The Road to the Throwdown - 128 DAYS TO GO

Dear Kings of London, has anyone ever taken the time to tell you how insane it is that you lock your public parks and gardens every night? Like, you go out there, every night, and attach a lock to a fucking gate. Are you kidding me? What is the point? Who are you fighting against?

Ridiculous.

It's 11:04pm and I'm sitting at a quaint little park bench in the middle of Clissold Park, which is next to the warehouse complex I live in now. I jumped over the fence with my laptop and walked out into the middle, and I've got to tell you guys, this was one of the greatest night-time ideas I've ever had. The silence is glorious. It feels like I'm swimming in a giant pool of night time, and I can only just still see the shore. Every now and then a siren goes past, or a bus. The lights from the road are flickering on and off as the cars that carry them are obscured by trees and public toilets. Fuck yes. Fucking fuck fuck Fuck fucking. Yes. This is where it's at.

For anyone who cares, I've been putting a lot of preparations in my show on the 22nd of July – the show that I kind of announced in a roundabout way by posting a transcript of the email I sent to the CEO of the company I work for asking her to fund it. It's all going ahead. I've been in contact with The Girl Who Lost £1000 (for brevity, I'll be referring her hereafter simply as 'The Girl'), and after an initial period of humming and hawing, she's agreed to let me donate the proceeds of my show to her.

I'm assuming the humming and hawing involved asking all of her close friends and confidants whether she should really be trusting a person who, as far as she can tell, was the closest known associate of the guy who stole £1000 from her in January. Fair play. I don't know what else to say really, but I'm excited to set things straight.

I've decided to keep this blog running periodically up until the night of the show as a kind of count down, hopefully it'll be entertaining enough to build some sort of hype around it, and if I'm honest, remind people that it's actually a thing and it really is happening. July 22nd you motherfuckers. I mean, wait. Sorry. You guys are great. If you're reading this, you're great.

Thankyou.

The only thing left really at this point is the name – what to call this show? I'm writing a bunch of the stories that happened during the time I knew Andy as stand up routines, so that by July 22nd when I come on to headline the show, I'll be able to tell the story and tie everything back together.

I've been thinking about the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, who I love, and who reformed around 2008 or so, and put out a bunch of videos leading up to their comeback show at the Middle East Bar in Boston. They traditionally played a run of shows there between Christmas and New Years every year, and those shows were collectively called 'The Hometown Throwdown', and so when they reformed, the series of videos they put out detailing their progress towards those comeback shows was called 'The Road to the Throwdown'. I briefly toyed with the idea of calling this blog by the same name, but dropped the idea when I realised that would mean calling my show 'The Throwdown', which has nothing to do with comedy, or Andy, or The Girl, or my blog, or anything whatsoever. But I do love the Mighty Mighty Bosstones...

Here are some other names I've been considering:

• The Abersham Flat – simple, a classic
• Andy Issac Hunt – kind of spells/sounds like 'Andy Is A Cunt', which I thought would be funny if I ever needed something clean to give to a festival guide or newspaper etc.
• Twenty-Four in Twenty-Fifteen – super douchey and arty and I don't really like it, but a part of me does. The part of me I absolutely hate.
• Fuck You Andy – straight to the point
• The Thousand-Pound Girl – this one is a bit silly, and I feel like it's a play on the title of a movie that I've never seen, and might not actually exist. (Thousand Pound Man? Is that a thing?) Also it makes it sound like it's about a fat lady, which is funny.
• The Throwdown - COME ON!!!

If anyone has any other suggestions they think might help, please tell me. Otherwise, keep reading guys. In the meantime, I'm running a show at the Hercules Pillars on Great Queen St in London on the 14th of April (Facebook for details) – as soon as that show is over, I'm going to be putting tickets on sale for this last show on July 22nd. This is going to be so great, I can fucking feel it.

I need to go now because as much as it's actually really nice to be sitting on a laptop writing in the dead of night in the middle of a park, I feel like this would also be a great start to a story about someone stealing my laptop at knifepoint. Also my knuckles are getting chilly.

Peace, Taco.

So Here's the Plan

Okay, so I've had an idea.

