I caught the end of some group therapy TV prog where a roomful of organic bad debts were being encouraged to stop spending what they didn’t have. One credit crunched disaster was singled out for having spent£10,000 on shoes, while another appeared to be single handedly bailing out the entire soft furnishing industry.

Despite Carol’s verbal prodding, I struggled to make any connection to my own spending habits, but in the spirit of house harmony accepted a challenge to record my weekly spending. It is soberingly instructive while turning you into a penny counting meanie with a latent accountancy streak.

And while I accept that stuff – especially in the unique fiscal environment that is robbing London – is ludicrously expensive, life without daily consumerables is kind of miserable.

Allow me to lurch lightly to the right of lunacy. Our coffee run involves a trudge to the local smug Baristas’r’us where I order four drinks and sternly resist all incremental selling of biscuits and flapjacks. 10 minutes later and 10 pounds lighter, I am office bound clutching two normal coffee shaped drinks and something called a skinny cappuccino. With chocolate on top – don’t even ask me to explain that because my final item is a double shot Latte with a vanilla twist created specially for our team metrosexual.

This isn’t New York, it is not even the London office, I am recording real events from bloody Milton Keynes.

“Why can’t we drink normal coffee?” I hear the Microsoft Money’d tutters mutter. Let me say no more than refer you to a previous post on that subject. Nothing has changed except – inexplicably – it has apparently morphed into something even more lethal . And because my taste buds can no longer stomach instant coffee, I’ve been forced to buy my own perky copulator.

We bought a Gaggia so I could back away slowly from the bile and nascent violence of certain forums peopled by those who believe not fridging your coffee beans should invoke a capital offence. An innocent request enquiring upon the best machine for a modest budget ended with the two, er, keenest protagonists threating to kill each other. But, because it’s the Internet, obviously they never left their keyboards but even so… scary.

It came with instructions which – as a bloke hardwired with ‘fuck it, plug it in and see what happens’ DNA – are now illegible after a swift blast on the steamer* launched the milk skywards in the style of a Harrier jump jet. This vertical take off has left an interesting indelible pattern on the ceiling, and accesorised our once black cat with a a sporty stripe.

It took me three strong cups to work it out, by which time I was chugging down Valium in an attempt to stop me wallpapering the entire street.

Anyway you may be unsurprised to hear that my Economy drive lasted exactly two days. The breaking strain of the self imposed fiscal rules was breached by a decision to race off early for a free parking spot, thereby saving myself two pounds. This mad pre-breakfast dash left me no time to prepared any food for the day** – a decision which was to cost me over a tenner come lunchtime.

So our collective decision to try and preserve cash stocks before over fishing renders them extinct has so far seen a purchase of a car, a house*** and a coffee machine. I may as well just buy a new bike and declare myself bankrupt.

World meet Mad. Mad, World.

* Like a milkly fluffer 🙂

** You know when your lunch is trapped in a Tupperware container, middle age is no longer just a number.

*** OK we haven’t. But it’s not through a lack of effort on our part.

I have just had it pointed* out to me that hedgehogs have now been classed as an offensive weapon. This, after an altercation in which a man launched said unwitting mammal at a small boy.

Explaining the attack, in that peculiar language of policemen everywhere, the perpetrator has been charged “for assault with a weapon, namely the hedgehog“. Only as an adjunct to the story do we find that “It was unclear whether the hedgehog was still alive when it was thrown, though it was dead when collected as evidence“.

The rest of the story – not that there is much more to tell – is here.

And because it is clearly novelty news day, soon self important wankers will be able to bray “I’m on the plane” after the EU scandalously approved the use of mobile phones on aircraft. The last bastion of the drunk and unconnected has been breached by the airlines looking to make a fast buck.

Flying is already as close to hell as any living experience can be without adding several hundred Apprentice-Wannabees shouting the odds.

My future travel plans will involve either a donkey or an underground station. Although ironically I find myself facing 2 hours of short-haul travel on Friday. Pass me that hedgehog.

* Yes, I was striving for a hedgehog related verb**

** No, I didn’t say it was going to be amusing.

Help me out here. One ISP publicly washes its’ hands of monitoring their networks for naughty people stealing music. In a move reminiscent of Pontius Pilot, TalkTalk are playing the “we’re just the conduit card and the security of your digital property is nothing to do with us” card. Okay, well I can sort of accept that especially since the music industry doesn’t seem to be coughing up the requisite greenbacks to fund an army of net-watches.

And yet here we have BT spying on all of our browsing habits in order to target us with specific advertising. That’s the same bloody thing isn’t it? Oh now I see what i missed – one of them costs money and the other one makes it. So it is fuck all to do with ethics, corporate responsibility or even the protection of people’s livelihoods. It’s about making more cash, abusing the privilege of net privacy and applying a moral code forged in the crucible of capitalism.

