Hold It
Escaping from a small, dark flat with mouldy walls and manky carpet. It’s great. It’s also great to know that you are no longer paying a ridiculously unfair amount of rent for the privilege of being driven to slit your wrists by the unbearable cold and damp. But the best thing of all is never having to hear that psychotic weirdo with the plastic bag shouting “HOLD IT, HOLD IT HOLD IT!” over and over again as he shuffles along Camden Street, bepissing himself.
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Hey, it could be worse.
This reminds me of, yet another joke:
YOU KNOW YOU’RE A HOBO WHEN….
your bathtub is also known as the toilet.
you like the aroma of your own poo.
the only places you can go to eat is the soup kitchen and the roadkill grill.
The ‘Roadkill Grill’ sounds promising. It could be just the type of crazy business scheme to take off.
Oh. God.
I’m pretty sure we lived in the same flat. Top floor? Three rooms? Scary-sounding bathroom fan? Poorly poly-filla’d over hole in the wall?
I’ll never forget Mr. Hold It (twas what we called him). Twice a day you could hear him like clockwork.
That sounds a lot like my old flat, especially the polyfilla part. Mister Hold it was having a very serious effect on my mental health. I was fit to stab him, then hand him the bloodied knife and say, “HOLD IT.”