Last night I emailed Ashley Lopez, CEO of the chain of coffee shops I work for in London. Ashley is fantastic. For a person with so many degrees her email signature looks like Alphabetti-Spaghetti, and a position at the head of a multi-million pound company in one of the toughest cities in the world, she is insanely approachable and down-to-earth. She's also not even 30 yet.

There is absolutely no reason she should have to interact with people like me. On the day before my birthday this year she told me she was going to get me a balloon, and in the middle of our cafe, full of customers, that I WAS WORKING IN AT THAT VERY MOMENT!! I said “a balloon full of cocaine?!”

And she laughed. That's how great Ashley is.

So below is an email I sent her at 11:44pm last night, while sitting in bed at my new flat, which by the way is about 3m above the ground in a wooden loft. The bed, not the flat... the flat is actually a warehouse, and it's on the ground, where warehouses normally live. But my bed is 3m above the ground, so essentially, I sent this email from a cubby-house. As you consider that while reading it, I also want you to imagine a very dynamic, ambitious, and successful young woman sitting at her serious desk in Central London and reading this email. Maybe imagine that you ARE that woman, and in the midst of this fantasy, try to recall how absurd and ridiculous this entire situation is.

Life is great guys. Here's the email.

ASHLEY!!

Okay, so I feel like of all the emails I've ever sent you, if any warrants some sort of official tone, it's this one... but I just... I can't do it. So here.

I don't know whether you heard about the blog I wrote in the closing months of last year, I'll spare you the entire details but it was about a guy I was living with who was basically a sociopath and professional con man, and the end of the whole saga (I was writing it in instalments AS IT HAPPENED) was that a girl who was supposed to move into our flat ended up losing £1000, and Andy (the con man) disappeared with her money and it was horrible.

So. I've moved into this warehouse in Stoke Newington, and I've been thinking that the lounge room is pretty big and a nice space, and with a few chairs and a bit of a reshuffle, would be the perfect space for a comedy show. And as you are no doubt aware, my hour of departure draws nearer with every waking moment - visa runs out August 1st.

So I've decided I'm going to put on a show in my house, I've already set a date and locked down an MC who's a great friend of mine. We're doing it on the 22nd of July (Friday), and I'm going to headline the show with 30-40 minutes of standup, everything I've written in the last two years of living in London and gigging almost every night. And I'm going to record it - I have a friend who I'm meeting with next week to talk about it, he studies film at uni - as a sort of time capsule of my life for the last two years, and where my comedy is at. I guess it'll be my first comedy special... but I don't want to think of it like that because I'm nowhere near good enough to warrant that label yet but whatever GETTING OFF TRACK!!

Finally, the proceeds from the show - I don't want to charge on the door, but I will be asking for donations at the end - will all go to the girl who lost £1000 to Andy the piece of shit con man. I've messaged her and told her the plan, she's not responded properly yet because her exams are on, but from the conversations I had with her she seemed really cool and I think she'll be down for it.

So the reason I'm telling you this is I know department have funded a couple of other creative projects from staff in the past, and I don't know how much yet, but I'm sure camera hire, and comics will cost money which I know I don't have... I could probably call in favours but to be honest I don't really want to make it about me and rinse people of their goodwill, I want to make this something I can do for my friends, rather than something they feel obliged to do for me. I also realise the irony in saying that and then asking you for money hahaha but HEY!! It has to come from somewhere.

I don't have a figure at this stage, this is just me gauging your interest and asking what I'd have to do to organize any sort of funding for this project.

Also consider this a pre-emptive invitation.. I absolutely will not have you not being at my going away party Ashley... it won't just be work people, so you'll be able to camouflage yourself amongst the plebs, so no backing out.

This is probably the best idea I've ever had I think and if I can pull it off I think it'll be a really special evening, so if this sounds like something you think Department would be into funding, I'd love to know how to make that happen.

I hope you got through this email without needing to get up and exercise, I know it was long, as per usual. SOZ!!

Peace, Taco.

