He's Back

He's back. He came through the door, after knocking in the middle of the day and me opening it and seeing him stood there with his bag and a stack of papers like some drunken lawyer you'd see in an awful film, clutched to his chest. I panicked and tried to shut the door half-heartedly but he pushed in of course, and now he's back. Andy is back. He moved into one of the empty rooms and he says he's never leaving this house again ever. Except he's out right now, because his word is meaningless, and yes I am very fucking angry.

Deep breath. Objectivity first, and then we can pass judgement. GAVEL!

When Andy left, or was kicked out – and I know there are a bunch of unanswered questions like:
        “What happened to your laptop?!” – it was taken from Andy's room either by the Agency (because they took everything) or by the cops (as evidence), I have no idea which is the true scenario, and I'm not going to bother digging, because I don't care enough. I needed a new laptop anyway, I bought that thing in July 2011.
        “How is he allowed to come back?” – his bail conditions barred him from returning to our flat, but after two weeks he got them overturned on the grounds that this is his residence, and the residence stated on his arrest record (probably somewhere in the fucking Cayman Islands) was incorrect. He knocked on the door that afternoon after coming STRAIGHT from the Magistrates' Court.
        “Why the fuck don't you move out?” – because the rent is super cheap and it's central and honestly I am an out-of-hope person who is clearly not in control of his life. JOKING EVERYTHING IS FINE!! HAHA LOL! Funny.

...when Andy left, or was kicked out, or whatever the fuck happened, I felt like I'd lost a friend almost. I mean, not really... like not an actual friend or anything... to be honest I'd have been perfectly content to never see him again. That's how it was going to be in my head. It was melancholy, and bittersweet somehow, but it was done, and wrapped up in a nice little bow that I was very proud of... I didn't care about Andy, but I cared about the story, and the bittersweetness came from conjoined sad-happiness that it was over. There you go, there's your ending. It's perfect isn't it! Put that in your little bloggie and away he goes from your life taking all his bad things and people and noise with him. Eeven the guy who snoresE BYE BYE!! “Peace, Taco.”

But it doesn't fucking work like that does it? Life, does not fucking work like that. And just as soon as I'd said good bye to him, he was back, storming around the house just like he used to, and yelling about conspiracies and betrayals and who the fuck knows what because no one is listening and no one cares. It's just you mate. You're the only one who gives a fuck, Andy.

This time, it's not a quaint little dance. This time it's awful.

One of my best friends in London is a fat girl named Rosie (don't worry, she just laughed her ass off reading that. Seriously.), I've known her for years but she moved into Abersham a few months before Andy did, and lasted through a lot until finally breaking and moving out when things got really bad with the broken sink and everything. Andy was actually the reason she moved out in the end, and her and I once had an argument about him, because she absolutely hates him with every fibre of her being, and I only hate him a little. Sometimes, as I'm sure you've picked up, I actually kind of like him, and I was trying to explain why to her, which was a strange position to be in, because I don't even really understand why myself.

She kept telling me that I always try to see the good in people and that it's a nice quality I have, but that I need to quit sometimes and admit when people are assholes. I disagree slightly, because I know there are people out there who I have no fucking time for and actively despise, not because they are bad people even, but just because I think they are worthless, boring cunts. I think what it is is that there's a certain genre (“if you will”, ahaha) of loser that I really identify with for some reason, and Andy perfectly fits that specification. The hopelessly driven, stars-in-their-eyes-and-destined-for-greatness type of loser. The one who the world is always out to get, and who never seems to be at fault for a lifetime of bad decisions. For some reason I always look for an excuse to trust this person, or at least let myself drift close to them. What is that?

Maybe it's just because I look good by comparison? But I'm not standing next to Andy. Am I? He's just here, and I'm just here, but this isn't where my life is. This house. My life is in comedy, and in writing, and in the friends that I spend my time with and the people I love. But Andy is still here lingering around, for some reason that I have to do with. WHAT IS IT FUCK!!!!

And then, what is it that these kinds of people always see in me that they are so drawn to? Maybe because I'm ambitious in my own way separate to theirs (and hopefully less deluded), and fiercely independent, and not stuck in the same negative loop of a lifestyle that they are, so they see my acceptance as somehow redemptive to them? That is if they're self-aware enough to realise that they need redemption? Probably not. Andy thinks he's Jesus already... but I feel like I'm onto something there. It feels gross to think about a relationship with someone in terms so simple as the things each person gets out of it. It's making my face clench right now, and my skin crawl a little. I want to run away from it.

