The Man Living on our Floor Part Eight - Final

"I'm trying to get a better a car". The Man Formerly Living on Our Floor started demanding better working conditions from the get-go. Apparently the vehicle he was given wasn't up to scratch. "Maybe you should wait until you've worked there for a while," I replied. It was, afterall, his first day.

The Man had a bad habit of self-sabotage. The day after his successful interview at the company in Warminster he was back there checking the place out. The new boss returned from lunch to find our scarf-clad Biggles-looking hero at his (the boss's) desk doing something on the computer. "Ah, what are you doing?" The boss asked. "Oh, just checking to see what kind of system you have."

"Ah, maybe you shouldn't have been at your boss's computer before you started working there," I said. "Scratch that, maybe you shouldn't be at your boss's computer at all unless he asks you to be there."

Whenever I gave the Man Formerly Living on Our Floor advice he would give me a slightly startled, "He thinks I did something wrong" look, he would then nod and ignore whatever tip I gave him. Once, however, he thanked me for setting him straight the previous Saturday night. I couldn't remember talking to him though, my recollections of anything after my spot of breakdancing on the nightclub floor are hazy (in my unfortunately vast experience breakdancing usually precedes blackouts). I imagine I did set him straight about a few things though - such as acknowledging the existence of his girlfriend and the need to pay back the Polish guy.

------

The Man Formerly Living on Our Floor left his summer jacket and heraldic seals at our place along with a few bits and pieces. Yes, his family seal was sitting on our mantelpiece. You may remember an earlier episode when Moustache Guy (as he was then known) wrote a letter to the hostel manager requesting new rental terms. The manager responded to that letter with a letter turning Moustache Guy into the Man Living on Our Floor. Well, I discovered some time after that not only was the letter unfortunately written in aristocratic parlance but it had been sealed in wax! Sealed with the same abandoned seal sitting beneath the Rothco print in our living room. When I heard this, my palm instinctively connected hard with my forehead.

So for a few weeks things quietened down on the Man Formerly Living on Our Floor front. We saw him on the street (walking not living) occasionally and said g'day as well as, "Don't forget to pick up your stuff". I got a feeling he wasn't so keen on collecting his possessions because it gave him an ongoing reason to come over should need be.

One night we ran into him in a pub somewhere and he shared his excitement about the latest love of his life. "I met a 23 year old Columbian girl. Beautiful. She's the girl I'm going to marry. Her brother is moving to Bath and we're going to get a house together. We've had business discussions as well. I'm going to open a branch of the business in Columbia. Things are going really well."

A few weeks passed without seeing him. Then I rang a couple of days before we left the apartment.

"Hey mate, come over and get your stuff. We move out on Monday."

"I can't. I'm at work (on a Saturday) and out of fuel. I don't get paid till next week so I'm stuck here."

"Okay", that was par for the Man Formerly Living on Our Floor course. "I'll find someone to give it to then."

"That would be fantastic. Hey did I tell you about the Columbian girl I met in London..."

I had trouble finding people. I wanted to give the stuff to Carla but she was ignoring my messages. She only liked to give positive responses, and that's cool. I knew the score. But unfortunately for Carla I ran into her in the street. "He's not just out of fuel he's living in his car," she said. I didn't catch the details but I was a bit mystified how someone earning 750 pounds a week and being paid weekly could be totally out of cash. At least the fact he had the car meant he still had the job. I figured he must be poor at the moment because he did the right thing and paid everyone back. "So he gave Marius (the Polish guy) his money back?" She shook her head. (Palm/forehead). Carla didn't want the stuff.

The day we moved out I dropped off the summer jacket, his book of self-penned poetry and the family seal at the hostel. Maybe one of the young ones would return it sometime.

I'm going to miss the Man Formerly Living on Our Floor.

The End

The Man Living on Our Floor Part Seven

Okay, I kind of screwed up the story a bit by letting it slip that the Man Living on Our Floor scored a plush job. At least it won't make you think I'm a bastard this episode, where we take a step back to the week before he got it.