I would respect TalkTalk’s position more if they’d just ponyed up with “look there is no money in this for us, link it with some advertising revenue and maybe we can do a deal”. As for BT, well they’ve been fucking people over since Mercury had the temerity to target a tiny percentage of their market share. I’d trust Max Mosely over those slippery wankers*.

Loosely related is the Government’s headline splash on a technological solution to pedophiles stalking children on social networking sites. What a masterstroke because anyone who has spent five seconds in the digital age cannot, of course, create a disposable email address. It’s worse than doing nothing because it creates a false sense of security for anyone dumb enough to believe anything these attention seeking worthies put out.

And if we’re talking useless organisations today – after constant chasing – we received “We are not returning your call. The person you need is on holiday. We hope to be able to provide an update next week” from the seller’s solicitors. This is an except copy of the last time they could be bothered to reply, except the date has moved on two weeks. Fax all use frankly, so sadly it looks like Cabbage-Land will not be for us.

Frustrating is not the word. Well it is because I cannot easily convey a digital copy of the noise a head makes repeatedly smacking a keyboard. Let’s try “gfljklsgjklsfhnklhdsjihdsjhjisioas”. That’s what is tattooed on my forehead 🙁

* possibly not an ideal choice of phrase. If what is alleged turns out to be true 😉

Do you remember that homely truism that used to do the rounds on novelty mugs*. You know the one: something needs doing, someone will do it ….. lots of less than humorous play on words …. gets you to nobody doing it**

You don’t? Well let me recount a modern parable that neatly encompasses everything that is wrong with trying to buy a house. Someone wants to buy your house. You want to buy someone else’s house. This other person – allegedly – wants to sell their house. The estate agents want their money. The solicitors want to move at the speed of glacial erosion. The somebody buying your house would like to move in. The somebody selling to you is a useless knucklehead who moves at a pace that makes the solicitors look positively sprightly.

The house you want to buy has covenants, trusts, tax dodges and – for all I know – mortgage capital leveraged on little know moon-rock aggregate market. This is more of a problem because the seller could not find his arse with both hands and a copy of Gray’s anatomy. The solicitors promise little and deliver even less. No one knows what a deadline is. If they looked under an entry for “returning their clients call“, maybe they could work it out.

One person gets angry. Very, very angry. Begins laying about himself with the modern day equivalent of a bloodied spear. I speak of the weapon of mass distraction that is the humble home computer. Most people receive a shrift so short, it could apply for a vertically compromised grant. Words such as ‘useless‘, ‘incompetent‘ and ‘unprofessional’ are oft repeated, honest phrases such as ‘total fuckwits‘ narrowly miss the final edit.

Some people promise action this week. All people lie like a cheap rug. One person draws big bloody line in the sand and declares himself and his family soon to be homeless.

Nobody cares.

We are trying to give someone with something they want to sell a vast amount of money. How sodding hard can it be? We have to sell our house because the last thing we need right now, are our buyers to withdraw their offer through boredom or frustration.

And because we are not some kind of raving bloody nutters, we are making it nice and easy to buy our house. The plethora of solicitors, estate agents and general hangers on add nothing but delay and stupidity. Why can’t I just turn up with a bagful of money and a determined expression?

Apparently every other country does it better. Although, that’s not the boldest of claims when I would consider burglary and squatting a far more reasonable approach that what we’ve been through.

* Come the revolution, the mugs who do novelty shall seamlessly morph into into the screaming humans that do scorpion pits.

** I googled without success for the full text. Clearly I don’t have the mind of the kind of person who would happily hand over real money for a hand crafted RoundTuit.

I have never been that bothered about breaking rules. This is not Internet bravado – merely, having calculated the chances of getting caught or measuring the consequences, stepping over someone else’s line is almost always worth the risk. Which makes speeding and under age drinking perfectly all right, while ensuring setting fire to Belgium probably isn’t*

But here we must draw a distinction when considering my own rules. For those of you immersed in the deep thinking philosophy of the hedgehog, these should be self-evident. For anyone still clinging to sanity, let me explain the guiding principles:

1: Life is too short to drink with arseholes

2: You can’t take it with you when you go**

And because the gravitational pull of these morality comets is inescapable for those of us who find life a little too confusing, it was a shock to find myself with a handful of beer and a face full of idiot. He had a silly name and a stupidly elevated view of his own importance – an impression I was unfortunately to cement during an indeterminable passage of time.

It was like the worse wedding you have ever been too, only with signifcantly more corporate cock. He grooved through the traditional gambit of birthplaces, work experiences and then – with a noticeable acceleration of enthusiasm – wouldn’t it be a great idea if we played a round of golf.

