Our New House is the Dog’s Bollocks

I watched a funny movie the other night, In Bruges, starring Brendan Gleeson, a hilarious Colin Ferrel, and surprisingly hilarious Ralph Fiennes. The plot wasn’t particularly amazing as it was basically just a witty British character flick that hinged entirely on a lot of funny dialogue. The dialogue itself was well written and humorous but I couldn’t help but think that it was much funnier because all the accents were British (Ferrel’s is Irish, but close enough and just as funny), which got me thinking that almost everything is funnier with a British accent. It also made me wonder if Brits think the same thing, that everything they say is funny. I don’t imagine so because I picture all British people being humorless and gloomy on account of the weather and whatnot, but at least what they say is funny to us Americans on account of their British accents. Therefore, I’ll ask that you read the remainder of this post in a British accent to see if it’s any funnier than just an American accent, which is really no accent at all, unless you’re from the south, in which case you have a southern accent, which isn’t very funny just kind of dumb sounding¹. I also think that all Brits swear a lot so don’t be offended; it’s just the way they are.

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All right mates? The wife and I bought a house the other day. I say “the other day” like we was at a focking garage sale this weekend and instead of getting baby clothes and a chair with three legs for 2 pounds, we bought the whole focking house. In fact, we went into contract on a house several weeks ago and just took possession on Friday. Now, I know some of yous is gonna be brassed off about us moving out of the bloody apartment and all, but don’t worry, mates, we’ll still be living here for a few more weeks while I do some good old fashioned renovating on the house. Besides, we need to be here for at least another week for the focking Brixworth Apartment Pool Party next weekend (That’s right, ma, I see you there with the Coors Light in one hand, smoking a jolly fag in the other. Looking good. Hey mates! Can someone turn this Skynyrd up!?! I love this shit!)

To call our new place a “house” is a bit generous; it’s more like a bloody cottage or a bungalow. Actually, at less than 300 square meters (1000 square feet, you focking ignorant Americans!), it’s pretty much just a walk-in cupboard with a cooker and a shitter. But, it’s in a great neighborhood, just about exactly where we want to be, and less than two kilometers from a Home Depot. It doesn’t get any focking better.

So we had the Shady Arse Mutherfocking storage units delivered on Saturday and with the help on one very generous fellow, unloaded both in their entirety. I remember the wife telling me a story once about a prisoner that came to the hospital because he had done something retarded like 2000 squats to the point where his muscles stopped working. I realize now he was probably just training to help move someone into a new focking house once he got out of the pokey. I was so tired Saturday night I contemplated the usefulness of a bedpan in the couch.

So day 1 was moving in and day 2 was demolition. Any renovation worth a shit starts with a healthy dose of demo. In this case, we’re tearing out the walls between the kitchen and dining room and the dining room and living room to make the kind of wide-open floor plan that generally makes architects wet themselves.

That rather buff looking bloke in the photo wielding the sledgehammer is yours truly. I really thought this would turn out more like an action photo but as it is, it looks like I’m just resting me hammer on the focking wall. I probably was. I’ll have to chastise my helper, Alejandro, for not taking a better photo.

You’ll also note my perfectly bronzed and toned upper body in this photograph. I can assure you I didn’t leave my shirt behind simply for the picture; swinging a sledgehammer is bloody hard work in any climate, doubly so in July in the south. It took me all of 24 hours to stop wearing a shirt around my property, which would probably explain why none of our neighbors stopped over with house-warming brownies or crumpet or anything. One couple walking their dog paused to wave and I become painfully aware of my own redneckedness. Then I realized their dog was shitting in my yard and I wished I was standing in just me knickers with me socks and sandals.

The worst part of the demo was tearing up the flooring in the kitchen. The rest of the house has beautifully refinished hardwood floors. The kitchen has layer upon layer of shitty flooring covering up the original hardwood. The top was cheap laminate, followed by two bloody layers or atrocious linoleum, then a centimeter thick sheet of plywood underlay, and lastly another layer of linoleum. The underlay was the worst as it was nailed down in a 10-centimeter square grid across the whole focking floor. My only saving grace was the fact that the bloody Keebler Elves would be cheesed off to be baking their double stuffed E.L. Fudge cookies in such a small space. Regardless, I did the math and a nail every 10 centimeters in a 3x2 meter room is like 2 million nails. No wonder the planet is running out of resources – our grandparents were building houses like bloody space shuttles. I bet each nail was made from a baby seal’s tooth too.

Expect plenty of updates on the progress of the house including the inevitable injuries. I’ll try to keep me shirt on for future photographs.

Cheerio

1. Ok, ok – I’ve never apologized for anything on the blog, but this gross generalization that a southern accent sounds stupid does cross the line and I’m sorry for using it for a cheap laugh. It is funny though, no matter what your nationality.