Pretty great huh? I mean, actually, upon re-reading it, I've realized that stylistically there are a lot of improvements that could be made. Apparently when I'm trying to tell someone an engaging story over email, with a view towards eventually asking them for some amount of money, I like to start every paragraph with the word 'so'. But that's fine.

She called me today in fits of laughter recalling the email, and told me she'd started reading the blog from the start. I know that I should maybe stop writing to my bosses in such an informal manner, and maybe I will when they stop LOVING IT SO MUCH!! Haha... I'm a fuckhead. You're great Ashley.

Details about the night to come. If you don't already, follow me on Twitter (@AJ_Taco). We'll probably be streaming it on Periscope if anyone who doesn't live in London wants to watch. Also if anyone knows anything about recording live shows, hit me up on Facebook (Aidan 'Taco' Jones), and finally if you ARE in London, and you want to come, it'll be the 22nd of July. Put it in your diary NOW!! I'm leaving London forever the following week, so let's make this night fantastic.

I think that's all.

Peace, Taco.

Attn: Moshe Kasher

If this all looks too long, basically my friend is in Jail in Adelaide, Australia, for selling drugs. I'm not here to judge, but he's my friend, and I want him to read Kasher in the Rye: The True Tale of a White Boy from Oakland Who Became a Drug Addict, Criminal, Mental Patient, and Then Turned 16, by Moshe Kasher. It's a great book and I think he could really use it right now. In jail though, you can't have books brought in to you, in case someone smuggles you in a rock hammer, so the only way to get it to him is in loose sheets of paper, like a letter. So I'm trying to get the author's attention by tweeting at him (@moshekasher) with a link to this post (http://bit.ly/1ZntG6a) and the hashtag #KasherBehindBars to see if he can organize such a copy.

“Such a copy”? God I sound like a fucking tool.

Anyway, if that sounds interesting, let me elaborate:

Me and Sam Rouse knew each other since primary school, I didn't think much of him then, he was just a chubby kid we used to beat at Four Square, but we started going out clubbing and taking drugs around the same time when we were 18 in 2009. We had a lot of fun, he was a drug dealer and I was a crooked bartender, we made way too much money and spent it all on getting high and drunk and having nothing else to show for our lives and it was fantastic.

Cut to early 2015 and was living in London, I'd been away from my hometown of Adelaide since 2012, chasing my dumb dreams and being lonely, but still thinking of Rouse every now and again. I still have the little woollen figurine he gave me when I left, the night we spent in his bedroom at his Dad's house, high on mushrooms with t-shirts wrapped around our heads to stop the fumes from getting in. We painted the wall of his room with spray cans, he made this huge purple and green heart, and I wrote the lyrics to the last verse of Empty Cans by The Streets over the top of it. He gave me that little figurine guy, I don't think it was supposed to mean anything, but I keep it in my pencil case next to my pens and nail-clippers.

In London I met a girl called Rosie, from Adelaide, she was going home in a couple months, and after those few months passed and Rosie and I had a lot of great times together, I told her about my friend Rouse, and how the book I'd just finished reading (Kasher in the Rye) reminds me of him so much. Rouse always seemed to have trouble with the concept that drugs are only meant to be fun. He took drugs seriously, and so inevitably the drugs took him. He was depressed for a long time, and would always talk about the darkness that he was trying to escape. I used to worry about him a lot, and had forever felt slightly guilty for leaving, even though I knew that's what I had to do.

So Rosie and I planned an adventure: she was going to go home to Adelaide with my copy of the book and show up at Rouse's house with a gift from me, his absent friend from the other side of the world – the gift of a conversation with someone that knew him recently. Better than a letter, it would be news FIRST HAND. If I couldn't come home like he'd asked whether I would for Christmas 2014, at least I could send an envoy. Then she could give him the book too, and for a bookmark, the Polaroid of me holding the little figurine we took when we were high in my room in London. I was very excited.

And then when she got back, we found out Rouse been caught dealing. Again. He was already on a suspended sentence for drug charges. So he went away for a long time.

