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First House on the Right

By: Green Fuz on the 10th January 2010 at 11:45am

Biographical - Life - Humour

 I’ve lived in some shit holes in my time, but the biggest karzi was a small room I rented in Torbay. The room was small as an ants asshole, if I stretched my arms out like Christ crucified I could touch both walls at the same time. I didn’t possess much apart from a tatty old mattress, an ancient mono record player and a small grill. Stuck on the walls were posters of Betty Page and the Mutant Surf Punks, covering up the lavish puke inducing seventies wall paper design. 

My room was in a large house so I had to share the grimy bathroom with the other residents, it was located down a bare corridor past a gauntlet of doorways containing the strange and demented inhabitants. The room along from mine contained a skinny man with thinning blonde hair called Michael. He was a massive pervert. Every night he stood naked in front of his window, happily showing off his knick-knacks to the world. He had a girlfriend whom he managed to find time to shag in between all the other girls with loose morals and looser panties he shagged every other night. My evening slumber was often disturbed in the small hours by noisy headboard banging, crashing of crockery and screaming for God, as Michael went through his ambitious gymnastics of the karma sutra with an insatiable appetite. His stamina and randy conniving was impressive if not deplorable.

The next room down was empty but had contained a tall dark haired bloke called Tom, whose eyes were so close together he could have worn a monocle. He hadn’t been right in the head and was besieged with self-inflicted bad luck. Tom had bought a new car on hire purchase, but instead of paying the money back, he decided to sell the car immediately and use the cash to finance a one-way trip to New York. On his first night in the sleep deprived city he went down a dark alley with a prostitute, got mugged, had all his money and identification stolen and was deported back to Blighty with an itchy case of crabs. Depressed and debt ridden he decided to commit hari kari by throwing himself off the top of Torquay multi-story car park. He broke both his legs.

While Tom took up residence in Torbay Hospital his room was taken over by an old hippy. He was usually found walking round the house in bare feet with a lit spliff protruding from his long grey hair. He had a vacant sullen looking girlfriend who apparently used to be a model until she got into smack and became a junkie. Now she didn’t do anything much at all and neither did he.

At the deepest darkest end of the corridor, opposite the bathroom was another door. Behind this paint worn barrier lived an oddball family of inbred mutants. I didn’t know exactly how many weirdos lived there in the darkness they never seemed to leave the confines of the room. But sometimes I would catch quick glimpses of them peeking out the door, hints of bulbous nose, frazzled ear, blistering boils, matted thinning hair and blood shot eyes, before the heavy door was slammed firmly shut.

My girlfriend often stayed over and my little room became quite cozy. Once she popped out to the bathroom for a pee and came back a few minutes later red faced and shaken. She told me that the pervert next door had been standing by his room in the hallway wearing nothing but a towel, as she walked past he had let the towel drop and stood there bollock naked giving her a wink. I called him “Dirty bastard!” and said I was going to “Kick his fucking ass!” As I stomped down the corridor to confront him, but when I got to his door I changed my mind and carried on down the hall. I wasn’t very good at confrontations.

I took the opportunity walk on down the corridor to the bathroom to take a piss. When I came out of the bathroom the mutant family’s door was open and I caught a rare glimpse inside. There were four of them all lying in the bed together. I imagined they never left the confines of their shabby quilt either, lying there bedridden all their lives like the Bucket family in Charlie and the Chocolate factory. No doubt indulging in perverted incestous family expanding.

For my 21st birthday I went to a night club in Plymouth with a my mate Russ and a girl called Sam who lived nearby. I drank depth charges all night. A depth charge is when you have a pint of beer and a spirit shot, in this case a double sour mash whiskey, drink half the pint down then drop the short glass into the pint glass so the beverage levels out then down the bastard in one. Not surprisingly halfway through the night my legs gave way, my vision blurred, I lost the ability to speak coherently and I started to feel very, very unwell. My friends elected to drive me home, Russ taking me in his car, Sam following in a car behind. The motion of the vehicle soon turned my stomach, “Pull over mate, I’m gonna puke.” I gurgled.
“Pull down your window Stan, I ain’t stopping for shit!” Exclaimed Russ. He was on a night driving mission. So there we were flying down the road at break-neck speed, me leaning out of the window doing a Linda Blair green streak across the night sky. Sam later told me that she was driving with her windscreen wipers on to brush aside all the diced carrot that was being hurled towards her car, and impacting with a splatter against her windscreen.

That night back at the house, I lay in bed sweating, moaning, tossing, turning, and puking into a seeping wicker basket as Russ shagged Sam on floor of my flat. Scratching his grazed knees the next day, he told me, “We had to stay over mate, make sure you didn’t do a Hendrix.” 

“Thanks,” I said, “Good job.”

A few weeks later I moved out of that tiny room and nut house to take the much safer option of moving in with a bunch of pot smoking layabouts. I heard that the old hippy had dropped LSD and walked up to Torbay police station stark bollock naked, wearing nothing apart from his guitar with which he treated the local constabulary to his unique rendition of Stairway to Heaven. The pervert next door also ended up at the police station for being a peeping tom. He had been caught knocking out a left hand shandy, gawping through some lady’s window. The bedridden mutant Bucket family were still there, fumbling in their filthy bed as far as I know.


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