Houses, Houses, Everywhere, but not a Shed to Rent

HOUSES, HOUSES, EVERYWHERE, BUT NOT A SHED TO RENT

Sunday night saw the memorable scene of myself, Manley, Colin and
Cliff surrounding a lonely table with weighty elbows and heavy brows,
pint glasses in hand, not a word passing between us for some time. We
had hoped to have a house secured by Saturday evening. The girls had
got theirs - a grand mansion in the Golden Triangle with four large
double-bedded bedrooms, a fifth smaller one and a dishwasher - despite
ongoing reservations and visions of uncontentedness. Discrimination
worked in their favour, but markedly against our good selves. Of the
five we have now looked round, we have attempted to lay our claim to
two, but were rejected on account of our being a band of buoyant boys.
That's not to say they said this to us outright, them being deceitful
kumquats of the lowest common denominator. They told us to hang on, and
that they'd phone us back. Of course, when we phoned them back some
hours later, we were told they'd given the house to another group. The
scurrilous ne'er-do-wells had kept us in reserve just in case no more
desirable (and by desirable, I mean female,) tenants came forward.
Which they did. I have written a stern email to the landlords in
question - a Stephen and Julia Tapper - expressing my extreme offence
at both their guile and the sexual discrimination we have suffered, and
demanding a formal apology. Might I suggest to all future UEA students
who might happen upon this account that they give the Tappers a wide
berth, address them with scorn and honour Colin's vow to hold a hate
campaign against their children.
Luckily, the dudgeon of Sunday evening was lifted by Lazy Words, an
open mic evening run by the UEA Creative Writing Society, at which I
regularly perform my barambajangles and folk trots to a ghoulish
audience. That night was the first Manley had manifested himself
amongst said audience, and I must say his ghastly visage and dusty
complexion blended in well. Thus, among all the laughter and the
drinking, we regained our spirits, and immediately gambled them away on
a fiendish plot.
That is to say, as I always say, that we informed the harpies of our
desire to scatter small spy cameras and microphones liberally around
their new abode and base an entire entertainment industry on the
ensuing events. Every week we'd launch a new competition, such as which
resident would wash up the greatest number of times, and bets would be
placed on whom of the harpies might emerge the victor. There'd also be
a buzzword, such as "manifestly" or "mediocre." Special points would be
awarded on the few occasions one of our favourite dark mistresses
managed to utter such things, though viewers would never know when
Manley or myself might try to influence proceedings by emerging
cheekily with a plate of carrot cake and asking, "How might you
describe this, if you had aspirations to become an intellectual film
critic some day?"
In addition, actors would be regularly sent round to plant some
tension in the harpy household. A washing machine repairman might turn
up on their doorstep one day, claiming that he had been called in by
one of the five. After charging a bothersome amount, he would exit,
leaving Beth to demand an emergency meeting in order to identify the
culprit. After a round of denials, Mary would break down in despair and
cry, "Well, I did use the phone last night, but I thought I was talking
to my brother! Oh no! What if I got the wrong number? He must have
thought I was completely mad!" And Helen would laugh, and say, "I love
Mary," while the rest sighed in defeat.
The plot would thicken when we used the same actor again as a postman
delivering a mysterious, unlabelled package. When would the harpies
realise the magnitude of what was afoot? What if we were to take away
an entire wall while their backs were turned? And as a finale, we could
replace them with five new inhabitants while they're out, and enjoy the
confusion when they arrive back to find their house taken over by
people of a slightly different appearance who claim to be they
themselves. Altered catchphrases abound: "That's grotesque!" "Eee!" "Do
you wish to perish?" "Well, chaps, I'm off to doze." Then, of course,
the conflict:
"But I'm Si?n!"
"Don't be ridiculous. I am clearly Si?n, as I am living in Si?n's
house."
Then Manley and I would arrive and, being in cahoots with the plan,
we'd pretend we only knew the pretend harpies. After inviting everyone
inside, a specially arranged news bulletin would see Peter Sissons
inform all and sundry that the original harpies were escaped androids,
and then Harrison Ford would turn up and proclaim he was there to
retire them!

Needless to say, the harpies were not impressed when we revealed our
plan.

Meanwhile, it looks like old Fate is fixing up my destiny. Clearly, I
was never meant to go to the University of East Anglia, and meet such
people and make such allies. I think I was meant to go to the
University of Bangor, in Wales, which, I am told by Si?n, is possessed
of disgusting halls of residence. There's a creative writing course
there, which is how Si?n came to see the place - she used to be in a
creative writing society herself.
I think Fate took a holiday at some point. Two months in Paris,
getting his portrait drawn by street artists. When he came back, his
bungling minions had mistakenly allowed me to get some good A Levels
and go to a cracking University and encounter some truly wondrous
people. He must've had a fit!
So now he's fixing it up with this housing thing. I shall never get a
house to live in next year, and I'll have to drop out and apply for
Bangor. I should've known UEA was always too good for me. I just hope
he doesn't drag Manley, Colin and Cliff down as well. The matter
requires great delicacy.

AN EMAIL TO ABUSE@NEOPETS.COM

"Dear sir,
I was superbly outraged to come across what is described as an 'Evil
Snowball' in one of your auctions, and felt it my duty to report the
incident. I don't fully understand the ins and outs of the situation,
but I fear such an object may corrupt the minds of innocent children
indulging in your otherwise wholesome online pastime. Furthermore, I
fear that, the Internet being available the world over, Islamic
terrorists may get hold of said device for use against the free,
democratic world, simply by typing 'Evil' on any given search engine
and coming up trumps. I trust that you do not want to be held
responsible if Washington DC is hit by a weapon purchased from YOUR
website. It is imperative that you track down the creator of the device
as soon as possible and put a stop to their deplorable
activities.

Yours faithfully,
J. N. Henstoat"