None of our friends back home could give me a straight answer on how to contact him, and it just kind of went away, as my life kept moving, the way that life does... but this week I left a message on his wall, because I've still been thinking about him, and a friend of ours hit me up and told me she's been visiting him every couple of weeks for the year he's been away so far. I contacted Rosie, The Mission is back on. All that's holding us back now is that the friend, Olivia, says they won't let visitors give prisoners books, because of that Shawshank Redemption joke I made earlier. She suggested typing the book out word for word, but I thought it might be a better idea to just hit up the Author himself – he's a comedian so I bet he loves stories, and after reading his book, I'm sure he has an affinity with the down and out people, the ones who are lost. No one has been more lost that Rouse – maybe that's part of why people love him so much.

But look, this is a guy... I mean, Rouse was a true friend to me, in times when I needed a friend. When I told him I was going to my ex-girlfriend's 21st, even though I knew it was probably going to tear my dumb heart to shreds, he, rather than trying to persuade me not to go, lied and told me he wanted to come too. Because he knew I needed a wingman. And when I came back from South America in 2012, in the six months before I left Adelaide, after I'd cheated on my girlfriend and had no job and nothing, he let me clean his house for a RIDICULOUSLY GOOD HOURLY RATE under the pretence that he didn't want anyone outside the group coming into his HeadQuarters. He was there for me when I needed it, he gave me advice, and listened, and gave me his problems so I could listen too, so we could both lean on each other. And that's aside from all the ridiculously good times we had together. This is a real friend I'm talking about now. And he's in jail, and I'm letting him down by not talking to him, and I thought doing this might mean something.

If you think this is in any way a cool thing to do, please can you guys tweet at Moshe Kasher (@moshekasher) with the link to this blog entry, and hopefully he'll read this, and by touched by my beautiful words and the power of friendship and the sun will shine and everything will suddenly be okay again. That's all I ask, for everything ever to be okay, and nothing bad to ever happen. Is that too much? I DON'T FUCKING THINK SO.

No honestly though, tweet at him. Like, do it now. Don't read any more. Log on to twitter and tweet (@moshekasher) with the link to this blog post (http://bit.ly/1ZntG6a) and the hashtag #KasherBehindBars , and hopefully if enough people do, he'll read it.

Oh and Moshe, if this is you and you're reading, love the book, and your stand up is also fantastic. Email me on CraZhore@gmail.com (actual email) and let's talk turkey.

Peace, Taco.

The Bitter End

It's all over. Done. I'm promising myself, and you, whoever is reading. It's finished. I only want to hear from Andy two more times in my life: first when I send him this blog and get his reaction, and second when I hear that he's killed himself. This has been one harrowing experience, I don't feel relieved yet, but I will once I purge these feelings from my system.

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about the goodness in people, and whether people's worst actions and transgressions can be justified or at least forgiven indefinitely. Is there a line that someone can cross after which there is no redemption?

When I first stepped foot on European soil it was Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport, July 18th, 2014. I got off the plane and went through customs with everything I owned in the world stuffed into two bags, then waddled out to the train station speaking not a word of French and looking excited and confused – the perfect target. I walked up to the ticket machine to get a ticket for the train into central Paris, and in an instant was approached by a girl in plain clothes, asking in a helpful French accent if I needed any help. I said sure, and she started fiddling with the menus on the machine, while another guy, presumably her colleague, started chatting to me in Spanish. I was comforted at the human interaction, and jumped at the chance to show off my skill with language and worldly experience – I am an intrepid explorer, you see.

When I walked away from the interaction holding two Euros change from a twenty, and a train ticket worth about four Euros, the realization I'd been swindled dawned slowly. Resignation turned to anger when I put the ticket into the machine and had it spat straight back out, and as I looked up to the concourse above me I saw my two adversaries walking above – they looked down and laughed with pity. The guy threw me a ticket, and I called him a cabron. Twenty Euro, that's Thirty Australian Dollars. Welcome to the old world, pussy.

I've never been able to harbour any hatred or resentment towards that guy for breaking my trust after what I thought was a nice conversation in Spanish, or the girl for that matter, for playing the silent second fiddle to the scam. “It is what it is.”, I have rationalised time and time again, with a shrug, “you get me, maybe next time I'll get you, and who's to say I wouldn't do the same in your situation?”