Part Seven

We asked the Man Living On Our Floor to leave exactly one month after he moved in - a deadline I'd established in my head from the start. Now we weren't being pricks. He had 300 pounds in the bank and, even though he'd lost his night porter position, he still had his Smile job. So he had plenty of money to stay in a hostel until his monthly paycheck came in, which would put him in a decent financial position to get a room somewhere.

He left on the designated day, thanking us sincerely and promising he'd pay us back in a big way when he got a decent job. I said, "Don't worry about it". His track record with paying people back wasn't so crash hot so I thought it better not to expect anything. So, anyway, off he went to check into the YMCA. Or so we thought.

Apparently the Man Formerly Living on Our Floor started spending a ridiculous amount of time at work over the next few days (like hanging out downstairs a few hours before his shift). A couple of people, friends and coworkers, mentioned they were worried about him. I talked to Carla and it turned out that he'd used his money to buy 200 quid's worth of camping equipment and clothing. He intended to save cash by camping, wait for it, in a cemetary next to, wait for it again, his grandmother's grave. The rest he'd mostly spent on tobacco and maybe tea. The Man Formerly Living on Our Floor treated food as a luxury item ranked after tobacco and tea on the need-to-buy list. He figured camping was the cheapest way to live while he looked for the high paying job he was certain he'd get and that we were equally certain he wouldn't.

We went for a beer with our eccentric friend (I know you're supposed to be rich to be eccentric but I'll make an exception) and asked him about where he was living. He was a bit shocked to discover we knew but I think he wanted us to know in the hope we'd ask him back. A lot of his aristocratic shtick is to act clueless when it comes to the mundane parts of life (ie feeding and lodging one's self) in the hope that a serf will take over these tasks so one could concentrate on the important things in life. Like hitting on hot 20 year olds and talking bullocks about the Cumbrian independence movement. But we were never going to take him back because it wouldn't help. He'd never leave if we did.

The worst thing about the whole situation was that the Man Formerly Living on Our Floor could never be bothered putting the tent up. He just slept in doorways after wandering around for much of each night - maybe partaking in his favourite pastime of clubbing with the young ones from the hostel.

So from his headquarters around the corner from where he worked the Man Formerly Living on Our Floor plotted his entrance into the world of high paying IT jobs. We thought he was totally delusional and were genuinely worried about him - to the point where we were planning to find his brother's number and call him in Australia to tell him what was going on. The Man should go live with his mum for a while we thought. He wasn't on his way up he was on his way out.

But before we could enact our plan it happened. One of the many calls taken for him by his secretary (the pregnant 17 year old at the Smile shop), while we were drinking across the road in the Boater, was the agency. They had an interview lined up for him in Warminster. He went along the next day after coming to our place to get cleaned up and, bam, was offered the job. 35000 pounds a year plus a car. And that was that. He was off the street and into the YHA.

The Man Living on our Floor Part Six

Okay, so I should know how to spell exacerbated if I'm going to write a book...

Anyway,...

As you would recall, The Man Living on Our Floor arrived at our place saying he'd only be with us for a few days. I knew this was bullsh*t but I also knew he was dead broke and estranged from his only relative in the area, his aunt ("she's not comfortable with me being the head of the family"). I didn't really mind the prospect of his company either, his stories kept me amused most of the time - though not always on the level intended. The only time I really would resent his presence was when we just wanted to crash out in front of a DVD and not talk about apprehended shoplifters or pie-in-the-sky prospects for a better life.

The Man Living on Our Floor could stay on the floor for up to a month as far as I was concerned. However, there was no way we'd lend him cash. Not that he ever flat out asked for any. Just hinted at it by saying things like, "All I need is x amount of money for a deposit". This strategy had got him funds from people before. He does have an aristocratic charm about him, a way of getting what he wants without asking for it - you could say the charm of a conman. You might remember that he didn't even ask to stay at our place, our mutual friend did the asking. But I don't know if someone could be considered a real con artist if he's also conning himself (plus a real conman wouldn't hang around after the swindle).

