like a harlequin romance novel about gittin’ it on with a neanderthal) noise, it reminds me of two particular pieces of nonsense from my school days that both provoked hilarity in a way I assume you will not share. Listen on! I suspect my amusement comes solely down to the inherent humour in the –og noise and our combined terror at the age of 12 that we would be singled out for any reason.

 

In one such tale, a chap by the name of Khalid told us a joke which consisted of the following, “There was this guy right and he loved salt. And he loved bananas. So he gets his banana and sogs it in the salt and eats it. And he still loves bananas and salt. So he gets another banana. And he sogs it in the salt. And he still loves banan…”

 

This went on for about ten minutes.

 

In other such event from the waybacks, my desk mate from 2nd year maths kept getting asked for a dowry, preferably a duvet with a high tog value.

“Where’s my fuckoing dowry Eamonn! You said it’d be high-tog!!”

 

This kind of crap is why I can’t speak Spanish.

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Not that it would ever be useful to me to speak Span- OH JESUS CHRIST YOU’RE SO BEAUTIFUL I WANT TO MURDER EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER SEEN YOU BUT ME!!!

Sorry Meg.

In other news we are trying to adapt to living in the new place. On the plus side our neighbour no longer has the dickhead-tourettes (he just can’t stop himself) but on the flippety flop we no longer have the sweet access to ready and plentiful wine and general booze vendors that we used to. It was also handy for the one time every 6 months (like clockwork) that I go and eat a jumbo pack of peanuts late at night alone.

The oily skin backlash can be tough to look at, so it’s boot polish on every mirror for a week and maybe staring longingly into a non-glossy image of Señor Bardem.

¿Donde esta, mi amor? I learned… for you. For us.

Falconer of Leek

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Neighboner of Leek

When he was caught dealing drugs in Crumlin, we was given “Fiftain to loife,”

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It’s horseheaded footballing demigod, Johan “I’m dead now” Cruyff

That’s about as respectful an obituary as I’ve ever done.

“Hey I’m Michael Jackson, are ya 7? Can I touch ya little pantpants?”

He wasn’t even cold in the ground. Latoya was devvo.

As is the way of the Mark, I’m writing this from my airport pimpman-lair. Selection of fruit I have derisively ignored? Check.

This week I have been in Geneva, home to ludicrously complex watches made of golden gossamer and of course piles of everyone else’s birthday money slathered in chocolate. Switzerland is the kind of nice place that normally would like to scoop filth like me off the streets into big buckets and feed me to their human livestock.

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They got made into Soylent Green. I got made into Zohlen Groon, the ALDI equivalent.

But the scum also rises and I got to have a quick wander and lunch in the city before heading out to the rurality where two of my relatives live. It’s all relat-live. Sorry. They, like everyone here are big time bankery types though if you listened to them you’d think they were doing the grouting.

“HSBC, now those were lads who could put up some tiles.”

They live out in the countryside (10 minutes from the city centre) in a little burg called Nyon. Like garish lighting namesake, this pretty town has attracted some sleaze-cicles in the shape of UEFA. Skulking around their city limits, compiling their “exotic massage” budgets for the next major football tournament and trying to squeeze the last golden eggs out of the sputtering overheated goose that is football. “Dya know who doesn’t have a team in the Champions League? Kim Jong Un. Get him on the fecking phone lad!”

As these bubbling turds play fast and loose with the dreams of broken down men everywhere (which is all men, let’s be honest), the town around them gets on with a semi-rural lifestyle of locally grown meat and 20 minutes of skiing before breakfast.Did I mention that it’s surrounded on all sides by crystal lake water and the frigging Alps?

It’s like when Jean-Luc Picard goes home to his bollocks of a brother. A bit down on the farm plus a magic cube in the kitchen that grants all your wishes.

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In Star Trek it was called a replicator, in Switzerland it’s a heaving box of swag and dubloons.

Incidentally, if Picard was so bloody French that he grew up on a vineyard for crying out loud did he still speaking thick Yawkshah like he was “Down’ mine-shaft at fawteen, wuhkin 37 hour a day foh thruppeny bit and lick of a tuhnip?” It is surely the single greatest unanswered question in the Star Trek universe. The second being whether George Takei’s unrepentant and dominating heterosexuality was ever tested by even his most attractive male colleagues.

