Realtoner of Leek

They could have filled the world with haemophiliac bratz,


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?”


“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.


 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.


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

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