A Polish guy at the hostel lent the Man Living on Our Floor 300 pounds. An incredible sum considering the money was earned the hard way - in a factory for minimum wage (5 to 6 quid an hour) ---The Polish guy actually lived in a storeroom in the factory until he was busted---. On top of that loan (which I think went to paying backrent at the hostel) he was expecting money from his girlfriend in Brazil. He'd met her a few weeks back and had had an 11 day romance that made use of all the couches in the hostel common rooms. She was smitten and willing to call him once a week (at great expense - something like 80 pounds a call) as well as to wire him 250 pounds. He, in return, frequently forgot he had a girlfriend. Genuinely forgot. When reminded he'd say, "Oh, I don't think that's going to work out". Probably because at 32 she was bit above his target girlfriend age range.

"The money from Rosalia arrives next week and I'm getting some money from my brother," he told us. "I'll have enough for a deposit and a month's rent. I've also got a few interviews lined up."

The Man Living on Our Floor was trying to get back into the IT industry where he said he was going to earn lots of money. He applied for a stack of jobs and his phone rang frequently. He'd answer it while we watched one of the countless house buying shows they have in the UK and say, "Oh hi, fantastic. Excuse me, I'll just walk into another office." Then he'd walk into the entrance area of the apartment, which was about the size of a phone booth, and close the door behind. I was sceptical of his ability to get the work he wanted. I figured he'd only be able to get an IT job if the people interviewing weren't IT people. He threw lots of technical speak around but I didn't think he knew what half of it meant.

Among other opportunites, he lined up an interview with a small company in town. The Man Living on Our Floor reached the same level of excitement he achieves when meeting each successive "love of his life". "I'm perfect for them. Exactly what they need," he said. The interview lasted four hours and it all went well except for the fact he kept hinting at an advance. He told them he was going to move into an apartment around the corner when he had the money for a deposit. Everyone there liked him and wanted him except for the boss, who wisely thought that a guy applying for a 35000 pound a year job shouldn't be stony broke. It fell through. As is his nature, The Man Living on Our Floor moved on without giving it another thought.

He bombed another interview not long after because he hadn't slept for two days. Then he lost his job at the hotel - they hired a permanent part-timer. A permanent part-timer with an actual interest in performing his duties no doubt. This got The Man Living on Our Floor down a bit but not for long because he landed a plush job (a real 700 pound a week job!), which meant he could quit his employment as a smoker and cctv viewer at Smile.

The Man Living On Our Floor Part Five

If you have been hanging out for part five of the Man Living On Our Floor series, I apologise. If you haven't, why not? It's funny. Anyway, for reasons which will become clear next episode, I stopped because we were a bit worried about the guy. And, even though I'm giving away the story a bit, I'll let you know that it works out okay. I can be a bastard but not that much of a bastard.

Anyway, since the Man Living On Our Floor arrived in Bath he has worked a few jobs. He first worked at a liquor store where he pissed off management by turning up late & hungover for every shift - his nights drinking and young-womanising taking their toll. On top of his lacklustre work performance he sold copious amount of liquor using his staff discount (a whole hostel's worth in fact) as well as telling everyone within earshot that there were plenty of jobs going - "Just turn up and tell them I sent you". Alex went along and said, "I heard there are jobs going". "Do you know (the Man Living on Pete & Marianne's Floor)?" "Yes" "Well, contrary to what he's told every traveller and bum in town, there are no jobs at the moment. There maybe in the future. If you come back, don't tell the manager you know him."

After quitting the booze shop because of management's refusal to hire his friends, the Man Living on Our Floor got a two-nights-a-week job as night porter at a plush hotel. It didn't occur to him to adjust his sleep habits (which involved at least a handful of early-morning drunken slumber hours per day) - he just exchanged a couple of night's sleep for work. And, as is his nature, he took the job a little too lightly for the more serious managerial types. Luckily, one of his immediate superiors was partial to a mid-shift nap and thus, in a spirit of complicity, was happy to let the Man Living on Our Floor do his thing. His thing being to drink copious amount of tea, surf the net, polish his shoes, doze in linen closets and to make himself sandwiches the size of an adolescent tapir - (http://www.tapir.org/two_tapirs.jpg).

The lack of rest brought about by sleeping only five nights a week was exacerbated when he took on a second job at a convenience store. Not that the job was particularly taxing. The Man Living on Our Floor could invariably be found smoking rollies outside the shop where one could talk to him while looking through the storefront window at a large queue of paper & milk grasping locals leading up to a poor teenage coworker. He would "work" there between hotel shifts, dropping back to our place to get changed and to sleep on the couch for five minutes at a time (tea in hand).

While employed by Smile the only thing that drew him away from his perpetual smoke break was his newfound interest in catching shoplifters. He would sit in front of the cctv screen under the shop for hours - attempting to foil the efforts of the local kids and bums. He did this because the work he was actually hired for didn't interest him at all. And, as is his nature, he took to adopting the parlance of the poor police he frequently summoned. "We caught three of them today, " he told me. "But one got away. We have him on tape but I don't know if the incident will translate to a crime reference number or not". Marianne, who began working at the same shop shortly after he did, was incredibly embarrassed by his attempts to communicate with the cops on their level. "I think they just wanted him to stop talking".

The Man Living on our Floor Parts One to Four

The Man Living on Our Floor Part One

A man has been living on our floor for four weeks now. Even though he's full of shit I don't mind. He knows I'm onto him and so doesn't try to bullshit me except when he's also bullshitting himself, which is often.

I first met him some time before he was the Man Living on our Floor. In fact, when we first crossed paths he was Moustache Guy at our housewarming party. It says a lot about the moustache that I refer to him as Moustache Guy. He could easily have been silk scarf guy, tall guy, too-old-to-live-in-a-hostel guy, posh guy, bullshit guy...

I asked Moustache Guy what he did for a living and he said he was an academic, which would have explained the pipe and many of his mannerisms. I asked him what kind of academic and he said "software". This was my first clue he was full of shit. He'd affected the style and mannerisms of an Oxford don (circa 1956) while claiming to be a "software academic". I imagine a software academic would not be wearing a silk scarf, leather boots and smoking a pipe - he'd be in deep blue Wrangler jeans, asics sneakers and drinking diet coke.

One of our friends played us a self-penned song at the party. Moustache Guy said, "As an academic, I focus on the lyrics and I really like the lyrics. Very deep". I felt like saying, "Well as a friend, I was trying not to focus on the lyrics". It was pretty obvious the whole "academic" thing was a ploy to attract young women. Moustache Guy told me a bit later that the age gap between his father and mother as well as that between his grandfather and grandmother was 25 years.

Moustache Guy wasn't sleazy like most of the mid-forties guys who live in hostels, he was more of the romantic type. He just wanted to meet a beautiful, classy and tall 18 to 20 year old to settle down with - just like grandpa and dear old dad.

The Man Living on Our Floor Part Two

So we'd see Moustache Guy whenever we'd hang out at the hostel, which was pretty often. He'd be trying to chat up a young lady, smoking rollies and/or telling tall tales. A substantial part of his posh guy show was made up of family history lectures. "My family were one of only ten in England not to sign the Magna Carta". "My family has had two US Presidents". "I'm a count". "I'm also a prince". The Magna Carta bit was pretty inventive, if not true, so I didn't bother questioning that. The count and prince claims were obviously bullshit but kind of cool. However, having studied US history, and feeling I owed it to my great lecturer Dennis Deslippe, I had to query this President business. He hadn't done as much research on this story as he had on the Magna Carta tale so it fell apart pretty quickly. Turns out there were two Presidents with the same surname as Moustache Guy - therefore, from his point of view, there were two Presidents in the family. His surname isn't even unusual - he's not a Roosevelt or even a Bush.

Not long after arriving in our historical town Moustache Guy met the girl of his dreams. An 18 year old tall beautiful private school girl from Sydney. He set about talking reems of bullshit to her and showing her about town. She set about getting it on with the perpetually wasted 19 year old hipster guy from Melbourne who then got it on with someone else before leaving for Cardiff in the hope of getting it on with more people. I say hipster guy but he was really more a hipster-looking guy because all he listened to was crap RNB and worse hip hop. Anyway, Moustache Guy realised that Sydney Girl wasn't into him so, as any reasonable person would do, he tried harder. More bullshit about his family and more buying her drinks with his shrinking savings. One day she left to head back to Aus to study. Moustache Guy spent the rest of his money on diamond earrings as a going away gift. Can't blame a man for trying. I don't think he ever heard from her again but he did get a glimmer of hope when she alluded to one of his unanswered emails when emailing another hostel-dweller. "I know she reads my emails," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "You're jousting the windmills of love," I thought.

The Man Living on Our Floor Part Three

My phone rang. It was Carla.

"I have a big favour to ask. (Moustache Guy) has been kicked out of the hostel. He's standing on the street freezing and needs somewhere to stay. He's too embarrassed to ask you himself."

It wasn't a big surprise. He had no money and was prone to arguing the toss with management over tenants rights (not the brightest idea when you owe rent). The cops kicked him out despite a promise he'd received the day before from the super at the cop shop down the road. "The head of the police station gave me his word that it was not a matter for the police but for the sheriff. I also talked to him about what I know about certain things concerning the Cumbrian independence movement. He said I had a point." Moustache Guy (who'd actually shaved his moustache by this point - no matter) was kicked out by cops on another super's shift.

Moustache Guy turned up at our place with a huge suitcase on rollers. He was wearing a suit, tie and scarf. "I'm sorry guys," he said. "I have nowhere else to go. It'll only be for a few days". That was a month ago.

The Man Living on Our Floor Part Four

I asked The Man Living On Our Floor what went wrong with his dotcom business. I can't paraphrase his story because it didn't make sense so I'll try to reproduce it for you (I should point out that all I asked was, "What happened to the dotcom business?"):

"I was involved with the Cumbrian independence movement. Some people think armed struggle is the only way to deal with authority and I agreed. But then there were other ways of doing things and I disagreed. And then I tried to tell people in authority about certain things but they didn't listen. I said, 'Doesn't anyone care about this' but no one did. I even talked to high level magistrates. I really have a problem with authority when it won't listen, which happens a lot. Anyway, the Cumbrian business and the fact I wasn't sure that our patented technology wasn't in the public domain already was why our dotcom failed."

Over the time I've known the Man Living on Our Floor I've tried to piece together his real story. He speaks and dresses like a posh Englishman but had spent some time in Aus. I figured he'd gone out there during the dotcom boom then hung around for a bit, travelling to rodeos and country races. And talking shit. But as I asked more questions I discovered that he'd spent most of his youth in Aus as well - attending three unposh Melbourne high schools before joining the army. I don't think he could have been in the army very long. He would have made an excellent British officer in the Boer War (ie planning doomed outdated attacks on guerrillas by poorly trained East Londoners while drinking tea served by natives and smoking his pipe) but he wouldn't have been able to hack the Aus army (or, most probably, vice-versa).

So I came to the conclusion that the Man Living On Our Floor was dyslexic and the posh thing an elaborate facade masking an insecure man. I kept a close eye on him when he looked at the paper, suspicious that he couldn't actually read it. Turns out he could. So I adjusted my estimation from "severe learning disability" to "just not very bright".

