Friday, 21 February 2014

Strangers, Beatniks and assorted Wierdos.

I live in a boarding house which sees a wide and varied collection of people and we all get along well except for the times when we don't. Over the past few months the landlord has been actively weeding out the worst of the drunks, stoners and anyone else who's crazy enough to be called irritating but not so crazy as to be called artistic and while this does mean that the house is a lot quieter [1] it also means that I have considerably less blog fodder.
Of course this list makes it seem as though the house is a hotbed of wacky people all involved with quasi-legal activities and I feel that I should point out that 99% of the people in the house are completely normal and boring while it's the 1% who spoil everything, as per usual.


At least that was my name for her. She lived out the back with a trio of perpetually pregnant cats and her claim to fame was that when she was drinking she would get trapped in that thing where you forget what it was you just said and repeat yourself only to instantly forget what it was you just said.
But that alone wasn't enough to distinguish her from the rest of the group of hard drinkers of the house and her three cats would mean that, at some point in the proceedings, she would spend far too long talking baby talk in what she thought was that quiet voice that one uses for babies.

None of them were actually named Mary or even Carol. But this group made certain that everyone who came to the house felt welcome by offering beer, spirits, oilspotting and anything else that was in the fridge. All of this meant that the house had a crowd of guys who had just dropped in and never showed any signs of leaving the house or the kitchen.

Sometimes this lot would run out of party supplies and sent the most sober looking one to get more. In order to break up the monotony they would drunkenly singing songs [2] and/or suddenly fighting because someone had looked the wrong way at someone else.

Because I generally arrived home around midnight I usually missed out on the really big incidents that ended up with someone getting hauled away by the cops but of course I'd hear all about it because this lot gossiped worse than a group of nosy grandmothers.
At a wedding.
Where the bride didn't wear white.
Of course that's not her real name since nobody actually uses an 8 track anymore. I know that I never had one but if a lifetime of television sitcoms have taught me anything it's that I'm supposed to remember them with the kind nostalgic fondness that one rarely sees in todays cynical world.

Anyway all that aside the problem with Eight Track is that whenever she's feeling down the house gets to sit through a country music CD [3] which plays in a perpetual loop which is loud enough to disguise the fact that she's ranting and raving to herself.

Still it could be worse, oh wait what am I saying? It has been worse.
One particularly bad night The Kitchen Carolers were going through their usual singing/drinking/fighting schtick which was entering its 2nd day.
Suddenly Eight Track began shouting at them to be quiet which worked just as well as you'd expect and everyone began getting louder and louder with her ranting to nobody and them egging her on because it was funny.

Finally the rest of us called the landlord who booted the Carolers out of the kitchen in a manner that suggested he wasn't happy at being called out of bed in the middle of the night and had a word with Eight Track about her stereo.
Since that night Eight Track has mellowed considerably and even though we get periods where the country music is played both it and her rantings are kept at a much quieter level.
Not, as you may be thinking, the band.
There's really no nice way to say it but this guy was a drunk. But he was the kind of drunk who drank everyone elses drink and hoped that the occasional can of El Cheapo brand beer would balance everything out. Spoiler alert, it didn't.

One night he returned to the Merry Carolers who were slightly miffed because he'd been gone for a couple of hours in what should have been a ten minute trip at most. Then they discovered that although they had given him enough for a couple of crates of beer he'd returned with nothing more than a six pack of the aforementioned El Cheapo brand beer. Where had the rest of the money gone? Nobody ever found out [4].

The group argued and it was only a matter of time before someone threw a punch at which point things escalated. In fact they escalated out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the laundry and out into the driveway where it continued until the Fuzz showed up, arrested everybody and started knocking on doors to find out exactly what the heck had happened [5].

For the next few days the house was very much on edge with everyone keeping their heads down and the Kitchen Carolers shunning Smashmouth who dealt with the situation by sitting quietly in his room and surviving on a diet of medical grade rubbing alcohol and not much else.