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The answer is obviously no like, but it’s cool to wonder

Anyway, Switzerland. A nation of contrasts.

It’s nice, so I say less about it. That’s how the blog works.

My neighbour, what a douche (you’re catching on now right?) He is a weirdly one. When we moved in he screamed obscenities from his livingroom at our delivery guy as he brought up our furniture.

<paused at the top of stairs and scowled at the closed door> “Awright mate.”

Then he put a note under our door complaining of the sound of footfalls. We were guilty of that to be fair, having lifted a foot… and then replacing it on the floor. But the worst part of that is he wrote it in Notepad. Who uses bloody Notepad for anything?! A computer programme that was made redundant by the time Bill Gates got his first bigboy hair! Something only used by people writing threatening letters to Abraham Lincoln or writing a mediocre recipe for Dodo eggs.

I struggled with that joke, just because writing a note in Notepad is that weird, it’s even kind of hard to mock in a targeted way. The real choice wad of meat was when he got caught in the lift three months after we moved in, 2 in the morning on a Saturday Night (capitalised in respect of the 1993 hit by Whigfield) thrashing about in there, screaming obscenities until myself and a neighbour in our little nightpants ventured into the hall to attempt to open the door with a butterknife (end score -1 butterknife) and eventually have to call the fire brigade. After chatting with him to calm him down, I let him know I was going down to the front door to let them in.

3 minutes passed.

Then: Rassafackinsaanavacantinbitchyawprickinliftahllkillyarkids!

The lift never worked again. He’s a real peach.

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He could eat a peach for hours. But he never made me climb stairs.

Apart from loud videogames, complaining that our extractor fan empties into his apartment (turn on YOUR extractor fan perhaps?) there is one more sign that he is obviously and completely devoid of human decency. I have never saw him wear trousers. Not once. Even outside. Or in winter.

We thought maybe he was, like a wounded war vet, living off his pension for being in hero squad and killing so many… of the enemies. Quivering with PTSD every time he saw a pair of full length trousers.

But now we think he works from home, eating the caterpillar and throwing the lettuce away, cackling as the elderly are smacked by trains on Youtube and balancing an opened, upside-down but full yoghurt pot on his corncob while talking to similarly-minded perverts on no-video Skype calls.

Or maybe it’s just me that thinks that.

In other news, I have joined the bloodsport that is a London commute. Complete with a wake-up time more than 2 hours what I’ve been used to, train carriages so tightly packed I can unwillingly get double the action I got in my first 3 years of secondary school in a single morning and the calibre of doucherag that thinks it’s a good thing to take one of those long skateboards while wearing a high-vis rucksack. I can see you. You are an idiot. And you are not smart.

On the upside, the most valuable thing about me is no longer my kidney, but my railpass.

One in the eye for the organ-harvesters out there.

Neighboner of Leek

Realtoner of Leek

They could have filled the world with haemophiliac bratz,

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It’s endlessly irritating demised power couple K-Stew/R-Patz.

Who thought these ghouls were desirable? It’d be like gittin down to business with a haddock. I may be watching a Twilight movie while I write this. There is that possibility.

We are elbow-deep into preparing for a house move which could be going better. Our realtors are bad at their jobs. To start, the guy we’re dealing with (Mike is his name…. ugh) has the body hair of a chess piece. He could be in this awful movie I’m watching as their cocky English cousin who doesn’t know how to be a real estate agent. I want to bully him. I want to blow him a kiss and watch him look confused. Maybe even like it a little, turn up to our date and I’m A NO-SHOW! I want to block him in the shower of a house he’s showing me and chuck a deuce over the top of the showercurtain onto his rigid-with-pomade hair catastrophe.

I don’t like Mike. He is bad.

who-s-bad-1804-9991855-1024-768Though arguable not the baddest. The signs were right in front of us guys…

To start off, we initially did a few viewings with this crowd a year ago. After not seeing much we gave things a rest but monitored their weekly emails of new properties. Then the calls started.

