Out Of The Frying Pan, Into The Wok (No Racism Intended)

Generally, when the question ‘what are the most dastardly and pernicious professions in all the world?’ arises, people tend to answer either estate agents, or politicians, or the police, or marketing executives, or anyone in PR, or terrorists, or the director of Michael Winner films. And quite right too. These people are - to a man - evil. ‘Landlord’ however, seldom tends to make the list. Obviously this is definitely not because landlords are not evil, but probably because ‘landlord’ is not strictly speaking a profession. It’s just a pastime for monied Satanists. Like volunteering in the local abattoir, which is also something that all landlords do.

Really, what is it with them? I’ve met quite a few of them over the years and although I’m sure they must exist out there somewhere, I swear I’ve yet to actually meet a nice one.

Last week I had a bit of a run-in with Elsie, my landlady in Herne Hill. She came round to give the flat a final once-over on Wednesday. As far as I could see, it was in fine fettle, apart from a couple of frayed bits and pieces and a cracked window. She insisted however, that getting it back to the condition it was in before I moved in would cost her the full £1,150 of my deposit. I laughed. ‘How is that possible?’ I asked. ‘Explain to me where the money will go, please.’

She ran through the obvious, which would amount to a couple of hundred quid maximum, then she cited nicotine-stained fixtures and fittings. ‘The whole house will have to be redecorated and all of the furniture replaced,’ she said. How she kept a straight face I will never know.

But I am not the wilting wreck of a quivering cockstand I was when I moved in to her flat. Far from it. I’m much more confident these days and I care a great deal less what people think of me. In short, I can assert myself.

So I said to her: ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you. I actually think you’re trying to rip me off and I intend to do everything in my power to not let you get away with it.’ At which point she gasped quite melodramatically but I held up my hand and said, ‘Please let me finish’ – just like they do on Question Time! Then I said: ‘I’ve already taken legal advice and I’d like you to provide receipts for every item of furniture which you buy and every piece of cleaning or refurbishment you pay for. If you refuse to do any of this, I will have no hesitation in taking you to the small claims court. I’m sick and tired of being walked all over by people like you.’

Her expression, which had moved from impotent rage to shocked bewilderment, suddenly switched to righteous indignation. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ she cried. ‘What is this “people like you”?’

Uh-oh, I thought. She’s going to play the race card. I hadn’t mentioned her ethnicity before for the simple reason that it was a million miles from relevant. Elsie is a landlady. She isn’t a black woman to me. She isn’t even a woman to me. She’s a landlady. A human chisel.

I stood my ground and told her what I meant. ‘Grasping…’ I began. I so wanted to use the word ‘fucks’, but I stopped myself. I was determined to retain the moral highground. ‘Liars,’ I said. ‘If I’m wrong, I apologise. Prove me wrong. If not, you owe me money, and I want it back.’

At which point she started screaming at me. ‘Are you calling me a liar? Are you calling me a liar?’

‘No, I'm not,’ I said, although I quite clearly had. ‘But I’m definitely suggesting it. I think it’s a distinct possibility.’

But she wasn't really listening. As she turned and left the flat, she carried on screaming, and waving her fists and pointing her fingers. ‘You go to hell!’ she shouted. And as she slammed the front door, a little bit of plaster fell from the surrounding wall. I shook my head. That was another hundred quid right there.

Half an hour later, her brother was hammering on the front door with a rather large fist. Thankfully it was his own fist.

Five minutes later, he left. I closed the door, counted out the £900 in £50 notes he’d begrudgingly handed over to me and I did a gloriously self-satisfied little dance.

It just goes to show, I thought. And it really does. All the comments I received a couple of weeks ago were absolutely spot on. You have to stand up to these grasping fucks. You have to stand your ground.

It was only afterwards that it occurred to me that I could have been wrong about Elsie wanting to play the race card and that my assumption that she was about to could in itself have been interpreted as racist. But then I thought, fuck it. Life's too short. And I know the truth. Some of my best friends are landlords.

Just kidding.

....

Then, earlier today – for the simple reason that Keith is a blithering, slack-jawed fuckwit who happened to mention that he was going to have a friend staying for a few months – I had to meet Dudley, my new landlord.

Dudley isn’t Chinese, but somehow he looks like he is. I’m not sure how. Maybe the eyes. Maybe the teeth. Maybe the curiously thin skin. No offence. He’s like a cross between a slightly more Chinese-looking version of Bob Mortimer’s Matthew Kelly from The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer, and Uncle Albert from Only Fools and Horses. Which is odd as he doesn’t even have a beard.

He does however, have an extremely annoying way about him. In fact he annoyed me so much in the ten minutes that I was talking to him that I can’t possibly speak of him any more at this moment in time. Except perhaps to say that one of the things that particularly annoyed me – apart from completely unnecessary mentions of ‘Pakistanis’ and the ‘half-caste girl’ upstairs - was that he made a point of saying, ‘I don’t allow pets either.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I don’t have any pets.’

Depressingly, at this point in time, that may well be true.

Still no sign of Pablo.

I’m beginning to think moving in here was a horrible, horrible mistake.