This financial shit in the States isn’t at all good, I’m speaking from purely selfish reasons, I pay as much attention to the economy as the politicians pay to the kids, yeah (right kids? Right on, yeah) usually, but in the last fortnight things have become quite serious and (my) business is being effected.

Of course, I’m in the process of trying to flog my gaff as well, great timing by the way, and looking to buy -conversely this is good timing, maybe- which will cost me a large sum of money I feel would be better off spent in my pocket. I’ve done some maths. If it wasn’t for some loans that I foolishly ignored when I last re-mortgaged and squandered the wonga on, well, I don’t quite know where it went frankly, I’d be in a good position to sit this one out. But I’m not, I feel that it’s time to draw in my horns so, looks like I’m stuck in fucking Tooting for at least 2 more years. Two more years of Cunt. I’m sure that’s a film. Two. Christ.

Despite myself I’m under playing this somewhat. I’m fucking furious that I didn’t get out when I had the chance and, of course, the prospect of living over my arse-tampon of a neighbour for another second is a lifetime too much, but I have to remain positive. Hearing James’s story last week about his neighbour did help put things into perspective (to a certain degree) and in addition to clearing my debts which amount to a fucking lot of outgoings per month, I’ll have enough money left over, I hope, to do some work on this place.

Ironically perhaps, on my way into work yesterday I noticed that my neighbourhood has become populated by people with mental handicaps. The local superstore on a Saturday has more raspberries in it than the fruit and veg isle but lately they’ve been wandering about on my way to and from work. There’s the chap with the ponytail that sees great amusement in the pavement which he then goes onto discuss with himself, the fat lady with the shopping trolley and Davy Crokett hat who seems very cross about something and the tall fellow who strides all lopsided to the bench outside the tube for the sole purpose of drinking cans of cider, each one a million miles away from an apple, and yelling at the traffic before being violently sick –actually, maybe he’s not mental, just plain pissed.

Yesterday evening on my way home I nearly hit one. This chap dresses like a 1970’s spiv, brown trilby hat and suit, brown brogues and never without a brolly. He’s quite dishevelled but there is something about him that find admirable. Anyway I was turning a corner at a junction and all of a sudden there was a muttering face inches from my nose, it gave me quite a start I can tell you and, unfortunately, has just resulted in a gargantuan nightmare from which I couldn’t recover. This morning I arose at 6.50am dear reader, that’s so early I thought such a time of day was a myth. I can’t recall the nightmare but I awoke when the spiv, shouting at me, was about to insert his brolly in my eye as someone sang ‘Why So Sad’ by the Manic Street Preachers slightly off camera. Pick the bones out of that Freud. Oh, he’s dead.

27 responses to “fynanshall

  • Swineshead

    When you say ‘my business is being affected’

    Do you mean you are doing horrid poo poos?

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    I don’t owe anyone a bean. Nowt. Zero. Nothing. I haven’t even got an overdraft or any credit cards. I don’t owe on bank loans, student loans, them funny consolidation loans that seem just like normal loans but with highly ambitious APRs, not nothing. I don’t have a mortgage, neither. No car to pay for, nothing on interest-free credit, nothing on credit at all. As I head into the choppy waters of all this financial shit hitting the fan, I’m in the black … as I am every month. Because I have no debts (no debts).

    Now how, my old friend, do you like THEM onions?

  • piqued

    Do you want a fucking medal?

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    That would be nice. Some small trinket in acknowledgement of being the only man in Britain under 35 that saw danger in living his entire life on the never-never. A crown, perhaps? Or a star and garter?

    “In recognition of your sound decision not to spread the cost of an enormous TV over three years, and not to take out a stupid fucking 100% mortgage that’s ten times your yearly salary.” That could be written on the underside of the medal. Yes, that would be lovely.

    I find it amusing that you have no idea where your loan money went. So that was worth it then, wasn’t it? Ho ho!

    *counts his gold*

  • piqued

    It went on some debts or some such shit. I know 2k of it was effectively nicked, we won’t go there now.

    I’ll tell you all about it blowing the froth of a double frappacrappachino in a pine-lined Soho Coffee house Sweedie…

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    If you think I’m drinking that SHIT when I’m forced down to London, you can think again. Don’t they have Brown Ale down there?

  • piqued

    Of course

    You’re going to be so fucking poor you won’t know what’s hit you

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    Don’t be so sure about that. Lest we forget, I have no debts and a money-for-old-rope job that isn’t too badly paid. Plus, my better half does something fairly important in the world of financial reporting publishing market data analysing something-or-other. I reckon we’ll be alright … until she leaves me for a stockbroker … then I’m moving in with you.