Andy though... I mean, this is a completely different animal – and that's what he is, a fucking animal. I can safely say that I could never do what he has done.

He told me yesterday that he was leaving the house, and that the agency had put a new girl in the flat, on the phone his exact words were, “The agency have moved a new girl in, cute English girl, she's quite nice actually, you'll probably fuck her.”
        I'm familiar enough with this kind of manipulation now to know that what had actually happened was he'd got someone into the flat, taken their money under the now-familiar pretence that he was the owner of the property, and was trying to distract me from this obvious fact by presenting her as a romantic interest. He knows my weaknesses.

I never got to meet her. I got a call from Nadia (property manager from The Agency) yesterday saying that she'd organised someone to come round and clean the whole property. Andy was gone, he'd left without a trace, probably because he heard she (or Luis, or Flat Owner Lady, or whoever else had a dog in this fight) had finally got their shit together to get the cops after him. He took all his stuff and disappeared through the cracks, and is now barred (again) from visiting the property. Nadia rocked up with her cleaner under orders from Luis up top to evict anyone who hadn't paid – this girl had definitely not paid. Not The Agency anyway, she paid Andy, she paid him ONE THOUSAND POUNDS!

So to break that down, Andy realised the game was up, decided he needed money to skip out with, advertised the property on Facebook, and within 24 hours found someone willing to move in straight away, paying a month's rent plus another month as deposit UP FRONT, then left. With her money. Nadia told me she broke down in tears when she was told her money was gone. She cried and said she wouldn't live in the flat now even if she got her money back.

Just breathe.

So when I got home around midnight last night, the cleaner was in the house, under strict instructions to not open the door for anyone except me. I called him, and he opened the door for me. We chatted for a minute, maybe three, and then a knock on the door. It was Arron and Alai, the Moroccan/Spanish guys living in Andy's old room for the last month or so. I looked at the cleaner in a panic. Should I let them in? Nadia had said if I let anyone in it'd mean trouble for me. I don't want trouble. I never wanted trouble. They were knocking at the door now, they heard my voice when I told them in Spanish that I was calling Nadia to confirm that I could let them in. The phone dropped out. Calling again. More yelling.
        “QUE PASA PRIMO! QUE PASA! NOS HA CONOCIDO TRES SEMANAS!!” I'm panicking. Looking at the cleaner. He has no idea what's going on. BOOM!! The door is kicked in and the boys with another friend storm through. Right in my face yelling. All in Spanish.
        “WHY DID YOU MAKE ME KICK THE DOOR IN?! WHY DIDN'T YOU OPEN THE DOOR?!! WHAT THE FUCK COUSIN?!! WHAT THE FUCK!!! AND WHO THE FUCK IS THIS!!??” They bundle the cleaner out. He bounces off the walls like a pinball. Arms over his head. We spend the next half an hour shouting and my heart is beating like a broken engine. Once we calm down a little I take my bag and jacket off that I've been wearing this whole time, and lean against the nearest door frame, then slump down to the floor, and hold my head in my hands. I feel my hair, and run my fingers through it. Needs a cut. What have I been doing these past two months? What the fuck am I doing here? I look up at Arron and say sorry again for not opening the door, and we all feel defeated.

More than anything now, I'm angry. I hate Andy for what he did to us, and to that girl. He took her fucking money, like just straight up robbed her blind, of £1000 – that's a month's wages where I work. And his games and manipulations meant that Arron, Alai, their friend, and I, were stood in the passage screaming at each other at 12:30am last night – that's four people who have only ever been good to each other, turned sour and wrong by the filthy influence of one broken person who just couldn't bring himself to shoulder the burden of his own existence. Andy. That name has been ringing in my ears for so long, and I'm about to let it go.

I've always given myself over to the assumption that there IS some good in everyone, I've never even really had to try, it just comes naturally to me, that kind of belief. It's not something I've ever had to fight for, which I've always thought of as a good thing, and something to be thankful for. I'm naturally predisposed to passivity and forgiveness. But maybe it's not so great – any belief not considered, no matter how virtuous, is still arbitrary and therefore worthless. Maybe I need to think a little bit harder about people before allowing them free reign – I never let Andy walk all over my life too much, but I could definitely have stopped him from hurting people around me, and I didn't.