Anyway, Andy isn't a good person, because he said to me long ago of Rosie that, “That girl's biggest mistake when she moved in 'ere was gettinn wif that guy in THERE (gestures at the old room of a housemate Rosie once got off with) instead of me when she moved in. If she'd 'ave sucked my dick the first day I met 'er I'd 'ave followed 'er rawnd like a little puppy-dog for ever and she'd 'ave never 'ad a problem wif me.”

Now that's fucked, and disgusting. What a way to see people, right? Like their mistake was not making you happy as soon as you met. Fuck you Andy, you fucking piece of shit, and fuck me for not punching you in the face when you said that. Even though that's not what I do. Fuck me for being around you. Sorry Rosie.

I don't know what any of this means, but I think I've had just about enough deliberation time and pondering in my little chair here to figure it out. I've decided to get involved, as of tonight. After the arrest I had to go down to the property agency for a meeting with Louis (owner, Andy's ex-father-figure) – the other housemates did too, but they've all since moved out, because unlike me they did the intelligent thing and ran out of a burning building rather than going back inside to have a sleep first and maybe watch some Simpsons.

In my meeting with Louis I got the vibe that he was and is a fairly reasonable person. He did tell me that because I've been in the property for over a year my bond has been whittled away by council tax and blah blah, so I'm going to have to pay another £435 bond on top of the rent that I'm currently paying. I mean that sucks, but to be fair I've not signed a single piece of paperwork in the 14 months I've lived here, and as much as it sucks having to pay bond again, I would have paid more in rent by now living pretty much anywhere else in London. That $435 though adds on to the £350 I paid two weeks ago for a new laptop... so I'm fucked for money, but who can I blame, really? Andy for kicking up the fuss? The agency for being crooked? Or myself for choosing to inhabit the retarded corner of space and time I optimistically call my 'life' in the first place? In the end, I have to blame myself, and accept that Louis is just doing what he do. Property managers are crooked, let's not stop the presses for that one.

But I called Louis when Andy came back and he gave me the landlady's number – Ms Cantremember – and told me to call her. It feels like he's trying to use me as a pawn somehow, because why wouldn't he just call her himself right? It's not my job to squeal “piggy” on Andy for coming back into the house, I'm just the guy who nobody should care about living here. So I didn't call her. But now I'm going to I think. Tomorrow, when the hour is reasonable. I'm going to call her and explain what I know of the situation, and then I'm going to call Louis and offer to help however I can in getting Andy out. I guess this means war? A more confused declaration has never been uttered.

Andy once tried to tell me – in a much longer and less poetic manner just before passing out in the kitchen probably – that evil only prevails when good men do nothing. I'm not a good man, I'm just a guy who wants to live in a cheap room and write dumb stories and do comedy and sometimes I like have sex with people and he's FUCKING THAT UP. As far as I'm concerned, that's evil... so I guess I have to make a stand.

Also as an aside, the new guys in Andy's old room are actually Moroccan, not Spanish. Crazy! They're lovely though, they just smoke weed, and sometimes we speak Spanish to each other. So it's not all bad.

And yeah I know that line is from Batman, but Andy said it too. Maybe that's where he got it from EVER THINK OF THAT NERDS?!! So shut up.

Peace, Taco.

Click here to read the next part - Fear Not of Man

The Hammer Falls Pt. 2

This week three new flatmates have moved into Abersham Rd: Alai, Arron, and Ahmed; two Spanish guys, and another from London, and they are all three living in Andy's old room. It was empty for about ten days before these next fresh faces came in with their big ideas and cleaned out the two half-finished cans of K Cider, and the brick-ashtray, and wiped the slate clean. It would seem this house has no memory of its inhabitants after they leave. But I remember.

I remember walking home from the Overground station at midnight, having successfully forgotten the confusing events of the afternoon – all that shouting. I was calm until I walked round the driveway blockade-gate that's never open, and looked up at the bricked cube of former housing estate that I've called my home for over a year. I walked past the bins, and felt my chest tighten. Andy had my laptop when I left the house at six. I'd given him the keys to the kingdom.
        “Yeah sure Andy, you can use my laptop unsupervised while I'm out of the house, do you want some reading glasses so you don't have to strain while you digest the brutal summary of your entire life I've been compiling in secret for the past month? A glass of milk maybe?”

