Andrea made us a sensational lunch. That’s right. Sounds fucking poncy doesn’t it. It’s been some time since I’ve actually sat down and eaten Sunday lunch and it was a stark reminder of what I’d been missing. We started with two types of pate (they were exceptional) with date and walnut toast and Swiss Chard on the side, but the main course was beyond expectation. Pork belly with creamed mash and pickled red cabbage and kale, the pig was cooked to perfection and it was devoured in virtual silence save the moans of delight and the crackle of perfectly cooked skin from our host, Myfwt, JM and his missus and yours truly.

After a few glasses of wine, literally, we set off early evening to make our way home. When we arrived back Myfwt (who’d driven there and back) asked for a glass of wine and I resigned myself to the hangover I have now -it wasn’t aided by a string of Alan Partridges on Dave and The Bourne Supremacy on much later. Actually, the ‘overs not that bad but I’m putting in a booze free tonight and contemplating a two day abstinence drive on Wednesday and Thursday so I’m clearly guilty about my having indulged (and partially getting away with it).

To be frank I wasn’t expecting the weekend to be as congenial as it was. I left work on Friday in a fairly poor frame of mind without any plans for the evening. I didn’t mind this incidentally, it just meant Friday would be a non-event of sorts, but I usually find a way of injecting some sort exuberant ‘other’ into proceedings. Then I had a result, Frank and his missus were about and Myfwt was coming back later as well. Unfortunately the latter development ended in a moody silence on account of my being a bit of a tit, nothing specific, just a general twatishness on my part.

The cold shoulder remained in place until mid morning when it instantly vanished. She had an appointment at the hairdressers and the chap whose being cutting her barnet for the last few years was obviously batting for team Piqued. She called up and said some nice stuff and came back home after lunch looking all lovely.

We had an appointment with an estate agent in Clapham to view a 3 bedroomed ex council place. It was a non starter from the off, I didn’t like the little cunts kicking a football in the car park with no regard to the vehicles parked therein –I had visions of them booting the ball into my Black Bitch and being carted off by the police whilst one of them lay screaming on the ground with a broken arm- and the actual flat was bizarrely minute despite having 3 decent sized bedrooms. The agent was a decent enough fellow, Myfwt felt sorry for him because he was flamboyantly driving a Porsche Boxster that wasn’t his, the number plate bore the initials of the estate agency, apparently this because the best agent gets to drive the bosses car. After flatly turning down the property we went back to the agents office in order to see the details for some other places, all rather dull, save one that caused Myfwt and I so much excitement we insisted we viewed the place right there and then.

The property was in a converted gothic Church in its own grounds next to a large common near Wandsworth. We drove up to it via a long private road; it was like something out of Brideshead Revisited but not as gay and parked on the gravel by a huge Howard Oak which was home to a multitude of songbirds. It was like being in the countryside yet we were in the middle of Sarf Landan. We entered the property via huge wooden door, the sort of door undead creatures use to access corseted young ladies with heaving busts, and walked up a stone staircase to gain entry to the flat.

The place was magnificent, In the middle of the behemoth space downstairs was an open fire and on one side a large living area and the other a vast kitchen, it was two stories high inside with a huge mezzanine deck halfway up accessed by a tall spiral staircase. Everything was finished to the highest spec, and despite being just outside our budget we were both awestruck, indeed, I don’t think either of us had been that seduced by a place before. We interrogated the estate agent for information, residents had access to all the grounds which included it’s own bar and restaurant, 2 courtyards with playing fountains… it was all good too to be true, it was indeed. The killer blow came at the end. 75 years left on the lease which was up for renewal on the instruction of the freeholders solicitor, there was 20k right there. Maintenance was 2k a year and the tenant was liable for any building works undertaken… Hairy fuck arses we thought driving away from our destiny.

Though it’s not as simple as that, we’ve told the estate agent that if the vendor sorts the lease (he bought it with a short lease, I don’t see why we should be held responsible his decision to purchase a place under such circumstances) and is prepared to negotiate further on the price… well you never know. We spent a lot of Saturday night discussing it over posh fish and chips procured from a shop patronised by Ainsley Harriet of all people. Indeed, he was stood right next to us in the queue to pay.