But I’ve been around this kind of nonsense for far too long, so was ready for it. I responded to his question with an expression – honed over twenty years of received bullshit – which best translates to “Do I look like a total FuckNugget? Actually, don’t answer that, just assume I am not”

He only bloody ignored it. He was too busy talking and not listening, gesticulating and not looking, trying to charm, never failing to annoy. And before I knew it the whole facade has been escalated to “Hey why not bring your boss – you know the important person I really want to talk to – and make sure he’s ready to sign some purchase orders”

I try and convey – through the little understood art of facial poetry – that if he doesn’t cease and desist RIGHT THIS SODDING INSTANT, I shall be forced to slam his forehead onto the table, remove his spleen with my soup spoon, before hunting down and exterminating his immediate family to ensure they cannot breed.

Like the pro he knew he was he ignored that as well, instead asking how long I’d had that difficult squint. I resorted to explaining my only hobbies were Herring Throwing and – when they were out of season – Moon Drilling. He still didn’t get it, but that’s what happens if you’re unaware why the human design calls for one mouth and two ears.

Desperately searching for violence displacement activity, I struck on an idea as simple as it was brilliant. I held up a finger for silence, rested my elbows in a threatening manner and – in a tone so flat it could have been laser cut – said: “Let me stop you there. You need to understand my life rules”

The evening improved immeasurably after that.

* Because the reward of being awarded a Nobel prize for inspiring urban planning is mitigated by the risk of spending a hundred years in prison.

** Although the financially prudent amongst you may archly observe that “You still need some money while you’re still here“

The last thing we did before leaving for New Zealand – aside from tranquillising the children and undertaking a desperate search for passports – was to sell Carol’s old car. And today, in a moment of breathtaking fiscal recklessness, we’ve bought a new one.

Not a second hand one as planned, not spending a responsible sum that we actually had hidden in the banking sock, instead we’ve plumped for a pay half now and pretend something financially magical will occur before the remainder of the bill is due in twelve months time. We’ve also spunked this non existent cash on a car due for a bit of mid term botox and face lift in two months time. So forget all the first owner taxes, we’ve also plumped for something with built in obsolescence.

Now those of you who have observed my frantic attempts at stability during regular economics earthquakes, are probably nodding sagely and wondering why this latest financial fault line even merits a mention. Well, this time, it was almost nothing to do with me, or at least I’m only partly responsible*. It all started so well – we wandered into the Honda dealer clutching a virtual quote, and loudly wondering why anyone would pay list price.

The reason – apparently – is that these shady characters on the Internet are either importing them from space or building cars out of lego. We gently reminded the sales fella that the big grey Honda outside had been sourced from the very same Internet broker. From a dealer up the road and for 15{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} less than the advertised price.

Haggling commenced. I am rubbish at this – either losing my temper or agreeing that a set of mats is materially equivalent to about a £1000. Carol is better so I left her to it, instead heroically attempting to prevent the kids from breaking everything in the showroom. So slightly distracted was I when a haggled number was presented for approval. Franky, I just wanted to get out before we spent about that much on repairs, since the kids had just gleefully declared “hey Dad we can get from the boot to the back seat using the Honda ride-on mower as a drill”

We should never have even got this far, but when a second hand car, which has been registered, driven for twelve months and then sold on, costs more than a new one, it’s clear that you may as well just give in and hand over some cash for a new one. It’s stupid, badly thought through and about as cost effective as running a fleet of mountain bikes, but in our defence we have quite alot going on right now and one more car showroom may have pushed me over the edge.

I don’t like Salesmen much. Unless they are in the cross hairs.

We did consider a one car, four people scenario but even with public transport, it’s difficult and – to be honest – we really can’t be arsed with it. It’ll be even worse when we move as the kids’ll need driving to school, and the only mass transit in Herefordshire appears to be a ancient donkey pulling a cart.

So here we are in mid March, and so far in 2008 we have bought** a house, spent three weeks on a once in a lifetime holiday, and now bought a brand new car***. On the credit side, £300 saw Carol’s old car shipped out and I’ve sold some forks.

At this rate, I fully expect to have purchased a small Pacific Island and a charter airline by the end of the year. Our levels of altruism to family-handedly spend the country out of recession are matched only by the precarious fiscal arrangements to do so. Still as a wise man once said to me “When you owe the bank £1000, you are in debt to them, borrow a Million and they are in debt to you”

Failing that, anyone want to buy some pre-loved children?

* not a term generally used in the same universe as “Alex” and “Money”

** for a given value of bought. So far we have bought nothing more than expensive hours from solicitors.

*** There has been some expenditure generically labelled “bikeage” but this is merely business as usual.