I walked up the stairs in a panic, trying to dismiss my fear as entry-level paranoia, and realising I needed to pee.

Whoops! Used the wrong key! Silly, they all look so similar don't they, all of these two keys I have. Let's try the other... oh! That one doesn't work either. How fun! Maybe I didn't turn the first one right? Nope, doesn't even go in the lock at all! Not even the TIP! WELL WE ARE HAVING FUN AREN'T WE?!

I'm not very good at panicking, I think I have a very resigned personality. Whenever things happen that I wish wouldn't have, rather than getting outwardly angry or upset, I just sort of groan and roll my eyes. I'm constantly expecting disaster, and I'd be ready for it if it would just stop coming when I'm in the middle of something.

At this point, after having tried both keys in the lock a few times, here's what was going through my head:
        “Okay, Andy has gone through my laptop and read these stories, that's happened. He's flipped out, thrown all of my everythings in a bin, and is waiting behind the door for me to try and get in so he can kill me and sell my organs for Mexico Money.” I was acutely aware of imminent danger.

I went down the stairs and checked the bins outside, no sign of my stuff. I went round the other side of the building, and remembering a few desperate evenings in the past year when I'd had to scale the outside of the building via the drainpipe leading up to our first-storey balcony, I dropped my bag on the grass, and got to scaling. I'd played football that night and was sore as hell, and tired, and still scenarios ran amok in my brain: Andy's sidekick Michael would maybe be waiting inside the house for me to do exactly this. He'd lead me outside again with his creepy smile like a slimy carrot on a greasy stick, and lock the balcony door behind me. Andy would take my unattended bag from the grass downstairs. I wasn't sure whether they'd have planned the manoeuvre, or if they'd just rely on hunter's intuition to pull it off, but I pressed on, ignoring my instincts. I just wanted this whole thing to play out so I could find a park bench somewhere and start my new life as a homeless man with some well earned sleep. Freedom from paranoia.

Onto the balcony, into the house, all the lights on, no one home. All my stuff still in my room, nothing on fire. Kitchen still dirty. Eerily quiet. Letters on the floor. Rubbish in bags outside Andy's room, just like always. Look left into room, push door open – latch was broken, he'd taken to shutting it by propping a chair up against it from the inside. Or towels. Door swung open easily. Empty room. Stripped bare. And my laptop? Gone.

Now I'm thinking maybe he's read everything, but didn't have the heart to burn all my stuff. He's just taken everything of his, and my laptop as penance for my sins, and I'm never going to see it, or him again. It's over, and my only worthwhile possession was the price for my betrayal. I remember I sighed, and started to accept what had happened as the reality of the evening began to sink in. Then a voice from the room I'd walked through after climbing onto the balcony caught me:
        “Hello?
        “Yo! Who's that? It's Taco!”
        “Hey man, oh shit...” he'd been asleep in bed when I came in, the newest housemate, this was his third night in the tiny room I shared my common wall with, he snored LIKE THE RAPTURE. “Andy got nicked innit. Tha cops came in and took him, and everyfin' in his room was evidence... Th'agents was here, and Louis (big boss), an tha landlady... I've got'a go back to bed innit, 'ave a good night.”

Fuck. So fraud I guess? After telling everyone that moved into the flat that he owned the place, and that they could pay their deposit and rent in cash to him, and changing the locks to keep the agency and ACTUAL LEGAL OWNER out, the real world had finally caught up with him. Makes sense...

Now here's what Andy told me on the phone when he called me after he made bail two days later.

        “Mate, I've just got out of jail. What have they been saying about me?”
        “That you told everyone you owned the property and you took all of their money as rent.”
        “Yeah yeah yeah... I took it, but I didn't SPEND itttt [strong rushing inflection], it's still there I've got it all. Did they take anything else?”
        “Your room is completely bare, they took everything. They took my laptop because you were using it when they came in.”
        “Oh mate, don't you see? That's the agency that have taken that, not the police. Why would the police take your laptop? They took Michael's foo'in tablet, they took my wife's foo'in DIAMOND wedding ring, you know I always protected you though mate, that's why I never took any money off you just in case any of this could happen and they'd take the money, I made sure you were never going to lose anything. I wasn't taking anyone's money, I just wanted to make sure They(the agency)'d never get it.”
        “...”
        “They foo'in came in with Louis, and Mrs (landlady's name can't remember/pronounce), and the cops and were bangin' on the door and I wouldn't let them in, I tried to shut the door, but Mrs (landlady) got in and then I slammed the door shut. They all said I attacked her with a knife! I didn't have a knife mate [laughs]! But there's five of them and only my word against theirs so they took me in for assault.”
        “So it wasn't fraud?”
        “Nah nah nah nah [laughing] nah... Look mate, let's have a beer sometime yeh? I'll definitely see you again, you know I always protected you in this. I love you mate.”
        “Yeah man.”
        “Right catcha soon mate. Bye.”

