Counting Cats in Zanzibar Rotating Header Image

I was going to say something serious…

… but the Cat’s server was playing Les Buggeurs Risible. Anyway this is a shorty. I used to live in Leeds (dreadful by and large – if it ain’t the Devil’s arsehole it is well within the CEP farting zone of it). Anyhoo, one day, to relieve the sheer horror*, I take a trip to Harrogate. Most genteel it was too. Didn’t like that much either. Rather too much up itself if you ask me. I apologise for the arse jokes though we shall shortly enter another orifice.

Harrogate has many bijou shops selling crap to the sort of people who have more money than sense. One of the noted (by me anyway) galleries of over-priced crap was called and I swear I’m not making this up called Godfrey and Twatt.

I almost expired from laughter after leaving it (well I had to go in). It was so full of pretentious shite it needed a colonic. Fortunately there was a place for that round the corner. That’s Yorkshire for you. Urban hell-holes and rural places that think they are Chelsea with scenery. Oh, and Compo going down a hill in a tin-bath. I hated that show. From the dreary theme tune to the geriatric pace and all ports between.

Here endeth the ramble.

*I once lived on Meanwood Rd. If that sounds Dickensian that’s because it was. My landlord was Rory Aikins. I saw him on telly not that long since. I once torched a chair of his in the back yard. I swear to God, Allah and Shiva that there were “things” living in it. So I took it outside and with the aid of a newspaper had a bonny. I’d asked him first, mind. He may have had some sentimental attachment to this dreadful thing but he said OK. He took it off my fucking deposit mind. Cunt. Utter cunt.


  1. RAB says:

    I have no idea what you’re on about Nick, but in the spirit of the post… I went to Harrogate once. The Bath of the North; genteel as you say. Both Spa towns of course. Wasn’t it the place Dustin Hoffman found Agatha Christie after she’d gone missing after her hubbies infidelity? I saw her rooms in the hotel in Aswan where she wrote Death on the Nile too. Very nice.

    We had a landlord in West Bridgford who rented us a house that had no carpets, none whatsoever. It still had no carpets 6 months later despite repeated requests. So as the Law student, I was delegated to put the frighteners on him. Two weeks later the carpet turned up. We found it dumped in the front garden. It was about six feet high and in one solid roll. The cheapest nastiest come apart in your hands hamster fur sprayed on rubber backed crap you have ever had to put on a face-mask and gloves to handle. And it was red. Without the assistance of our in house maths and chemistry students, who understood things like square feet, we would never have got the cancerous pile of shite apportioned to each of our rooms.

    When we left, 12 months later, he had the nerve to tell us that we had devalued his property by £3000. We knew he’d only paid five for it. But then he was so new to the game of ripping off tenants that he’d never asked for a deposit in the first place. Student Power!

  2. NickM says:

    I was not trying to make a point. I was getting into my annecdotage and just telling a story! What on earth were you living in West Bridgeford for? I mean why? That’s a hike! I lived in Lenton which was pretty much half-way between the city and the uni. b

  3. John Galt says:

    He took it off my fucking deposit mind.

    Yes, I’ve had the thieved deposit thing before now, which was before all of this Tenancy Deposit Scheme legislation came in.

    Typical bullshit would be that the place was cleaned spic-and-span (mostly better than on arrival) and then when you asked for the deposit back you’d get a couple of hundred quid deducted for “cleaning”, which we both knew was bullshit or maybe it would all be snatched for some spurious decorating or pre-existing/non-existent “damage”.

    In the end, I just started taking before and after photo’s of everything and when the deposit was not returned would do a couple of rounds of polite letters explaining why I was due my money back and escalating to a final Letter Before Action and finally a writ under the Small Claims Track of the local County Court (technically an N1 Claim Form)

    Never had any of them actually defend the claim, just got a cheque in the post from the agency.

    Tedious, but thoroughly enjoyable…

  4. RAB says:

    I’ve no idea how we ended up there, and yes it was a bloody hike, one bus into town and another out again. We lived right down the end of Lady Bay Road. One bright Spring day the house decided to go for a walk (8 of us) and instead of heading towards the Forest ground and Trent Bridge, we went the other way. Five minutes later we all went “fuck me! look at this, fields and fences and moo-cows and stuff! We remember those” (you know what Nottingham is like. I was on the top of a bus in Slab square once, and this little kid was looking at the grass around the edge of the flowerbeds, and said… are those fields mum?). Eventually we came to the Water Sports Centre which they had just built. We had no idea it was there. As boring a piece of water as I ever laid eyes on mind. Looked like a swimming pool built for Titans.

    Last place I lived in was Wilford Road in the Meadows, which wasn’t too bad, apart from it being like Fort Apache, an enclave of civilisation in the middle of a white criminal ghetto. If you went into the local pub round the corner it was like Clint Eastwood walking into the saloon, everything stopped and everybody stared at you. The whole place looked like Saturday Night and Sunday morning. All torn down now though. They were starting to tear it down then. I have some great black and white pics of the place. Maybe I should do a post.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: