Well, Fuck me Pink and Call me Rosie….

So, quite a little hiatus, eh?

Actually have a nice juicy alibi this time round. None of your ‘the-dog-ate-my-homework’ excuses of an excuse. Oh no, brace yourselves, this one’s a beaut.


A few months back our apartment was broken into. The cheeky scamps busted our door open with a hydraulic jack, came in and had themselves a delightful little ransack. They were obviously looking for small highly-priced items and I am thrilled to announce, got bugger all for their trouble. A clunky digital camera which was already embarrassingly out of date, a fake Rolex that a pal brought me back from China as a joke and if my calculations serve me well, about eleven euros and twenty cents in loose change.

Boy they must have been seriously pissed off. All their sexy Rififi house breaking antics and they end up with the contents of the bottom of a birdcage. Well in case you’re reading this my fine purloining friends, here’s a little message for you. –

‘I shit in the milk upon which you were suckled by your crack whore mothers. You are no more than fetid puddles of puss upon the jaded sidewalk of life and will hopefully some day meet your unsavoury demise at the business end of a security guard’s Doberman Pincer. If you ever set foot in my house again, I will joyfully give you the funfair ride of your pestilent little lives starting out from our fourth-floor balcony and terminating on the spiked railings beneath. A grizzly end indeed, only to be offset by the coroner’s mirth upon discovering what seems to be a hydraulic jack shoved profoundly into one of your orifices with a fake Rolex wrapped round it.’

Ah, I feel so much better. Thank you for letting me share.



Then within a month, just when we thought that our quota of bad karma had been amply filled, the office on the first floor of our building had itself a wee fire. And get this, it’s a production company, so there were reels and reels of nice flammable nitrate-based film to join in the fun. The firemen said it was like trying to stamp out a Roman Candle on a pogo stick.

It was a miracle that the building wasn’t gutted. Nonetheless, the smoke and flames did crawl up a narrow shaft and all the apartments above, including ours, were seriously smoke damaged. Now there’s wood soot and there’s coal soot and there’s turf soot and if you’ve ever sent your child up a chimney to clean it, you’ll know that these are fairly inoffensive dark powdery substances. However, the greasy pitch black film that burned plastic leaves over everything has to be seen to be believed. It is truly heartbreaking to walk into your home to be met by the toxic stench of incinerated PVC and to be unable to take off your coat for the lack of anywhere to put it.

So we spent the past two months sleeping rough in cardboard boxes under a motorway bridge, drinking rainwater and licking the lichen off the concrete to sustain ourselves. I tried to earn a little extra cash as a qualified chemist by standing on the side of the motorway holding a ‘WILL TITRATE FOR FOOD’ sign but to no avail. At night we all sat around a glowing Romanian, warming our hands and hoping, praying that the bastards would finish cleaning and repainting our flat so that we could return to the life that we once knew.......

OK. OK. That’s bullshit, I’m lying.
It was actually much, much worse than that.
We spent those two months at my in-laws’.

So, that’s it. A break-in and a house fire all in the space of a month. Not bad, eh?

Lung the Elder says that we were two horsemen short of an apocalypse.