thieves and digressions

And the Hariry Fella, come to think of it, is not just an epic liar but a stinking thief too.
Picture this;
Myself and Biffo lived in a weird damp one bedroom basement grotbox, blessed with internationally famous bent railings in the front yard. Internationally famous because they were bent, and the concrete plinth they sprouted from was cracked, split and shifted, by The General's car as he failed spectacularly to turn either left or right at a t-junction. Not bad driving though when you consider that he was in fact dead at the time, having been shot multiple times through the front windscreen  with a .357 magnum revolver. Kevin Spacy went on to make a cheeky-chappie movie based on the hilarious adventures of Martin The General Cahill. Mischevous pranks such as car-bombing and murder were toned down in the movie, replaced with the shatteringly effective symbolism of Mr.Spacy stealing cigarettes from a newsagents in Wicklow.

 Previous to living there I lived in a bedsit in the middle of Ranelagh village. Now that was a reall shithole, all my neighbours were eastern health board lunatics, constantly trying to invite themselves into my place, probably out of loneliness but I couldn't give a flying fuck as they were all creepy and strange. Starey Eyed Ann  managed to talk her way in once, she was this pretty nutjob that hung about Rathmines and Ranelagh. I knew she was nuts because I used to work in a chipper in Rathmines and we had a coffee incident once that involved some very rain man-like rapid repetition of short sentences, the meaning of words slipping further from her with every iteration. And that was before I moved into the bedsit and realised I had just gained her as a neighbour. Anyway once she was in and tea-ed (if someone enters my house they must have tea, its the rule) there was no getting shut of her, as you would expect, I finally had to do the  Well I'm heading out now, so... routine. And then of course I actually had to fucking go out and not comeback for ages, just in case.

 Also there was only one toilet in the building, and that was on the third floor,  I used to load up a spray bottle with bleach and water occasionally and do a drive by bleaching of the carpet and facilities. Pissing into the wind,  the irony.

The one great feature that made this bedsit nearly almost habitable, though not for humans, obviously, was the window. A big Georgian front room window, from knee height to about eight foot off the floor. The house was set back from the road because these big old houses have  proper front gardens, and the Georgian split level style meant that even though I was technically on the first/ground floor I was about two meters above ground level, affording me a kings view of all that passed on my hundred meter stretch of Ranelagh.A kings view is right. I had two armchairs pulled up to the window and myself and either Spinky or Evileye would spend the night drinking cheap beer and smoking big spliffs and watching  the professional lady come and go from the little discrete lane across the road. Not that she operated in the lane itself, there were more old houses snuged away behind the banks and shops of the main street.

Evileye taught me all his techniques for rolling masterful spliffs while we grew into them armchairs, it's a fond memory and it's a shame that I lost the love of smoking because if I hadn't then I could have a little memory to myself with every skin-up.

 But despite the window I was pretty desperate to get out of there after a bit. And I was shocking quick to take my chance when it rolled by.

I was walking home drunk, the best way to walk home, when I met Clougherhead on the road. Now I didn't really know Clougherhead that well, but he worked in the local spar with my mate Sly and we'd been introduced a few times and he seemed like a good guy. So I dragged him back to my place for tea, because tea and a chat and drunkenness go well together. It happened that he had a mate living around the corner that needed a new guy to move in, or something, the details were unclear, but what was clear was the possibility of an escape from dumpsville.

We rocked around the corner to the lads house to see what way the habitation situation was evolving.
The situation was this: One of the two lads, who were brothers, was moving elsewhere, and needed to be replaced for a short time before the other brother also moved on. At the same time there was another, better, flat in the house next door, both houses being conveniently owned by the same landlord, where more of the same gang lived. One of the residents of this second flat were also moving on, though not immediately.

The plan: myself and the remaining brother, Biffo, would move into the good flat.  Myself and one of the other lads, the Saint, would pay rent, Biffo and Kev would sleep on the floor for a while before going wherever they were going.

This was all settled on within a half hour visit to the two brothers, I don't think Kev and the Saint were consulted until after the decisions were made. The meeting was cut short because the boys were on the way to a party and I shuffled off home, all Hanibal headed and loving plans and they way they might come together.

The very next evening I rolled up to the new gaff with a shopping trolley full of my stuff, and met my new flatmates, two of whom I had never met and Biffo, who I didn't have a chance of recognising since I was pretty drunk the night before.

Biffo was wearing a pretty hungover head, a bit squinty like, but fair play to the man he pulled it together pretty quick, remembering bits of details and the grand plan eventually too. It took us about another four or five trolley trips to get the rest of my house moved, I don't have a clue where I found the trolley, but I know it wasn't from fucking spar, as two morons came out from the shop to tell us that it belonged to them . Really? then why does it say Dunnes Stores all over the handle?
If you are going to accuse two people of grand-theft-manual when you find them pushing a trolley full of lamps and books up Ranelagh main street at midnight then you should probably check and see if it is in fact your trolley. You twits.

Two beds in the gaff, and two people paying rent, so you'd think there would be no arguing over who actually gets to sleep in the beds, if you were sane, decent and not from Offaly that is. I got my bed but Biffo somehow convinced the Saint, with an amazing mix of faulty logic and irrelevant red-herring throwing, 
that he (the Saint) owed Biffo from some previous couch crashing, so the Saint got the floor between the two beds. Indefinitely. And paid rent for the privilege, while the freeloader snored away in the smug duvet.
Biffo - and enduring monument to the power of ignorance and manipulation.

I knew this post would decay into a mess of digressions, I'll get on to the hairy fella and why he's a thief and a liar in the next one. Now that the stage is set.