That was two days later, and it didn't make me feel any different to how I already felt when I stood in the passage after finding out about the arrest and looked in at Andy's room. With the two beds and the empty wardrobe and the Union Jack flag, crumpled in a heap on the windowsill. Two half-finished cans of K Cider, and a brick that we all used to ash cigarettes in. He's gone. Probably not to Mexico – Facebook says Sunderland. Andy, who the whole world was forever out to get – and then finally got – barred from returning to his fortress by the conditions of a bail that he would probably try and convince a judge had never existed. The wild audacity. Andy, who stumbled his way into an empire, and then drunkenly tripped and fell, and landed dick first in the mud with a face full of leather boot. That empty room seemed dry and cold like stone, and chilled me to look at. I never thought I'd miss him, and I'm still not sure that I do, but I miss something.

I've never been too good with words, so I'll leave it for him:

        “The story is ongoing chapters end and new ones begin. I have no blood family left but. I have my own adopted band of brothers young guns the dirty Half dozen... Water is. Sometimes thicker than blood. But. ice is cold and sharp. In times of difficulty give us the strength to remember that even in the strongest of gales oaks grow tall strong and survive and never forget That Diamonds are made under pressure...”

Peace, Taco.

So basically guys, now I'm thinking about printing this out as a little manuscript, binding it, wrapping it, and giving it to Andy as a Christmas present. He mentioned once that he'd love to get me involved in writing a script about his life, but he has no idea that I've actually been kind of doing exactly that for the last month. So now that you've read this, head back onto the Facebook post and let me know if you have any thoughts of ideas.

UPDATE: Okay, so I didn't do any of that stuff, because he came back. Click here to read the next part - He's Back

Two Stories About the Rolling Stones

He once told me two stories about the Rolling Stones, one that is apparently a well known story about one of the two times Mick Jagger has ever been knocked out, and the other – and I use the word even more cautiously here – APPARENTLY happened to one of Andy's friends outside some recording studio in London.

So Andy's friend, let's call him Snagglepus, was working for some drum supplier that supplied the Stones with their kits for one particular UK tour, and they were all in the studio after the tour hanging out drinking etc. Andy's friend heads outside for some quiet, he's smoking a cigarette and texting a girl, he's leaning up against a brick wall. I presume it's cold, and you can see his breath rise in the air in the street light. Andy's telling me this story and I'm standing in the doorway of our kitchen that leads into the passage, and I don't think I was wearing a shirt.

So Snagglepus is smoking against this wall, when ALL OF A SUDDEN (haha) who should come out from the door but Keith Richards (?!?). He sauntered over to Ole Snaggy, and asked for a hit of his cigarette:
        “It's just a straight.”, he says.
        “Yeah yeah yeah, cool cool...” and Keith takes the stick and starts smoking. Snaggy Boy returns his attention to his phone and the lovely lady therein.

While Andy was telling me this story he was walking around the passage while I stood in the doorway with my arms hanging up off the top of the frame. He kept slipping in and out of character, the house was like a huge stage to him, but it took me a while to realise that the conversation had stopped and I was now witnessing a performance.

Keith Richards smokes a little, and then glances at Snaggle-McGaggle's phone,
        “Now let me guess, that's a bird on there...”
        “Well... yeah, you're right actually it is.”
        “People have said that I have somewhat of a.. knack... with the ladies.” Andy laughs as an aside to the story. “But let me tell you the one thing I know about women...”

Suspense.

“Make her laugh, and she'll love you for ever. Make her cry, and she'll never laugh again.”

OOOOOOOOOHHHHH!!!! I know, how fucking good is that?! FUCK!!