I can confirm that Ainsley has a fucking enormous tongue; the man could lick his own nipples if he wished. You heard it first on Piqued.

I’d like to welcome to the world Jamie’s second ‘beast’ as he called it, little fella by the name of, well, lets just call him Red.

It’s Monday, Monday means thrash metal whilst driving in a car

22 responses to “ploperty

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    You seem to have mistaken that poncey filth you ate on Sunday for a Sunday dinner. As anyone who eats real food knows, a Sunday dinner is:

    Roast beef
    Yorkshire pudding
    Spuds (boiled and roast)
    Sprouts or beans or broccolli (NOT all three)

    Bear that in mind the next time you have a Sunday dinner, you up-your-own-arse, Guardian-reading PONCE.

  • piqued

    Yes, but it’s sunday lunch NC, meaning I’m an Observer reading ‘ponce’

    Lets not kid ourselves here that if you weren’t stuffing a KFC into your maw your sunday lunch was a half frozen chicken Kiev with Smash mingled with your own tears

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    No. MY Sunday dinner was roast beef and all the trimmings. I have a proper Sunday dinner every Sunday, not some poncified FILTH from London. If there’s a revolution, I’m putting your name forward to be shot in the back of the head. PONCE!

  • piqued

    I want evidence, send me your sick in the post

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    I don’t need to send the likes of you evidence. Unlike you, I’m a Briton. Therefore: Sunday=Sunday dinner (a REAL Sunday dinner, mind). You’d know this if you were British and not some foreign ponce from abroad with fancy ideas about food.

    Oh, and you’re a traitor to boot.

  • piqued

    I’m English, not some awful barbaric mixture of invading Johnny foreigners.

    I don’t believe you ate beef for a second, put it this way, it’s a little rich for your purse, unless, of course, you and some of your clan tooled up and went out farming in the small hours.

    Do they still cut off your hands for cattle rustling in your backwater?

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    I think you’ll find you’ve got that a bit mixed up, old son. The rent on my giant Victorian pile is so low, I can afford roast beef every night of the week. You, with the ridiculous sum you have to pay to keep up the mortgage on your shoebox, with the money you have to shell out just for the privilege of driving around your own city, the amount you’re charged to park outside your own fucking house, and the cost of those cheese and ham toasties you eat all the time, are lucky to see roast beef once a year. Perhaps we rich Northerners (the correct spelling) should start a collection for you poor, cash-strapped Londoners, starving to death in your wee little houses?

  • piqued

    If housing is so cheap why are you renting?

    I don’t pay to bike around your capital city, nor do I pay to park it outside my good-sized property that I bought 6 years ago.

    The good thing about London is its easy access to culture, keeps us away from inter breeding and worrying sheep for sport of a weekend.

    I had a roast beef sandwich for lunch.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    With one of the largest Asian communities in Britain, as well as a healthy mix of West Indian, Vietnamese, Chinese, Eastern European etc. etc., I have as much access to the cultures of others as you have, you fool.

    And you pay for your car, so don’t try wriggling out o’ that one.

    As for your shoebox, it’s a flat. Flats aren’t big. That’s the point of a flat.

    And as for why I’m not buying a house, merely renting one, you have a point – I should buy, just not here. The thing is, the cheap rent on my enormous house up here has allowed me to save a lot of money that I’m planning on putting towards a house in Belize. British houses are ludicriously overpriced, and you’d be a blithering idiot to buy one at the inflated prices they are now. A clever man would wait for the credit crisis to catch up with all those fools who’ve been livin’ the high life on other people’s money for the last ten years, and buy one of the many knock-down repossessions that are a-heading the market’s way. Mind you, you’re not a clever man, are you? Ah well.

    As for the sheep and inter-breeding jibes – got anything vaguely original to say?

  • piqued

    I don’t own a car.

    I was talking about ‘culture’ in terms of art and music. Not the e-coli you find in poisoned takeaways.

