Not the Angriest Man in Crouch End for Much Longer
OK, a slightly maudlin post here. Get those hankies ready, people.
I will no longer be the angriest man in Crouch End. Dammit, I will no longer even be the angriest man in Haringey. The reasons for this are twofold: I'm moving out and Alan B McMurray has just moved into a flat on the Broadway, and he's a mean sonuvabitch when you get on the wrong side of him. Why, just yesterday I saw him punch square in the face fellow Crouch End luminary Bernard Butler for no reason than he was looking older and shorter than he used to. To be honest, I can't compete with the likes of that.
So, I'm moving in with L and swapping Crouch End for either Finsbury Park (for the realists amongst you), Highbury (for the elitists amongst you) or Brownswood Park (for the esotericists amongst you). Whichever way you look at it, we make out our council tax cheques to London Borough of Hackney.
Since you ask, yes, the flat's very nice, thanks. Email me if you want me to send you crap photos that the letting agency vampires took that are rubbish and make the place look like it's underwater when you're drunk and wearing glasses with marmalade on them.
I belive the pressure group Crouch End for People have arranged for a tickertape parade to accompany the transit van down Tottenham Parade, so if you want to come and help me lug boxes, please let me know. My important collection of shingle, stones, pebbles, granite, various igneous and sedimentary rocks, concrete slate and hardback books are all coming with me, you'll be pleased to know. Cheers.
Ah, you've made the crucial leap in logic that a housewarming party is closely timed to the moving in. In fact, the ratio houses moved into to housewarming parties is about 2:1 and growing larger by the day. This is fine by me, and means I don't have to host a stupid party where stupid people come, drink drinks, dance, have fun, laugh, smile and generally keep me from going to sleep. Grr. Haven't they heard of pubs?
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