I been drivin’ a van all morning. Oh yes. Call me Dick Van Dyke, call me Van Morrisson, call me Denise Van Outen. Don’t call me that last one. Add on those man points for I been ca-rooo-sin’ around in my white transit van through all the Norf Laandaan roads, shouting at people on Jeremy Vine and generally cutting people up wherever necessary. Its the second time I’ve ever driven a van and past the initial fear of ‘hmm, this is a tad bigger then my tiny car’, and the moment where I smacked the passenger wing mirror against someone’s truck, I realised just why van drivers are arseholes. For a start you sit pretty high up, like some sort of road king. Then you know, that should you drive your van straight into someone/another car/a cow you will remain mostly unharmed. Essentially, had I wanted to smack the other wing mirror into a truck also, and then career the vehicle into a wall, flip over, set things on fire and still walk out dusting my hands like an action hero. Well probably not, but that’s what it makes you feel like. No wonder loads of van drivers listen to Phil Collins. They do it, because they were anyone to contest, they’ll kill you with a van. Its amazing most van drivers are more violent. Its also lucky I don’t own a van otherwise I’d definitely be more violent. Note to self: Never have a go in a Monster Truck, lorry or a tank. One day I do dream of going to Digger World though and that day, mayhem will ensue. I fully suspect they have a little picture of me up in the ticket booths saying not to grant me entry for fear that by the time I’m done everything will be dug. Ever. They’ll turn around after five minutes to find me gone and the entire site collapsing in on itself into a tunnel that I’ve dug all the way to Australia.
The van was needed to finally get all the last few bits of out my old flat. My brother helped me carry out my dismantled bed, shelves and two cupboards and I felt oddly disconnected from the place as I shouted ‘LATERS’ at it and locked it up for the final time. Its been sold and the place I lived in, up until a few months back, is now all empty waiting the arrival of its new resident. I thought I’d be more sad about it all, remembering the day we moved in, the first time I recklessly was allowed to drive a van, but actually, it just felt good that there’s finally closure to the whole thing. Amongst the few bits that were left were my old box of spray paints that have probably gone off by now and need to just be chucked. I was very tempted to see however and leave a large piece of art for the person that had bought the flat. Nothing rude, or anything, but perhaps obscure. A big picture of a rabbit and the words ‘ disguise yourselves from the shadows or fear the wizards.’ Something like that that would clearly haunt them for sometime, but not really mean anything. I didn’t. Not least because I haven’t used spray paints in ages and I’d probably have got myself in the face and that would have made van driving time far harder. So now I just need a new flat please. A lovely new one.
There truly appears to be very little on the market which is hugely frustrating. I mean, there is stuff on the market, but not stuff for fussy mcfusspots like myself and the others. I feel, ever nearing thirty, that I deserve to live somewhere nice and can’t be arsed with a pokey cupboard somewhere in the sort of area where dog turd is seen as a tourist attraction. Ultimately our search is currently fraught by lazy people who have put their properties up on line but refuse to take them down when they go. This has meant that several times this week either myself, Nat, Tom or Matt have found somewhere, rung everyone up excitedly, only to find out it went somepoint in 1872 but the estate agents forget to let anyone know. Tom, is helping extra hard by, the other day, passing my number to an estate agent to see a property we’d already been to and hadn’t liked. There is nothing quite as heart breaking as ringing back a man who so desperately needs to let a three bed flat where one bedroom is a bread bin, and telling him to cancel the appointment as I’ve hated it once already this week. Still, its worth holding out till we get somewhere nice, and now I don’t have old flat crap to deal with its a burden off my shoulders. To ensure today feels even more cathartic, I’ve shaved off the majority of my beard (still keeping the tiny goatee, don’t worry small hirsute farm yard animal fans) and have got rid of a large ton of clothes that no longer fit me but had been occupying my room like squatters who had realised I was too stupid to understand their rights. Onwards and upwards as people who fly planes should probably say and very few others.
Oh and for anyone who read yesterday’s blog, I did the ‘political’ material (I am always wary of calling it this as no doubt someone will point out to me its not clever or well thought out and therefore merely counts as topical) in Basingstoke last night and it went down very well. In fact, it went down a lot better than my new bit about Bootsy Collins. Its odd how they went for comments on one type of Parliament but not the other. BOOM! SLAM! Gnite everybody. I’m here all week. Try the fish.