    I’ve made £75,000 on my flat in 6 years, just for sitting on my arse doing nothing. Yes, how silly of me.

    So, you’re buying in Belize. That’s practical isn’t it. Unless you intend to move there (which you’d hate. Fact) the cost in flights there and back would bankrupt you in a matter of months… Actually that idea is so flawed I feel a bit of a tit for believing you. Soz.

    Er, something about flat caps whippets and clogs?

  • Swineshead

    I had pheasant and leeks with potatoes, cauliflower and carrots. Is that allowed? It was ace. Washed down with an obscure British ale.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    If you did, you’d be paying for it. So I win that one.

    Yes, thanks to the invention of motor vehicles, roads, and aeroplanes, we get culture up here too. Ever heard of tours? As for art, yes, we have galleries too. All cities do.

    Well done on making £75,000. Shame everything’s gone up by more than that in the last six years – you’ve effectively made nothing unless you move OUT of London (try up North).

    We are intending on moving to Belize, otherwise why buy a bloody house? Believe it or not, I rather enjoy fly-blown South American countries, and as I can work anywhere in the world (and so can my other half), there’s nothing impractical about it at all. I can buy a beach front villa with a pool and a boat for less than you can buy an ex-council flat in a formerly poor part of London (until people like you socially cleansed all the poor people out because they don’t deserve to live by the river).

    Dogs, whippets, etc. Very original.

  • Swineshead

    Are you going through Polaris World? I hear they’re very good.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    “I had pheasant and leeks with potatoes, cauliflower and carrots. Is that allowed? It was ace. Washed down with an obscure British ale”

    Honest country food. I can taste the buckshot in the bugger’s backside from here – lovely. Hopefully it was a fine Lincolnshire bird, bought underhanded-like from a poaching gentleman on a bicycle? And the ale sounds good and British. Note to Piqued – Swineshead had ‘ale’ not ‘kale’. Because he’s a Britisher.

  • piqued

    (I’d be paying for what?)

    Plenty of people are buying property abroad and not living there…

    You obviously love Britain that much you’re fucking off. You’ve just contradicted yourself so much by your intention to leave these emerald isle for some tax free haven in a third world country it beggars belief.

    You don’t deserve to eat roast beef you thug.

  • Swineshead

    It seems I can do no wrong. Marvellous.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    Swineshead – Unfortunately, no. I would buy an apartment from a balding Spanish con-man, but sadly he’s only building in Spain and Portugal. We’re having to lump for something without an attached golf course/building site/open sewer. Still, at least there’s an outside chance of the place being completely destroyed in a typhoon, so it’s not all doom ‘n’ gloom.

  • piqued

    He’s using you SH for his evil needs

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    “It seems I can do no wrong. Marvellous.”

    Not on the fine British fayre you’re eating there, no. No complaints from my quarter on that menu. Hats off to you, sir. Unlike Piqued, you clearly know proper food when you see it, not filth like him and his fancy dinners.

    Piqued – As for your comments about me buggering off, why, it’s only what adventurous Britons have been doing for centuries. It’s in the true Britisher’s nature to spread his wings and go lording it over Johnny Foreigner. I’m doing what thousands of my fellow Englishmen have done before me We didn’t get an empire and become the great nation we are today by being a bunch of insular stay-at-homes.

  • piqued

    You’ve nailed your colours to the mast; you’re simply an ex-pat to be, all-balding with leather skin and bitch tits.

    Damn shame, I had you down as a stoic Yorkshire fellow who defends his slice of England with pride. Just read back at your comments on this very post…

    And now you leave, after all that.

    Don’t forget your sovereign rings and gold medallion.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    The only colours I’ll be nailing to the mast will be the bloody flag of vengeance I’ve dipped in your traitorous wounds. I’m going to the Americas to conquer the place – conquer it for Queen ‘n’ country, oh yes. If you had a patriotic bone in your body, you spud-faced buffoon, you’d understand what I’m up to. Once I’m done, I’m coming back to pick up my knighthood – another concept alien to you, that of reward for services to the crown. You’re a bloody spineless traitor and a coward.

  • piqued

    …Says the man leaving the country

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