“Hello Mr Boyle this is Mike from Leaders Real Estate in Weybridge. Can I ask if you are still looking for a property and if so, what you are looking for?”

That was how the first call started. That was how the fourth call started. Each call ended with him saying “oh right, I guess keep checking the emails then.” Then when we finally found a place we liked, guess which fowl sidled up to the property in a befeathered turkey-trot.

“Hello, Mr Boyle is it? Good to meet you… have you been looking long?”

Ugh.

“I think I saw something strange in the shower Mike. No. Look closer. Get in.”

<raises befouled dustpan>

So then we had to schedule further agony with this avian over at his poultry-pad in order to sign doucments and show ID etc. On a Thursday in the middle of the day. Did he turn up? Did he balls. He was off somewhere trying to hatch some frigging young.

Then came this weekend. We had set up a time to go over to the new house to do some measuring and see which of our bargain basement furniture might have to get tipped as the proportions of the rooms are all different and being honest some of our bedroom gear was not sourced from the most high-quality establishments. Like ASDA.

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 ASDA is also bad. I think this infographic explains that quite well.

Anyway, we decided to check up on the arrangements for our visit as they had been so crap on so many things before. “Oh yes, we just need to confirm with the tenant.” So they had done nothing.

Saturday, the morning of the visit we called up to check on whether we were able to go or not. “Uhh… no we weren’t able to get in touch with the tenant.”

So they had done nothing.

We have since written a passive aggressive email where we convey “our disappointment” and our estimation that his reproductive organs might pass for “an inny.”

Outside of this landmark Weybridge highstreet failure there is another that makes these guys look, like totally profesh. It is a Thai restaraunt by the name of Somkid’s Thai.

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Some kid. Apparently owner of a failing Thai restaraunt in the London suburbs.

Like is the Some Kid the chef? Is he qualified? What does he know about food hygiene? I used to try and eat raw sausage meat as a kid, I was an idiot. And it’s not even like he’s an infant cooking savant. The name clearly sets out that he is merely, Some Kid. Who gave all the customers botulism? Oh, Some Kid.

At the same time, so they got a crummy name. Big woop. That hasn’t hurt the accountants on Baker St who had the misfortune to be founded by Mr Midgeley Snelling. But their failures go far deeper than this. In the two years of us living here we have eaten there once. It was not good. We had only just moved in and were looking for somewhere to take Megs sister who was visiting and not knowing better we rocked up to their front door (it was called something less awful at the time) and sat down to a room temperature meal of frozen vegetables soaked in gloop-sauce. Sorry Bonnie.

As the lore of it goes, they had a rep for poisoning the bellys of the locals around this time and have since rid themselves of the burden of customers. Even after an expensive-looking refit and changing their name to something weird and slightly unsettling they haven’t been able to get the bums on seats to make it work.

They have also tryed holding events to try and bring in the punters. At New Years they sold tickets to an Asian pop group they had convinced to waste an evening there. It’s the size of a generously poportioned garden shed. It would’ve been torture. There was also recently a pop-in by someone from a UK TV show called “Posh Pawn.” It’s about people who need to ditch their Maseratti becuase they can’t afford butter. In a word, morons. It has all the gravitas of a daytime show intended for patients of a hospital requiring the severest treatment and thus to be totally free from structured thought.

In other news, I recall I missed out on mentioning that I got cornered in a Washington DC Starbucks by a very insane man who kept talking to me about former French President Francois Mitterand and hysterectomys. Viewing as I did Starbucks as some kind of gentry-consulate (a gensulate if you will) I was keen to pop my head in as the area seemed a little “gritty” and I was ladened down with 6 days of luggage with a Mariah Carey level of outfit changes required for each day I was there. I was shocked to find myself between Mitterectomies on one side and a white, irregularly-toothed classic hobo who was rooting through the garbage and pulling out his “finds” and then two more lads who started getting having a “beef” to use the rap lingo of my forefathers. This was marginally better than the pavement outside where one chap was so chemically altered he could be used to weather-proof garden furniture and was clearly experiencing localised time travel.

It was more the Wire than Avon telling us what the game is. Hint: it’s the game.

Realtoner of Leek