I have a lot of guilt around that now. I let this thing get way out of hand – that's assuming I had any control over any of this situation whatsoever. Let's say I did. I let things keep going exactly the way they were going, letting Andy do everything to everyone, and I just sat back and watched, the silent observer. Quietly gathering material for my story. This story, whatever it has been. Some sort of document that I've convinced myself is an important snapshot of some unique corner of space and time I've inhabited. The portrait of a sociopath? Or just a part of someone else's life, seen through my eyes. Who knows? Is this important? Is it even entertaining? What is the end result for the strife and turmoil that have been the price I've been willing to allow myself and these others to pay.

I'm sorry I guess, although I don't know that I wouldn't do it all again. Because the uniqueness, the emotion, the feeling, it's all been so real. Visceral. These moments of being caught up in the maelstrom with no way out, staring into the eye of some beast I have no hope of understanding and trying, trying, trying to feel my way around its terrifying form. These moments have been inescapable. They force you to exist through them, and that's what I want. To not be able to run away from the present, because I know that given the chance, I will escape to hope or memory every time, wishing my life away into the future and the past, while ignoring the present, because it's all too daunting and fearful.

It's been worth it I think. I hope, anyway. I can't take it back now.

These are the last words I said to Andy, and this I know now really is the end of the story. I've made one last decision actually, just since starting this last chapter, and that is that he will never see this. Not from me anyway, so probably not ever. I'm going to change his name if I ever print this outside of the blog it was born on. Thanks for reading guys, it's been something.

        “Don't ever speak to me again, you're a worthless piece of shit and you will never know anything but loneliness. Don't think that I say these words lightly, I've known you long enough now to really know you - REALLY know you. And I have given you every benefit of the doubt, even when I could plainly see your transparent manipulations and lies.

I thought there was some good in you Andy, so I ignored a lot of what I shouldn't have because I thought something decent might come of your lies, but you've proven me wrong. You have taken the miniscule, almost insignificant amount of belief I had in you and proven it to be wasted. It's sad, and you are sad. Fuck. I feel sorry for you, but more than that I'm angry.

When you die alone, remember this and every other moment in your life like it, and know that each time those countless people turned their backs on you, one by one, this is what every single one of them felt. I wish that the weight of all this guilt and sorrow would break your heart and leave you dead in a heap on some sad street corner somewhere, but I know it wont, so all I have to say now is go fuck yourself.

The End.”

Click here for an important announcement about the girl who lost £1000 - So Here's the Plan

Fear Not of Man

You have nothing to fear from an honest man, and an honest man can fear no one.

A lot of people seem to be worried about me now that my attitude has dropped from the happy-go-lucky vagabond enjoying his life of ridiculousness, to someone who seems a bit more stressed and angered by this house situation. I want to reassure all of my friends and family and well-wishers and indifferent punters (actually there's a good idea, maybe we should be betting on this? Anyone keen to run the books? Give me a shout) – I want to reassure everyone out there that I am in no PHYSICAL danger living in this flat. I've never seen or experienced any sort of threatening behaviour from Andy, just lies and manipulation WHICH NEVER HURT ANYONE RIGHT?! Honestly though, I'm fine. He's off the coke, so he's just drinking heavily now, and the guy who was living in the room with him is gone. He owed Andy £40 and evidently didn't want to pay, so he left, and took a pouch of tobacco, a bag of MDMA, and £10 in change from my room with him. That was super annoying to discover, but still, no bruises guys!

Jesus I sound like a battered wife right now don't I... “He never actually hit me! He's just stressed! DON'T BLAME HIM WORK IS STRESSFUL AT THIS TIME OF YEAR!!”

I need to keep painting this picture though. I honestly don't know how much longer I can stand living here, so I need to keep working because I feel like there's something in this tangled mess of a situation that is important, or true, or unique. It's like Hunter S. Thompson, “we're right on the main nerve and now you want to quit?” That's right, because I am Hunter S. Tompson.

