Regular readers will be aware of the work of Twatboy, the near-millionaire 27 year old who lives upstairs. They may also be aware of Fucking Cretin, his gormless flatmate.
Fucking Cretin is a moonfaced Sloane. Like Twatboy, he is shiny-faced and public-school educated. I suspect they both went to one of the minor public schools; schools that have no entrance requirement other than parents with money, and whose examination results do not necessarily provide much of a return on investment.
Twatboy is irritating, but he means well. He apologises and worries about the leaseholder, for example. But it is Fucking Cretin who will die, and die tonight.
Fucking Cretin plays a war game very noisily all the time, endlessly and without cease. It becomes impossible to work, or concentrate on Columbo and Murder She Wrote. Sometimes he plays music very loudly, and shit music too: things like Keane, for example. (Most of the time I ignore it, for they are ten years younger than me and I must be Reasonable.) And every morning, they wake me up stomping down the stairs.
Today I am very tired indeed. I have much to think about, not least whether the kindest way to kill the cat is by placing a cushion over his head and then sitting on him. I have been lying on the sofa drifting in and out of sleep and not feeling guilty about doing nothing, for every time I jolt out of a doze, I am ever-closer to Working Out The Thing I Need To Work Out. It is Vital that I am (for the first time in many weeks) able to think this weekend, and send an email to Amsterdam that may or may not affect my future in a six-month sort of a way.
But what is this? TERRIBLE MUSIC IS BOOMING THROUGH THE FLOOR. I sit bolt upright. The cat sqeaks. The book I am reading (50p from the charity shop) on the sofa, whilst drinking tea and deciding on my short- to medium-term future, slips to the floor.
I Lose It. I bang on the front door. And bang. And bang. And Fucking Cretin comes down.
"Hello Cretin", I say. "Come and listen to this."
Fucking Cretin comes into my flat. The music is extremely loud.
He has a look about him that I do not like. It is a look that tells me the little cunt thinks he is somehow better than me. Granted, my hair is standing on end and I am wearing a 'hooded top' over an otherwise sensible ensemble; and yes, all the self-help books I have acquired over the years are on the floor*, being sorted to take to the charity shop. But nevertheless, I am a) older than him; and b) his neighbour. And c), he does not own the flat; TwatBoy does. It is therefore in his best interests to be nice to me.
But no. The little shit looks at me, sneers slightly, and says "But it's not that loud".
I am astonished. "What did you say?"
"Well it's not that loud. You asked me my opinion and I'm giving it: I don't think it's that loud."
The cunt! I think.
"I didn't ask your opinion. I asked you to come into my flat so you could hear how loud it is. Then you might understand why I sometimes come and ask you to turn it down."
"But it's not that loud."
Time passes. Traffic stops on Brixton Hill. Storm clouds gather; birds fall from the trees. A distant shot is heard. I squint at Fuckin Cretin in disbelief.
"Are you arguing with me?", I say, as if I have just been told the earth is flat.
He crosses his arms and sticks his chin out. He laughs slightly, in that patronising way that only half-wits with over-inflated ideas of their own intelligence and importance can laugh.
"I just think you're being ridiculous. It's Saturday evening, I'm getting ready to go out, and it's not that loud"
What happened next I will not repeat in full, but the expressions "you're being fucking rude, Cretin", "had it crossed your mind to apologise", "don't fucking talk to me like that, Cretin", "get out of my flat NOW", "I have already asked you once: get out of my fucking flat", "yes, Cretin, I WOULD like you to turn it down" and "I wouldn't mind so much, except your music is fucking awful" were used.
Fucking Cretin will no doubt be spending the evening recounting in full how amusing he was in the face of the hysterical woman from downstairs. But what Fucking Cretin does not realise is that I am a trained assassin, and will get him when he comes in tonight. I will wait for him behind the garden wall and leap on him like a puma that has eaten to much cake, whip out a cushion, put it over his face and sit on it until he stops breathing. And then I will move to Amsterdam, and allow some practitioners of the heavy metal to move in.
* Every one unread, I hasten to add, apart from the first three chapters of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, from which I gathered you should put men on elastic bands and let them go into caves, and women just need a nice cuddle. What is more worrying is the fact that many of these books were given to me. Do I sound like the sort of person who wonders who's moved my cheese?
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6 comments:
revenge is a dish best served early on a sunday morning. good luck with your decision making.
Just one question, what have you got against Keane :-)
Keane are an abomination.
Who did move your cheese? In fact where did they move it? Venus or Mars perhaps. Was it on the road less travelled, in which case it may well still be there. Take some chicken soup with you when you go and look for it. Fear the feel and do it anyhow.
A masterly plan... but from the information provided, I fear that Fucking Cretin will just be thrilled that a real woman is sitting on his face. Even if the cushion is in the way. I would consider placing your very large cat on the cushion instead.
lol @ If Twatboy and Fucking Cretin were in a band, they'd be in Keane....
Keane aren't THAT bad if twatboy and the cretin were in a band, it might be more appropriate that they should be in The Darkness- it doesn't get worse than that.
You are sad
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