All Hail, Dipshit Central

I was really sick for a week after the hosepipe up the rectum lark. I felt faint, and just really awful-so I decided that I was having a reaction to the noxious Klean Prep (and who wouldn't?), so I started eating everything that wasn't nailed down. Not a good idea, because I ended up generating enough gas to launch the Hindenburg.

If I had wanted to take a trip home (home as in over the Pond, not my little shoebox, which is only a temporary home-and I call it "home" because I am a very lazy typist, and it's easier), I could easily have farted my way across the Atlantic.

This all lasted until last Thursday, when I went to see my friend Dani, the acupuncturist who works in Essex, the braindead capital of the UK (and possibly the world). If Britain is the dipshit center of Europe (trust me, it is), then Essex is Dipshit Central. Every time I go to see Dani, when I leave I end up blinking several times and checking for a pulse.

So, I had my acupuncture treatment, and I felt better-I swear by acupuncture, and Dani shoves those needles in and I do her computer work. It's a happy trade off for both of us, and we get a chance to catch up on all the news. Fortunately, Dani isn't from this country, so I can crack jokes (in this blog, anyway-she doesn't read it) and know that I'm relatively safe. Relatively.

I've had a tough few days since then, though. That all started at the weekend. Now-I could be wrong, and I probably am-or, possibly I'm wrong. But if you remember the weirdo called John Brook, who decided that he wanted to nominate himself as next of kin when I was in the hospital in March, there is a strange and sad story. I'll share it, of course (don't I always?).

When the whole Mulalley kitchen fiasco was raging on, John (who was one of the property surveyors) decided that he would act for me in a case against Haringey Council and Mulalley. This has been going on for two years now-and it took a lot of fighting to get Mulalley to fix the mess they made of the kitchen (which still hasn't been finished completely). John presented himself as a qualified and competent surveyor, and said that he had handled cases like mine before, so he would be happy to act as my representative. Oops-big mistake.

He's been a little strange for some time, making inappropriate comments, and telling long-very, very long-stories about how wonderful he is, and so on. In fact, in the beginning (two years ago), he was telling me about falling in love with this person who was thirty years younger than him, and wanting to have a baby. So I said-Miss Tactful and Diplomatic-you mean you were with a woman? I was pretty incredulous, because I thought he was gay. So I had to get through that without laughing. It was tough, but I managed it...

Well, anyway, I kept asking for copies of emails to the Ombudsman, who is handling the case against the borough and the idiot builders. Brook kept putting me off with tales of playing drums with Robert Plant. This is someone who must weigh three hundred pounds, and who can barely walk without sounding like he is going to expire any second-and I thought-hmmm. Walter Mitty, anyone? But I let him get on with it. And about six weeks ago he told me that he was moving into another apartment-he and his cat. Great, I said, good luck. He then told me that he had two leather sofas, and was going to have to get rid of one of them because of lack of space. He asked if I was interested. The color? Yellow. Here is someone who is very affected, would mince if he wasn't so huge he waddled-had a cat (which doesn't mean anything until you hear all the stories he tells), and loves to have fresh flowers by his bed every day...and so on. Straight? Sure he isn't. But as long as he didn't get too obnoxious, it was okay for him to act as my rep.

I asked him for a condition report, and I wanted to know how much he wanted-and I wanted photos and dimensions of the sofa. Fine, he said. Did I get them? No. I said nothing, and then a couple of weeks later he commented that he needed to send me photos. Well, excuse me, but I wasn't feeling very clairvoyant at the time. So I decided that he probably wanted to keep the sofa, and that was the end of it-which was good, because he's such a pukebag he might want to come and visit it. Who knows?

Last Wednesday night John rang me - oh, he said, you have to come and see the sofa either Friday or Saturday, because everything else has been moved to the new place. I naturally shook my head at the sheer nerve, telling me that I had two days to buy this second hand piece of (probable) junk. I asked how much he wanted-he said he'd told me, I said no, he hadn't, and that I wasn't up for reading minds. He then said £350. I laughed. £350? I asked. It's a used sofa, it's old (but not antique), it isn't worth anywhere near that much. He insisted that I see it, and that I would love it, and told me that he would come and collect me on Sunday morning, drive me to his old flat, and we could do the deal then.

Well, you know what comes next. This was never going to work, and the man is an insufferable bore, so to spend any time with him other than discussing the case would have given me cramps. And a migraine. So on Saturday morning I sent him a text, telling him that he should have sorted this viewing out two weeks before, and that I decided not to change my plans (made many weeks ago).I then got such a vicious and nasty text back, I couldn't believe it. Of course-I could have (and should have)said forget it on the Wednesday night, so that was my mistake. But I did tell him that I could see it during this week (and I still wouldn't have bought it). But he didn't see it that way.

So I texted him back, telling him that he is an incompetent idiot for not doing all this weeks ago, and that if he was going to behave like he has all the maturity of a tantrum throwing two year old, I agree that he should never represent me for anything. I also called him a crushing bore..and today I called and spoke with the Ombudsman, and deleted him as my representative. And it gets better: he said a lot of things about settling the case and getting a good offer from the council, who had arranged the kitchen deal with Mulalley. And nothing he said was true. Huh. Walter Mitty indeed.

After I texted him, I blocked his number so I wouldn't get any abuse back. I confirmed that he is no longer my representative by email, told him that he is a liar, a moron and a bore, and said he needs to find a therapist. Then I blocked his emails. too. But I did keep his vicious text, just so I can remember that if you have a gut feeling about someone not being trustworthy (or competent) you should follow it.

And that brings you up to date. On Thursday there is a vote to either stay in or leave the European Union. There is so much fighting, so many lies told, so many accusations and so much total bullshit being slung on both sides-actually, it's been really entertaining. Do people really have the balls to vote to leave and become self-governing? No, of course not. They would rather play the "devil you know, devil you don't know" card, and so I predict that we will remain, people will keep bitching and moaning, and this country-already halfway down the toilet-will go the whole way down.

I truly believe that my own people aren't stupid enough to elect the comb-over (the Donald)-but the country has registered the displeasure with Odious Obama and the way things have been going (or not going, as the case may be). So, two predictions: first, Trump loses (please God). Second, Cameron keeps his job, so that he and all his other corrupt playmates can continue to rob the taxpayers blind, and we stay in the European Union and this country continues to go to shit, as the NHS and the economy collapse in a couple of heaps.

As for me--I've made some enquiries. Iceland is lovely this time of year. So I'm starting to pack.
I always wanted to live on a volcanic rock.