So here's the second story. Once again the Rolling Stones are hanging out, this time in some hotel room in the clouds with Jesus, and Caesar, and Jimi Hendrix was there, and the guy who invented wallets, and all the original members of the band 'Fish'. Everyone's there, except their drummer Charlie Watts, who is at home in bed with his lovely wife. But Mick Jagger, high on all drugs, starts pining for Charlie, and begins running around the party asking people “where's my little drummer boy?”

Andy told these two stories to me back-to-back, the first one was provoked from a story I'd told him about a girl I met in the cafe who I'd been exchanging funny emails with, but by the end of that story I think he'd forgotten why he was talking and was just on a role. I was enjoying it, so chose not to stop him. I'm still standing in the doorway, but at some point in the telling here I grabbed a chair from the kitchen and sat down.

        “Where's my little drummer boy?” Andy was fretting, imitating Mick Jagger, who was high on drugs and probably just needed a cuddle. “I need him, I need my little drummer boy!”

So they called Charlie Watts, at home in bed with his wife, who handed him the phone with some tour support so-and-so on the other end saying “Mick's saying he needs you and he wants you here.” in the background you can hear Mick Jagger excited and crying “is that him! Tell him I love him and I need him here! My little drummer boy!!”

So Charlie Watts gets out of bed, kisses his wife on the cheek, and gets dressed up TO THE 9s in the sharpest suit ever made ever, and gets a cab to the hotel. I remember this part of Andy's retelling so well, because he was standing there, a shabby 31 year old man, with lock blonde hair down past his shoulders, and a can of beer in his hand, describing Charlie Watts in this amazing suit. Charlie rocked up to the hotel and knocked on the door of the room, and stood there with the ironed edges of the suit so sharp you could cut diamonds with them. I think Andy actually said that too haha! “You could cut a foo'in DIAMOND with it!”

Charlie walks into the party, and Mick runs up to him, “OOOOH MY LITTLE DRUMMER BOY!!” and just as he gets up close to hug him, Charlie pulls back and roundhouses him in the face BANG! Right on the jaw, and Mick drops to the floor. And Charlie goes over to him and waves everyone else away.
        “No, no, it's fine, I'll take care of him, it's okay.”

Walks over to Mick Jagger and grabs him by the scruff of the neck, and Mick is just coming to after the knock. Right now Andy was walking over to me as I sat in my chair, and I was sitting right back by this point, and he got right in close so he could whisper in my ear:

“I'm not your little drummer boy. You're my little singer boy. And don't you ever forget it.”

Intense huh? Yeah, he's a pretty intense guy.

Peace, Taco. Click here to read the next part - The Hammer Falls Pt. 2

The Hammer Falls Pt. 1

So this is what happened: I came home Tuesday mid-afternoon, after doing whatever it is that I do, and climbed into bed ready for a nap. Andy came bustling into the house half an hour later and I got up because I always feel like I need to get up when he comes in, for my safety. He was freewheeling. Very loose. For the next hour or two we paced around the house chatting to each other, but it felt more like a dance than a conversation.

First of all he called his dad... I think? Or maybe it was his grandpa? Or his stepdad? Fuck I seriously struggle so much to keep up with the things he tells me about his life, all I know is that he called some male figure from his family on the phone, and proceeded to cuss this person out in the most extreme way for about five minutes. Saying shit like “If you hadn't married that fucking whore!” and “When you get old, you're going straight in a fucking home!” and “That's why you're not a fucking man are you? You're a spineless worm!”

I felt honoured (lucky?... at least 'curious') to be allowed to witness what was obviously a very private moment in someone's family life. A very private moment, yelled at volume in the kitchen and hallway of my five-bedroom flat in London, and sometimes in the toilet. Then he called his little brother, the same little brother – whose name I now remember is Keith – who was here with him when he first took the room that he still lives in. The one who he was supposed to be 'coming to London' with. The old boys back in town and out against the world. He called that brother, and left this voice message:
        “I'm going to come to Nottingham TOMORROW and either you can face up to me like a man, or I'm going to put you ALL OVER that fucking college of yours, in front of ALL YOUR FRIENDS!”

I really appreciated the phrase “put you all over...”, I think it has a tantalising poetry to it and my only regret is that my lifestyle will likely not afford me an opportunity to use it myself.

Because I'm not insane... okay.

We were still walking and pacing and I was slowly getting ready to go and play indoor soccer (here's a side note, when I'm talking about 'indoor soccer', do I say 'indoor soccer'? Or should it be 'indoor football'? I've started saying 'football' instead of 'soccer' since living here here, and I like that I'm doing that, I like to cultivate my speech to sound and feel nice, and I've always thought the sport deserves the name that all it's impostors keep usurping, but 'indoor football' just sounds wrong, it doesn't quite have the ring you'd like it to, you know?)