Lessons in Aussieness

Marianne hadn't experience the finer points of Aussie culture until
a couple of months ago. Sure, we'd gone to the Edinburgh Walkabout for Australia Day drinks - where we drank VB and danced to Khe Sahn until we'd run through our £24 (after about 45 mins) but that wasn't enough to really get a grasp on our way of life. So, you can imagine how overjoyed I was to discover that Kevin 'Bloody' Wilson was coming to town while we were staying in Bournemouth. "He sings funny Aussie songs," I told her.

Anyway, I think the same day we visited Mary Shelley's grave we
went to see the potty-mouthed guy whose tunes I remember well from the primary school playground. He hasn't come up with a lot of material since, it must be said, but he was still as funny as he ever was... Each familiar song was met with a cheer from the crowd, and each sing-a-long chorus met with knowing laughs, before we'd all get a little bored and hang out for the next number. Highlights, for me at least (I'm not sure about Marianne), were, "Do you f*ck on first dates?" and the one where he calls Santa the C word for not bringing the gifts he wanted. I couldn't help but think I would have found this a lot funnier if I were still twelve.

Marianne's next cultural experience came with the Wallabies
northern autumn tour. The missus was happy to discover that on a Wallaby game day I, like any good Aussie male, would be out of her hair for 12 hours or so. I'm sure she was also pleasantly surprised to find me in fine song upon my return from the pub on game day. My blokeish tenor turned an irritating sleep disturbance into a moment of great mirth and merriment.

My mate Alex (from Stanthorpe) and I have also been talking a lot
of cricket - for the missus's benefit of course. I'm hoping some of the talk will rub off and our enthusiasm for the beautiful game will rub off. Just like what happens at home when you talk cricket around women.

Another Aussie Day looms so, without the presence of a Walkabout in
town, I might have to make a few lamingtons (can you believe that the spellchecker thinks this isn't a word), get a case of VB and get the folks to send over taped copies of Kingswood (bloody spellchecker again) Country.

The poms are pretending they're not interested in cricket
again after getting a pasting in the Ashes. At least I don't have to hear another, "How about that Ashes series mate?" from them, like I did for the last year.

I'm off to the Socceroos/Denmark friendly in London in Feb with
Alex and Guinea. It's at Lofus Rd Stadium in Shepherds Bush ('She Bu' to the locals) where approximately 2 million Aussies live. Should be sweet. ((Note: we lost 3-1 and our defence sucked))

Living Next Door to Austen

The day after moving into our new flat I was happy to find a little shop only a block away.

"Do you have any newspapers?" I asked the shopkeeper.

"No, too old for that, far too much work. Gave it up years ago," was the friendly response. I scanned the place and realised there wasn't much of anything. The guy was so friendly I figured his sole reason for trading at his advanced age was so he could have a chat with the locals about Bath rugby and the evils of chain stores.

"Cool," I replied before buying a jar of jam I didn't need and walking a few extra blocks for a paper.
…
So here we are in beautiful historic Bath. This place is great. Georgian buildings everywhere. The architecture is similar to Edinburgh's New Town except, fortunately, Bath has mostly avoided the blight of the Ugly Buildings that scar Scotland's capital (someone please blow up the St James centre). The glaring exceptions being the Hilton (which looks like a Holiday Inn) and the bus station, with its barely breathing mall.

An added bonus of this town is that rather than being half full of neds, it's three fifths full of posh folk with a good portion of the rest of the population made up of students. There are a few chavs (England's answer to neds) making up the numbers but they're all in the Lamb & Lion drinking £1.50 pints - so you know where they are.

Our flat is great. It's just off Great Pulteney St in a Georgian building that once contained expensive homes. The place we're in is fairly sizeable for a one-bedder. Amazing to think it used to be a single room of a townhouse. There are plaques on the buildings around here marking the former lodgings of once or still famous people. I haven't heard of most of them but on one of my frequent walks around the neighbourhood I was happy to find a plaque, about 500 metres from where we live, stating that "Jane Austen lived here from 1801-1806". I haven't read any of her stuff but one of the chicks from the TV version of Pride and Prejudice was pretty hot.