2. The War on Landlords

Part 2. Actions Speak Louder than Consequences.

From where I was sitting, a buckled futon groove, the security deposit was a fixed allowance for the amount of damage I could cause. The alternative: getting held ransom for the wear and tear of a year’s student living - was completely untenable. As were most of the properties by the time I left. Always, on my own terms - heavy, high and tired, I was a tough out for any evictor.

Another one of my over-baked philosophies was a segmented approach towards actions and consequences. My prone stance was not so much ‘don’t do the crime, if you can’t do the time’, as ‘do do the crime, enjoy it - then, do do the time’.

It was this neat partitioning of myself and responsibility which let me invite home the clammier half of the clammiest dance floor in Birmingham, comfortable in the knowledge a house viewing was arranged for the next morning. I honestly couldn’t have cared less if I tried, and wasn’t much for trying anyhow. This was no stand against the rising tide of predaceous landlordism, just going with flow, until I slowly went under. Then, woke up in my own urine, again, unphased.

For any of you keeping log of my nemeses - for any, on the record, un-appreciated, lethal expressions of proper, quantifiable fandom - the visiting landlord was none other than ‘the Condo-Anaconda’, ‘the Pie-athon Python’, sworn enemy of the “The Two-tonne Futon Titon of Tooton Common” - which I went by in those days, of course - yes, ‘the Fat Snake’ himself: Raza Aghoul.

A spiritual distancing between actions and consequence is all well and good, but, in a material sense, with each forsaken minute, the two draw closer together.

An hour from their latest collision, I took the bold philosophical stance of hiding in a laundry cupboard. A stuffy metaphor for my way of life at the time. Extending that metaphor further, I didn’t even hold the conviction for blind cowardice.

So, for the second time in our tenancy, I opened up the linen closet door. I settled into forgetting and remembering, intermittently, in anxious jumps and starts. My best mate swore he would give the Snake a piece of his mind. Although, soon he had none of his mind to give.

In keeping with the state of everyone inside, the house was a wreck. Had ‘The Fat Snake’ Raza Aghoul run an inspectorial finger across our countertops, that licked finger would have drastically altered his perception of our circumstance.

DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF

An entrenched Disk Jockey was pounding industrial gabba - a genre of music, which if you haven’t heard of, I envy you - really putting the re-percussion into repercussions.

DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF.

My pal, Sludge, had shaken off every element of his porno-plumber costume, bar the moustache and head-to-toe (without interruption) spray tan. After a few beers, Sludge’s Chesterfield accent speech was indecipherable for the boat-rowing undergrads of Birmingham University. Come breaky time, only close friends were fluent.

DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF.

The Fat Snake, back leant against the door, unveiled the crown jewel of this semi-detached corner of his modest student-letting empire.

“And this…” he razzle-dazzed, with more than a hint of ‘tadaaah’, “is the master bedroom.”

At this stage of the morning, like a spreeing alien, Sludge responded only to movement. Mischief was always the last sense that failed him. Naked, greased and snarling, he charged the Fat Snake and the prospective tenants.

“Right. Let’s see the upstairs bathroom,” was heard muffled through the door.

Years later, I can’t even hear the soft whisper of consequences. But Sludge’s brave actions rid our homestead of the Fat Snake, once, if not, for all.

The townspeople rejoiced - and bought more drugs.