You heard.

So our property manager is this lady called Nadia. She's an idiot. She's the third person we've had doing her 'job' since I've been living in the house – basically her duties are to message the tenants and tell us we have to pay our rent, and if/when we don't, make empty threats at us in increasingly broken English and then call us to apologize. She's lovely to be fair, but fuck having to look after the vile zoo that our flat regularly becomes under Andy's influence.

One of the old housemates who moved out pots-Andy was Leroy. He was an Aussie guy from Melbourne, super sound, one time we wrote a song while drunk which included the lyric “I don't care what your family's goin' through, you're still an ugly bitch.” We had some great times. Leroy and I had a running joke/competition to see who, if any of us, could sleep with Nadia first – I always fancied my chances over his because even though he's taller than me and can rock a fine high-vis jacket, Nadia's name is my name backwards (Aidan), and if you don't think that's a sufficient measure of fated compatibility then I'm sorry but you're destined for loneliness. It was never going to happen, but we had a lot of fun clumsily flirting with her in group messages – she's probably in her mid-to-late-30s and clearly enjoyed the attention so would flirt back, or sometimes just laugh and say “You Boys!” while stood in our kitchen pretending to know something... anything Nadia... please know ANYTHING!?

Leroy moved out around the same time Rosie did, and around that time we started to go off Nadia because she began to represent an antagonistic force in the house. The kitchen sink had stopped working and overflowed almost daily, and then flat beneath us was complaining to the council about his flat being flooded whenever we did the laundry. Nadia would harass us about the issue, like it was our problem not hers. She once cut our internet for a few days because Andy stopped paying his rent – this was before he turned everything around and started working for the Agency and became her boss – and she basically just turned into a bitch as soon as anything started to go wrong. Leroy and I stopped calling her 'babe' and asking her to come out for drinks, and she stopped coming into my work in colourful dresses to collect my rent.

Cut to a few months later, the last night before Andy's arrest, when we were talking in his room. This is an example of just how manipulative he can be. This is why I am having to work hard to hate him, and this is why I want to hang around and write about him, because the audacity of his despicable behaviour seems endless. Inspiring in it's bottomless depravity

He needed me to turn against the agency with him, or else he'd have an enemy in the house, and someone who would resist his scheme to create it anew as his fortress against the world. I can't remember which passage of conversation it came from, but my memory fades in from when he fixed me with his stare while sat on his bed and told me, “Oh you know about Nadia right?”
        “What about her?”
        “She's a prostitute!” – high pitched, and he laughed dismissively and grinned his wicked grin. “You used to fancy her didn't you!” he continued, “You should message her right now and tell her, 'Alright Nadia, I've got £100 if you come round here and see me right now.'”

At the time I just thought he was making a joke, or maybe he was telling the truth and wanted me to help him humiliate her, but either way I just laughed it off and did nothing. I knew Nadia wasn't a prostitute, and even if she was, I honestly couldn't care less as long as I can keep sending my rent to her. That is honestly all I care about... I've definitely considered whether I'd be able to pay for sex before – I've never really had the opportunity arise, or the money at hand, but I don't really have a moral problem with it and so I guess if I had £100 and was feeling a little lonelier, then in another life maybe that night may have gone down differently.

But later on I realised what he was trying to do, and how it would have looked to Nadia if I'd sent her a message soliciting prostitution... I mean I'm pretty sure that's illegal, so he basically was trying to trap me. That manipulative piece of shit. That twisted genius playing with the minds of men. It's scary to know that there are people out there willing to go to those kinds of lengths to accomplish even their most petty ends.

The one thing that I believe is protecting me now and will continue to do so is my integrity. I am honest about my motivations for staying in this house, I am honest about my means of doing so, and I am honest with every player in this limping drama. No one can say that I have wronged them thus far, and as long as I can maintain that, then it is my sincere belief that I will maintain immunity. Maybe that's naïve, but I believe in that, and in myself and my resilience. People are inherently good. People are inherently good. People are inherently good. People are inherently good. People are inherently good. People are inherently...

Peace, Taco.

Click here to read the next part - The Bitter End

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