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.

Stereotypes are terrible things – intellectually lazy, socially derivative and the last refuge of anyone who believes anything they read in the Daily Mail. But as a heterosexual bloke of over 40, I cannot be alone in caring absolutely nothing for fashion. “Oh Yes Indeedy” I hear from anyone who’s every seen me clothed* – if I wear anything costing over about twenty quid, it looks like I’ve nicked it. Coat hangers are more debonair than I when presented in a suit.

But this is normally not a problem because after thirty five years of dressing myself, it’s not exactly difficult to effect presentability at work and wantonly slobby at home. Outside of suits for the office, the remainder of – what I’ll charitably refer to as – my wardrobe is generally accessorised with edgy oil stains, custom rips, emulsion paint flashes and unidentified stains which would worry a toxicology lab.

My clothes tend to follow a well worn path from briefly pristine, through a period of uncared for use, before ascending to their true purpose of bike rags. The idea of chucking something away before it has broken down to original threads is diametrically opposed to my approach to upgrading shiny bits for my mountain bikes.

So all is good if not stylish until I was forced to embrace the fashion foolishness that is ‘Business Casual’. Stereotypes again – let me hear a “What the FUCK?” from anyone with a sense of what’s important. My approach was to go with jeans and wing it but Carol refused to send me out of the house in any of the motley collection of chain-ring scarred troons. So with her acting as personal shopper and me acting like a five year old, we embarked on a voyage of fashion discovery.

It soon became apparent that I am not able to pull off a fashionable pair of trousers. The problem begins when I can’t even pull on a pair of said trousers. Being configured for a difficult hybrid of dwarf and cyclist from the hips down, my thighs are too fat, my arse is to big and my legs too short to carry off anything not declaring themselves comfort fit.

Although you’d have to bloody well furtively carry them off under the gloom of night rather than actually presenting them for payment. Firstly because they look bloody ridiculous and secondly because they represent a wad of beer vouchers even I’d consider reasonably significant. Not that I’d ever get that far because I am the Howard Hughes of shopping for clothes.

Put me in a room of my peers and you have to dart me with a tranquilizer to shut me up. But I can get properly self conscious next to a pot plant when interacting with those who are fully trained in the art of pantaloon salesmanship. “Can I help you sir?” is instantly babelfished** into “H’mm 40, poor posture, leg length of similar dimensions to man stood in deep ditch, no real belly but what is going on with those thighs? It’s an experiment gone horribly wrong where some psycho generic engineer has grafted two milk bottles*** onto his arse. Still quite a decent sized unit to work with back there“

So while they gently guide me away from the glitzy marketing of pulling trousers, and on beyond the dusty shelves of slacks, 80’s chinos and dreadful trouseroons apparently hand woven from hemp, I can still hear the shushed hysteria of the other assistants whispering “Have you seen that old bloke? Where are his legs?“

Right here and striding from the shop clutching nothing other than a few remaining shards of dignity. Is it beyond the comprehension of the oh-so-cool designers than a normal bloke requires nothing more from a pair of trousers than to prevent him mooning in the street? He does not require tailoring which prevents circulation and stay presses his knob for all to see. Nor a crutch that hangs low enough to suggest a third leg or a colostomy bag. And at no point do studs, rips, patches, oddly located pockets or buttons ever enter his orbit of needs.

He just wants to feel appropriately and comfortably trousered without resorting to those pants so vaunted by our elderly American cousins. You know the ones which fasten just under the breastbone and speak of golf and upcoming death.

In desperation, I asked my personal shopper at what age beach shorts and mountain bike t-shirts become a bit combed-back ponytail embarrassing. The answer is 11 and apparently they also fail to pass muster in terms of suitability for the problem of business casual. The second point was firmly made before I even asked the question.

This argument went on for some time.

However you will – I’m sure – be relieved to hear I have secured sufficient trouserage collateral to spend the best part of next week in Barcelona. I fully intend to sneak in a pair of shorts and proudly display my stumpy legs to an entire convention of IT geeks. Let’s face it, most of them still looked like they have been dressed by their mum so I’m going to be a vision of sartorial elegance.

Probably.

* There are a few who – having seen me rather more naked – would suggest you can count yourself bloody lucky.

** What do you mean you’ve never read HHGTTG. Stop wasting your time with this drivel and get over there this instant. And no, watching the film doesn’t count. Not even a little bit.

*** this joke only works if you’ve seen proper old glass bottles. Anyone in the prime of their life will know exactly what I’m talking about.