Damn Landlords

It has been 15 years since I moved out of home in North Manchester. I know I look too youthful. Never in my life have I had such contact with residential landlords. Daily or every other day in the case of Mr Amin. This slightly anxious, penny-pinching married 60-something Indian man. He lives just north of London. As a result, he rarely comes down to check out the range of curses, which seem to plague the house of five, in which I live with a generally decent and eclectic bunch of people. All of these people are generally equally capable of handling a conversation, even if it comes in an array of accents. And yet, every single time, he is leaving me hundreds of messages.

The barrage of calls is relentless and I have a Jewish mother.

“Lee, can you call me to tell me where the leak is, I am here with the repair man”
“Lee, can you call me, I am here with the fire extinguisher man”

“Lee, can you call please, I want to know if anyone will be home for the arrival of Francesca’s wardrobe”

“Lee, can you call please, my wife wants to know when you all will be home so she can meet you”

“Lee, can you call please, the builders are coming round to do your rooms”

“Lee, can you call please, Tony is round to fit the new oven”

Of course, when we call him to tell him

Mr Amin, we have mites chewing the carpet, will you replace it?

Mr Amin, the oven hobs don’t work, could we have the new one promised before I climb into the microwave with my meal?

Mr Amin, there is a damp patch in the bathroom, could we want to paint over it as you won’t do anything about it?

Mr Amin, we need a new shower heater in spite of global warming?

Mr Amin, Francesca needs a new wardrobe that fits the room’s dimensions.

Mr Amin, Anna needs a new bed that she can sleep in without dangling her legs out of the upstairs window.

If Gordon Brown is reading my expanding blog, kill the housing market. Now. Let us on this so called rope ladder of debt before we turn to eating our friggin landlords in cold, insect-infested, cluttered shoeboxes just off Golders Green.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I am off for lunch.

“You were in Iranian waters.”

“Oh no, we weren’t” 

“He’s behind you”

“Oh no he isn’t”

What a friggin pantomime, that whole farce was. Don’t they know us Brits don’t ask directions but all of them were also men, apart from our Faye, so there is no chance of them going “Excuse me, we are trying to stay away from that big nuclear thingy you got going on there in the desert, could you tell us the way to the local chippy?” I mean, nobody believed the Iranians with President Amadoingyaheadin anyhow but then the Brits come back and sell all their stories of “torture” to the wonderful tabloid that is the News of the World. The Iranians apparently separated them and stuck them in cells. What were they expecting? The Holiday Inn Easter Package. The Brits also claim phsychological torture and blindfolds. That happens at a London club called The Hoist on a Thursday night, what’s Faye’s flamin problem? Everytime I saw her, she was in a tracksuit with a fag in her mouth. Actually, just like The Hoist. If you really want to torture her, take away those damn ciggies.

NTL are nasty tittin liars

I have to open this new blog of Lee (London) and Jo (Minnesota) with the first rant. 

I live in five-person house in North London, which, until recently, enjoyed cable TV and broadband Internet. Nothing unusual about us so far.  We decided to change. Oh no.

You see dear readers, once you join something here, you are with them for life. I can’t close this cable TV and Internet account at our home as the account is in the name of my former Dutch flatmate, who moved to Thailand over 6 months ago.

I also, I am told, cannot pay the account as I can’t access the details, which are in his name and they cannot breach data protection. I, however, can face a court summons for not paying. I am not protected against that.

I am also unable to reopen another account in my name as we have the aforementioned existing account at our address, as you can see; one which I am unable to close, move my name to or even pay for.

As fascinating background for non-UK residents, this cable company NTL, which was heavily in debt, merged with Telewest, the only other cable company here in the UK, also heavily in debt, to create, it seems, an even bigger mess. If the two companies were in debt to begin with, it suggests to me that things were not going to plan and their desire to wed, under these circumstances, is more incredible than Anna Nicole’s sexual passion and love for a corpse with money.

Now, Richard Branson of Virgin fame has bought this combined entity, a man, who can put a plane in the sky and tilting trains on tracks but somehow has difficulty in making people in the communications industry, well… communicate between each other.

I did communicate with them- and was bleeped out – telling them that I would not be paying for any further services. This was not taken as the threat it was meant to be, as the friggin account is tied to Van Friggin Gogh anyhow and any “failure to pay” proceedings will be issued to him. In Thailand. Somewhere.

Finally, a few days ago, NTL closed the account and switched off cable TV. We cheered. We drank. We toasted life. We can get another provider. Free at last.

Last night, cable TV miraculously switched itself back on. The NTL poltergeist still lurks terrifyingly in our house. They can’t even close it down properly. They are set to haunt me forever. I don’t think I have the energy to move. Branson, you owe me, motherf*cker.