Most of the time at home i am fairly quiet. I dont own a hi-fi, my telly is small and apart form the 2 hours of crying afterwards, i am the silent assasin between the sheets. It is for largely this reason that i abhor noise of any kind from housemates and neighbours. I once lived with this guy who would regularly rock home at 2am on a Tuesday to fill his moronic little face full of ketamine and crank up ‘Human’ by The Killers at full volume. UNFORGIVABLE I often toyed with the idea of reeking savage revenge on him. A simple session of face time with lady brick would be to obvious and nowhere near the Patrick Bateman masterpiece i had in mind. I considered poisoning his tooth paste with the evil murky waters that lurk in the bottom of the toilet brush holder. Bit messy though and still not the swan song i was after. My favourite idea was to steam into his room at about 6am, naked, sobbing uncontrolably and smeared with my own blood and excrement. I would then proceed to sing the chours from the unbearable Killers over and over again at the top of my voice while rhythmically pumling him with my firsts, feet and forehead. Over and over i would scream that chorus until one or more of us was unconcious or dead. Of course i never went through with it. I just moved out. Shame really. On a different note a few years ago i briefly holidayed in the Peak District where at night its so quiet you can actually hear yourself ageing. You can hear each with cell whispering its last tiny death rattle before gently expiring and being replaced by another slightly inferiour version of itself. Depressing yet comforting at the same time. A little like finding out a relative has died by reading the news on a packet of Valium.
Taken from my monthly column in IDJ Magazine