Sorry, let's try that again... we were still pacing, and chatting, and Andy was getting crazier and crazier – he was drinking K Cider, which is utter dogshit and strong as hell. At one point he said to me that he'd really love to get me in on the project of the script that he's writing about his life as an East London property manager – he wants to call it 'Roomspotting'. But in light of the recent family events he said that it was probably no longer just about the property world, it was now about his whole life. He wants me to tell his story basically... upon reflection it almost felt like he was giving me an opportunity to come clean and tell him that I'd been keeping this blog. But I didn't.

He spilled a can of K Cider all over the floor in his room, dropped it straight out of his hand and it struck the floor from the bottom, and cider jumped out everywhere like a volcano. He fumbled around and picked it back up, and then looked at me straight and said, “By Christmas, I'm either going to Mexico, or going to prison.”

I mean fuck, guys. This was someone at the end of his rope, I could plainly see that. This was a guy who was unravelling right in front of me and spinning out of control and to be honest I didn't even really want to stop him that badly because I didn't feel I had a stake in his situation. He kept talking about people in his life who he needed to come and be there for him on this night. He needed someone to sit next to him and calm him down, or else he was going to do something really stupid. He offered me a line, and I said no thanks I've got to go play football. I had no money though, and needed £2 to put on my Oyster Card so that I could get from the game back into central to do my gig later, so I asked him for that, and he told me “Seany's coming” and I said I needed to leave now and he said he had two Oyster Cards and only one of them had any money on it and maybe I should register them both online so that I could check and then take the one with the money so I could get to my game. What the fuck am I talking about TWO FUCKING QUID for? There's a guy in front of me IN PIECES and I'm worried about catching a fucking TRAIN? I told him I was worried about him, and that the things he was saying were scaring me. I told him, “you're one of the most interesting people I've ever met in my life, but I need to keep you at arm's length, because I can't be having this kind of mayhem making its way into my life. I need to observe from the sidelines.” He said he understood, and that's why he'd always kept me out of the shit with the agency. He said something about the landlady having come over a few days ago and broken down in the kitchen, crying, “this house is where I raised my family and my children”. He said he told her that he was sorry, but only way she was ever going to come into this house again was with a warrant, or a court order. He dropped his voice when he told me this, and his face dropped with it, like he was sorry that the world had done this to her. But he said that to her... or at least, he told me he said that to her. AND IT'S HER HOUSE!?? What the fuck... is... EEEUUURRRGHHH.... Fucking hell man, I have no idea.

Just as I was leaving he asked if he could use my laptop, so I brought it into his room and logged out of Facebook and Google, and closed the word document that was open on my screen with all of these stories about him. I wasn't sure if he saw it, or if he would have had any suspicions about what was in it, but I remember tilting the screen away from him slightly when it popped up. Stupid laptop won't close things quick enough GO FASTER WHY ARE YOU SO OLD!?

And then I left. I took one of the Oyster Cards, and closed the door, and walked down the concrete steps, and out into the cold night, and I didn't walk easy because I felt like something wasn't quite right, but I tried to put those thoughts out of my mind.

Positivity: a man creates his own destiny.

Peace, Taco.

Click here to read the next part - Two Stories About the Rolling Stones

You Always Need A Plan B

So I'm thinking after four and a half years with my sturdy old Lenovo laptop that it's time I put the Old Girl out to pasture (throw her out of my window) and get a new one. I've been thinking for a while that a tablet would be good, although I would never ever in my fucking life EVER drink the vile elixir of the Apple cult... but then Android tablets don't seem to be that flexible in terms of what you can do with them anyway, I like torrenting things and having some internal storage to speak of, and I don't know I just don't think I quite trust the technology yet. Maybe. I'm in two minds about it.

But why am I boring you with this consumerist nonsense? Well I've just been thinking really, about the very real, some would even say inevitable possibility of Andy finding, and over a series migrane filled, squintily-concentrating days, reading this blog.

On a base level, of course, I'd be fucked.