One really bad night I returned home to utter chaos. The first clue I had that something was wrong was that his stereo was so loud it could be heard from a block away and there was a thick trail of blood which led from the tiny bedsit at the front of the house right down the hallway to his door and back down the driveway.
What had happened, I found out from Eight Track, is that a few weeks before the case of the mysterious disappearing money Johnny Walker, who lived in the bedsit, was going to a party and had bought a bottle of his namesake because if you're going to bring a bottle then you should go out of your way to be classy about it.
Now Smashmouth found out about the bottle and wanted a sample but was sent away because of party etiquette and all this time later he finally decided that it was time to confront Johnny about it. This went as well as you'd expect and Smashmouth found himself on the wrong side of the door without anything to show for it. After some shouting Smashmouth decided that, in order to punctuate his displeasure, a fist really should go through some windows and three windows later the ambulance arrived to take him away.

In his mind Superpimp was the big cheese with the whole pimp package. He had the cane, the big furry hat, the cape and the willing harem of girls.
In reality his girlfriend supported his broke ass by working as a callgirl for various massage parlors that invariably kicked her out after a few weeks when they discovered that she'd been poaching clients [6]. Whenever she wasn't working at the parlors Superpimp would be advertising her wares on the gossip chatlines because he was all class.

Early on in her stay at the house they came into the kitchen one day when a couple of us were there doing kitchen stuff and nicely explained that one of her regulars was coming over and could we all be relaxed and groovy about the whole affair. We all shrugged as nobody really cared enough to worry about it and, presumably, a good time was had by all.
But fast forward about a month and it's the same scenario except this time she marches into the kitchen, announces that her regular is coming over again and demands that we all leave the house while he's here.
To say that this approach rankled slightly would be to understate it completely which is why when the regular arrived he was greeted with a series of encouraging remarks strategically designed to put him off his stroke.
This led to the pair leaving rather quickly and about Superpimp began crashing about the place and literally bouncing off the walls after taking some party pills [7] which ramped up his suspicious nature.
How long had she been gone? He demanded to know. Where were they? Was she ever coming back? The questions kept on coming even after we pointed out that she'd only been gone for fifteen minutes.

He texted her, he called her and to his frustration not only did she not return home immediately but she also turned her phone off. Eventually she called me and told me that she was in the middle of Wellington, had met up with some friends, were having a girls night out and could I tell Superpimp that she wouldn't be home until tomorrow.

That particular conversation went just as well as you'd expect and nobody in the house got any sleep that night.

This is the story of a man with vision, with goals, with the greatest idea that anyone had ever had in the history of mankind.

That idea was Porn.

Of course we all know that porn was invented in the year dot by Caveman Og and has only been getting more and more refined [8]
I pause here to make you promise that you won't steal this idea I had to promise while he stared into my eyes the whole time because he didn't tell this to everyone, just people that he knew he could trust.

His groundbreaking idea was to shoot an adult feature in New Zealand but there wasn't going to be any plot or story because the kind of people who watch these films don't care about plot. Each scene would be shot in a different location that would show off the countries wonderful scenery and various tourist destinations in the background which meant that the whole thing would act as a kind of subliminal marketing campaign which would bring in tourists who would pump money into our economy.
It would be” he enthused frequently “just like Lord of the Rings”

It sounds like a joke. To this day and even as I'm typing it up it still sounds like standup comedy joke but Double entendre took the project so very seriously and wouldn't stop describing everything that he had planned, how he was going the money to, the companies that were going to want their products up on the big screen [9] and his incredibly cunning plan to get porn stars to work for free by appealing to their patriotism.


  1. For example, we can now put stuff in the communal fridge and it'll still be there the next day. Amazing!
  2. I regret to mention this but Stairway to Heaven was included in their repertoire. It was every bit as cringe worthy as you're currently imagining.
  3. This is stuff that would make even the most rooting tooting yodeling cowboy reach for the off switch.
  4. I personally maintain that he was taken in by a really slick street corner hustler doing the old find the lady routine.
  5. To my great disappointment none of them said “Hello hello hello what's going on here then?”, “Book 'em Danno” or even “Take 'em away boys!” Clearly my tax dollars have been wasted.
  6. Which sounded much kinkier than it actually was.
  7. At the time of the story these were legal but at the time of writing the law has been changed and shopkeepers are suddenly finding that they've got a limited window of opportunity to get rid of their remaining stock.
  8. For those of you who don't know about porn all I can say is turn safe search off and welcome to the Internet.
  9. Oh yeah, he really wanted his hardcore porn movie to be shown at all major cinemas. When we pointed out that this was unlikely to happen he insisted that the film commission would make an exception this one time because of all the shots of the beautiful end epic scenery of the heartlands of Aotearoa.

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