I am going to suspend the serialisation of my first landlord book for the time being, as it is already available as an ebook (I know. £1.99 is a lot to pay, and I too like to get the free books – but if you are a landlord, you can save a lot more than that if you learn from our experience).
Anyway, all is not lost for those who like free information and entertainment, as I am instead going to start serialising my third book on life as a landlord, which is a work in progress.
But a word in your ear first. If you don’t like slanging matches, abusive text messages, male nudity, talk of paedophilia, blood and gore, suicide attempts and a ranting landlord, please STOP READING NOW. And for those who carry on reading regardless, I ask, not unreasonably, that you refrain from moaning at me afterwards (you know who you are).
Introduction:
Okay. The house wasn’t from hell. It just seemed to attract the lowest life forms. For this reason, the property took on a loathsome character, an evil that seeped into its walls and carpets and mattresses (along with the urine-soakings inflicted by the incontinent alcoholics). The house became filth incarnate.
The descent was gradual and mirrored the slide into ignominy of the entire area. As the local polytechnic/pretend-University re-located its centre of teaching down towards the city, the place became a ghost town and we had to accept whatever tenants we could get. And as the cast-offs of society took up residence they not only wrecked the fabric of the building, they also tainted and polluted the house, so that we would dread thinking about it or going up to see it and inspect the latest bout of damage. As long as some money was coming in (usually from the State benefits system), we could let it slip and slide until our once sparkling, freshly-carpeted and painted furnished property became a druggy and alcies’ hovel.
And after it had all started so well.
Picture the scene: a nondescript, terraced valleys house, stone walls, brown, slightly worn wooden front door, smoke-stained lace and curtains pulled tightly against the outside world. Who can imagine the goings-on inside? Fear not, dear reader, as I am about to open up this world and allow you to enter and catch a glimpse of the lives of the dregs of society.
The main characters:
Simon: Tall, overweight Cumbrian in his 20s, with body odour problems and an over-bearing, arrogant manner.
Gerald: Short, diabetic, one-eyed, diabetic darts player, early 50s.
Nigel: Thin, scruffy, valleys man, perpetually smoking a rolly, mid-40s.
Jason: Dishevelled Welshman aged 30, perpetually hooded, anaemic, skinny with wasted body and always with cuts and bruises from falling over.
Okie: Short, thin Nigerian office worker aged 28, shirt and tie to work; underpants and vest in house, even during council inspections.
Paul: Dark, stocky Welshman in his late 30s. A trained carpenter, fallen on bad times for reasons initially unknown.
Small walk-on parts:
Cho: Ingratiating, sly, pseudo-friendly Chinese chancer, late 20s.
Tracey: Big, fat, immaculately-dressed Ugandan, in colourful clothing, with bossy, demanding demeanor.
If I could write plays and there was an easy way to express text messages then the story which follows would be ideal for the stage (or maybe a TV mini-series). However, as I can’t be bothered trying to work out how to write a script, I shall instead set the scene in my usual prose format.
Buying the house:
We viewed this four-bed house and offered £50,000, which was accepted. The process then went quiet, making us wonder whether the seller had changed his mind. A couple of months after the offer, the estate agent rang:
‘Sorry to have to tell you this, but the vendor has said that because house values have increased since the sale was agreed, he wants you to up your offer.’
The agent was clearly embarrassed and Adrian was tamping.
‘What a damn cheek! He can get stuffed. There’s no way he’s getting a penny more.’
‘Hey, hold on,’ I advised, ‘Let’s not cut off our nose.’
We slept on it and the next day I told the agent we’d go to £53,000, but not a penny more. I didn’t think that would be enough, but it was worth a try. Later that day the agent called to say the owner agreed to this amount and the sale went through.