I've had a few stalls of the heart recently where I'll come home and he'll be standing in the kitchen staring back at me with his head cocked like someone who's about to punch a missile – when you walk in through our front door after climbing the stairs you open it, and you can see down the hallway and straight into the kitchen. He's always standing there. Right next to the fridge and he looks at you as you open the door, and if he's angry at someone, which is always, he has this half-furious, half-delighted look on his face. I'm paranoid and narcissistic, so I always think that look is directed at me.

That's when I know I'm in for a good night though, as soon as he opens his mouth and starts talking about whatever it is that's happened today and whoever it is who has betrayed him and which planes are about to fall out of the sky and where the bombs are dropping and the hitmen and assassins raining from rooftops in the night... as soon as that starts I feel safe. Today it was the guy who's been living in the room adjoining mine (with the paper thin walls) for all of a month. He left and evidently stole Andy's £100 tablet (IF YOU'RE THINKING THAT THE DIRECTION THIS IS GOING IN IS THAT I STOLE ANDY'S TABLET THEN YOU ARE WRONG SHUT UP AND STOP TRYING TO GUESS THE ENDING) and Andy was understandably upset - “it's the principle of the thing!” It is, he's absolutely right!

The other day though I had a real scare when a friend who used to live here wrote something on one of Andy's statuses on Facebook, and then Andy commented on it, so all I saw in my notifications was that Andy commented on something of mine. Andy has no business commenting on anything I put on Facebook, and after I saw what the status was – something about “apparently I'm a horrible person who sucks joy... something something betrayal... something” – the only thought that went through my head was, “well that's it, he's found the blog, read everything, and now all of my shit is on fire in a bin."

Because I think that's honestly what would happen if he read any of this stuff. To be fair (and these are the thoughts that I think to myself almost every day as I justify what I'm doing here), I have been nothing but honest, and the only bit where I am really devastatingly critical of him is the first entry where I call him sad. I think I might have actually changed my opinion of him since writing this though, it's not pity anymore. Actually he reminds me a lot of an old friend from Adelaide who went to jail for drug dealing earlier this year, and realising that made me change my opinion of him, because I still love the old friend, and I see a lot of him in Andy. I can't hate Andy, there's nothing really there for me to hate, and he makes me laugh and FUCK can he tell a story. But he is comically unhinged and I still can't hear the word 'betray' said unironically by anyone without laughing.

“I was betrayed.” Oh my god stop it, please, show me the knife or shut the fuck up. Honestly. I'm laughing right now just thinking about it.

Anyway, so what all these scares have taught me is that I need to be prepared to, at any moment, accept that everything that is in my room has been put into bags and thrown away, and that I'm never going to see any of it again. Even with all of my rationalising and charming smooth-talk (of which there is plenty, I'm fantastic) I don't think finding out that the guy you've been living with for six months has been keeping a blog analysing your entire existence is something that would tickle my volatile housemate. I feel like he'd take everything of mine that he could get his hands on and destroy it, and wait for me to come home, and punch me in the face and yell a lot and tell me to fuck off. And he'd use the word betrayal and that would make me laugh which would only make him angrier.

So I need to know that wherever I am, the only things that are integral to my survival in London are the things that I have on me. The one set of clothes I have on, my favourite shoes, my phone, my wallet, and my beautiful, beautiful brain. And my eyelashes.

And that's why I'm buying a new laptop. One small enough that I can unplug it and carry it around with me every day – that's the last tie I have to the physical place that I sleep in, once that's gone I never need to go back to anywhere – I can sleep on a bus or in the back room at the shop or at friends' places until I get back on my feet. Whatever. Take my meagre possessions dear friend, for you will not take my freedom.

The other option is of course to just stop writing this blog, but fuck no. I'm having way too much fun.

Peace, Taco.

Click here to read the next part - The Hammer Falls Pt. 1

It's Love

It's not often in life that you get the glorious opportunity to use the word 'wielding', especially with the modern age being so sadly bereft as it is of items that tend to be wielded: swords, maces, sticks covered in poop... but here we go, get ready for this one guys, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am about to enjoy writing it.

Last night my housemate Andy came into my room wielding the wooden leg of a chair.

Oooooooooooh that feels really GOOD!

His love life has been a shambles the entire time I've known him, of course. When we first met he told me stories about his ex-wife who broke up with him. I'm not sure who broke up with who actually, but from what I can tell they were together for a while, like a few years, but she had started to drift away from him. She was an artist maybe? Or maybe I'm making that up. Either way, the split happened when she told him she was moving to another town – and I want to say that town was Bournemouth, but I could be completely wrong on that too. She moved there, and expected to move without him, but in her mind they were going to stay together. A married couple together, but living in separate cities. So that's where my knowledge of Andy's love life STARTED.