    Anyway, surely you’ve a Tesco’s, haven’t you? Beans and Bernard Matthews frozen food can’t be that much more, surely?

  • piqued

    Down here they’re a kings ransom, about £960 for one of Bernard’s chicken nads and beans are about £17 each

    See you at the organic ethically sourced Soup Kitchen

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    ‘Kin hellfire! That’s daylight bloody robbery! I can buy a house up here in the frozen North for £960 – a house! Gah! I’m destined to spend the rest of my life being a moaning Northerner in London moaning about London prices and London bloody ways.

    Whilst I remember, on a separate point, the missus found a two-bedroom flat with two bathrooms in Islington for £350 per month. Now then, you’re a Londoner, so you’ll be able to help me here. That price is either a spelling mistake, or there’s poison gas under that house. Yes? Flats can’t surely be that bloody cheap? I was expecting to shell out thousands. I was expecting to hand over all my money AND the shirt off my back. And an arm and a leg. £350’s less than what I pay up here. It’s wrong, yes? There’s a burglar lives in with you, or something?

  • John Q Wagonwheel

    It’s Londoners what moan about London ways most. And you’ll be one of us. One of us. One of us.

    There is a bleedin’ huge Morrison’s in Camden though. You can sit in the café spooning formless hunks of egg-flavoured grease through your chapped, grime-covered lips, look out at the grey sky over the car park and dream you’re still in Sheffield.

    Course, it’ll cost ya.

  • John Q Wagonwheel

    Islington is fine, it’s just on the edge of King’s Cross and you get murdered if you go out at night.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    But even the promise of being murthered doesn’t square with that price, surely? Two bathrooms? That’s what rich people have. I’m sure there’s something wrong here. Is there an old Indian burial ground under Islington?

  • John Q Wagonwheel

    It is stupidly cheap. I’m paying aroung 600 quid a month for bloody halls of residence!

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    Then it’s got to be wrong, surely? I lived in Aldershot ten years ago and that shithole cost me £550 a month. There’s either a mistake been made ‘ere, or that house has ghosts/tarantulas/Peter Sutcliffe in the kitchen or something worse.

  • piqued

    Yes, that’s not right at all, I reckon there could be a zero missing as parts of Islington are dead posh.

    So, NC, when are to we expect you?


  • John Q Wagonwheel

    Does it have walls? are you sure it’s not just a garden with a door in it?

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    I don’t know. The other half’s in London for various meetings with the BIG GUNS, and I can’t find the site she was looking at. It’s all very confusing.

    As for when we move, well I’m still tied into about eight months on my contract here on my house. I’d need to find someone to take on the lease or they’ll do me over. I’m too tight to let that happen, so we’ll have to see how long it takes me to find some bugger (I’m hoping never, as I don’t fancy getting stabbed).

    Where’s best to live where you stand a good chance of not being murthered? I don’t want to be murthered.

  • piqued

    It’s good round my way and cheap (-ish) too

    Basically the more you pay the better off you are

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    I’m going to make a mistake and pay for it in blood. My blood. Good, honest, Northern blood spilled on the harsh pavements of London because I had no idea you weren’t supposed to move to Squatney*. I’m dead, they’ll murther me over a house move.

    *For the benefit of Wagonwheel, this is a reference to the childhood home of Nigel Tufnell and David St. Hubbins. If you don’t know who they are, then you should be shot, you ignorant young lout.

  • John Q Wagonwheel

    I just did a whole post (impressive, huh *thumbs up*) on what my 600 quid a month gets me.

  • Swineshead

    £350 p/m for two? Or between two?

    I think she definitely misread it. It will have been per week.
    Making your monthly repayments £1516.66 recurring. They’ll round that up then.

    Don’t bother with Islington it’s a posh shithole.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    That sounds more like it. I was worried there, for a minute. I was beginning to think you could get a good bargain in London – common sense should have told me what a crackpot notion that was. Phew! Thanks fellas!

    *makes calculation*
    *farts in alarm*

  • piqued

    Oh oh I see, being all nice now you’re about to settle inTO MY MANOR GOV’NOR APPLES AND PEARS DOOWIN THE LAMBAF WAWK, WALLOP

  • heavenlydemise

    (eyes all the frantic posting going on) I see that you are all busy so I won’t interrupt.

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    You what? That’s your fucking attitude is it, you scabrous fragment! I’ll take my questions elsewhere in future, bastard that you are – I don’t need advice from a balding, middle-aged shitbag who’s drinking himself into an early grave. STICK YOUR LONDON UP YOUR ARSE!

  • piqued

    You can do it yourself seeing as you’ll be here soon, here, in London. With me. Forever and ever and ever and ever….

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