So, I moved house last month.
After 7 years, in our 2 storey end-terraced 1st floor flat with our two boys, me and the missus took the step up to a bigger and better abode.
We now live in a 2 storey semi-detached house with it’s own garden and everything.
Moving day was a hoot.
I hired a Luton van and roped in my three pals:-
I can't tell from the meter whether the tank is half full or half empty@
The Woodpecker*, The Pirate**and Wildman***(poker names I hasten to add not those they were given at birth – though I’d love to meet the parents that name their child “The Pirate”).
It took us a good few hours and a number of trips in the van to get fully moved and by the end of it my buddies were fucked…with a capital…
It was pretty funny to watch.
How The Pirate‘s skin started to sallow and he faltered on his feet once or twice. I almost reached the stage with him that I was ready to break out the pool cues and slap some Queen on the radio.
How The Woodpecker went from eager, burly and jovial to slow, recalcitrant and near-grief stricken and so tired he went to sleep about 20 minutes after finishing (the biggest pussy).
How Wildman… Actually, he was the best of them, strong to the finish and keen to help out more.
It was my fault really, well not all my fault but mostly.
I have this thing, you see, where, when I am working, I have a need to just “get the job done”. I don’t like to stop when I’m into the task at hand, it makes me extremely reluctant to carry on again after stopping.
In my view, when I’m stopped, I’m stopped. Full Stop.
So, I pushed and I pushed and we got the job done in less hours than it should’ve taken with only a 20 minute break for the lads to get a bite to eat (I ate while continuing to work).
Anyway, the job was done and my slave-driving resulted in my poker name being changed from Bungie to The Cunt. Well, that’s what they were calling me at the end – I presume it’s my new poker name.
C'mon, you can work this one out.
So, the house. The house is good ‘un.
Very big inside and needs a great deal of work, some of which has been carried out but still more to go…and I am one lazy bastard so it will take a while.
The old woman who vacated the premises, though, had very peculiar tastes indeed.
For example, I now lovingly refer to the house as “The House of A Million Hooks” as, and I’m not kidding. There are fucking hooks EV-AR-EE-WHERE.
Picture hooks, coat hooks, key hooks, Cap’n Hooks, the lot. There is even a hook on the underside of the top stair of the staircase! I mean…WTF? You can’t even reach it.
And the pièce de résistance…?
Click it to get a little virtual tour. Go on, you know you want to and I did put the effort in to get it at eye height if I was on the toilet.
It’s like a fucking magic eye picture.
Not kidding, every time I go to the bathroom I feel like I’m going to have a stroke (and to be honest most of the time I do but I was referring to the debilitating kind to start with not the “good” kind).
Still, I suppose it adds, ahem, character.
*The Woodpecker. Stevie. He used to be one of my band minions now he just cheats at poker.
**The Pirate. Mark. Introduced the rest of us to the work of the Junior Bros: Robert Downey and Cuba Gooding. It’s almost genius in it’s craziness.
***Wildman. Stuart. Mark’s brother and fat man in a not so fat man’s body. Fucker eats like he’s pregnant (with twins like the Junior Bros.)