He left her, and moved to London, so the legend goes. I never really heard much about him and girls until the last few months when we've started talking more and connecting... like friends, or something?

There are two girls on the go right now: the first is Camilla, she works for the property agency who let our house, and who Andy works for. She was actually one of the first people I spoke to on the phone last year when I initially moved in to the house and was trying to figure out whether the people I was paying money to actually had anything to do with the place I was living in. 'Camilla' was always the name I referred other stressed-out tenants to when they frantically asked me “do you even know who these people are?” A few weeks ago, let's make it a month, Andy told me he was in love with this girl, Camilla, but she has a boyfriend, who of course I'm told is an idiot, but she won't leave him because they live together.

Andy had been spending a lot of time with her though, and he was starting to think that maybe he could make a move. The Move. You know the one, where you cover her bed in roses to hide the dead body of her boyfriend, and then whisk her off into the sunset THE END. He actually had put quite a lot of thought into what was happening with this girl, which touched me, but only made what happened next even more confusing.

A few weeks later, so two weekends ago, I was standing in his door listening to what he did that weekend with a giddy head because whenever he lights up like that I know something great is coming. He pointed to a piece of paper on the floor and smiled like the frightened serial-killer, “That's her! She's the fookin' one I found her!”
        In situations like that when everything happens so quickly and you receive so much information all at once, it's hard to know what question to ask first, but the only one that came into my mind was the glaring, “he knows that that's a post-it note, not a lady, right?"
        He picked it up and waved it around, and it had phone numbers and a name on it. He told me he'd met a girl at a party the night before who had taken his breath away, and they'd met up again today and when their eyes met it was magic and all that and he was going to go away with her to Mexico, probably within the week. So I was half wondering what had happened to Camilla, but also I wasn't overly surprised, because that's what I've come to expect from Andy, and to be honest, such fickle displays are part of why I'm growing to love him.

Cut to a few nights ago, I'm sitting in his room with a beer and listening to him and his friends talk shit about how they've been up for like, I don't know, four-hundred-million-hundred-thousand days. And Stevey over there has only had half a pancake to eat since FOOKIN APRIL! What a hero.... eugh. But there's a girl in the room, and that girl is Camilla, and I'm flirting with her, partly because I'm excited that there's a girl in our house at all, partly because I'm bored and lonely, and partly because I want to see whether I can. Look you guys, THIS BLOG ISN'T ABOUT ME OKAY! I'VE GOT MY PROBLEMS AND IF ANDY WANTS TO WRITE A BLOG ABOUT ME THEN HE CAN FUCKING GO FOR IT YEAH?!

And if he does you all have to tell me because I would honestly LOVE to read it. Help me.

The next day is when the wielding comes in. After chatting to him briefly in the hall about nothing much I went to bed thinking the night's festivities were over. Michael is hanging around a lot recently and I hate that cunt, so I wanted to get to my room away from his beady eyes and rest myself. Andy seemed busy, so I retired.

Then he walked in casually, with the chair leg in his hand like a baton, and started asking me with a smile what was the deal with me hitting on Camilla the other night. Now I don't know what goes through the minds of people when they start to talk about violence, and arming themselves, and making threats against people – Andy wasn't waving the chair leg at me, he was talking about keeping it as a weapon to defend himself against Louie who owns the property agency and apparently owes him money and is trying to kick him out of our flat. Andy said something about “wouldn't it be ironic if I knocked him out with the broken leg of one of his own chairs!” and I laughed along, but I think the insinuation was clear. “Don't come near my girl, I'll still come after you.”

So that's that. I haven't heard any more about his plans with the Mexico girl, and as far as I know Camilla is still with her boyfriend. Andy and I laughed our grievances off, and he agreed that yeah if the girl in the room has a boyfriend then really no one else has a claim to her, so how can harmless flirting really be off limits? But I made a mental note, and when I saw the chair leg sitting on top of the toilet today I underlined that note in bold and with a paintbrush.

The guy is still crazy, even if I have a soft spot for him. Don't worry Andy, I wasn't trying to fuck the girl you're 'in love' with. I just have low self-esteem.

Peace, Taco.

Click here to read the next part - You Always Need A Plan B