Not mine, but the removers we used
When I was a nipper in 1972, we moved from NI (norn arlan) to 'the mainland'.

We got on well with the movers, particularly as they took the same ferry etc. They were sharing stories with us and we asked about the worst they'd had. Chap said it wasn't necessarily the worst, but made them laugh.

They turned up at a house, and when they arrived, the family stood up from the breakfast table and left. They hadn't even washed up.

So.... They duly, as arranged, packed the house, and the breakfast table, memorising everything, and, at the other end, completely unpacked the house and put the dirty breakfast dishes exactly as arranged at the original house.
(jerrykew He who codes last, codes least, Wed 7 Jan 2015, 13:08, Reply)

Looking in from the outside- working for a landlord. Aka: why your house sucks and is full of broken stuff.
A while ago I found myself between jobs and ended up working for the landlord as a maintenance man. Here is my tale.

1. The layers of abstraction.
Renters have a simple relationship right? You give money to the landlord who lets you live in your house in return. lolnope. Odds are you are paying a property management company who manages for the actual owner. unless they are leasing the property, or outsourcing the management to another lettings agent. Getting the owners permission to carry out any work is like a game of Chinese whispers, where the end goal is to try and convince an absentee landlord living abroad the need to replace curtains that the mold has gotten to.

2. lack of communication.
Due to aforementioned byzantine ownership/permission hierarchies I was not allowed to do any work without a signed work order. This would be a list of helpful information such as 'light not working'. On arriving at the property it would be up to me to track down the problem. Often while explaining to any tenants that I couldn't do anything not listed on the work order. And that any additional problems would have to be sorted out by calling the landlord and waiting another six weeks for the new work order to get back to me.

3. Juggling responsibilities.
I found myself being the sole maintenance man for a list of over two hundred properties. It was my job to sort out what order to do various repairs. This was done with a simple list of priorities ranging from 'flames/sparks shooting out' to 'ugly colour'. If you have been waiting on a repair in your home for a while, chances are its because another tenant is up to their ankles in toilet water and carbon monoxide.

4. Time management I
The best way to get me to fly into a murderous rage is to ask me to 'just do' something. After working out a time where I could finally get access to 123XYZ street to fix the broken toilet, I would be told "Can you just pop by 321ZYX street and get it ready for the new people?". This couldn't be put off as the new tenants were moving in in two days. Oh and the previous lot trashed the place, and the property is on the other side of the city in the middle of a traffic clusterfuck. This scenario played out at least once a week.

5. Time management II
I worked under the strict instruction that I would always buy the cheapest materials possible. Try painting over stains with 'paint' the consistency of milk. Especially as layering it over may bring the twenty year old wallpaper down with the weight, followed by the forty year old plaster. Most of my work was involved in patching up the cracks and making do. Planning long term and taking time to complete a job was be strictly penalized.

6. Paying for the mistakes of previous people.
Given that getting any repairs on the property is a an uphill struggle its not uncommon for a lot of people to say 'fuck this' and just give up on paying rent, giving notice and tidying up. If you wonder why your landlord hates you before you have already moved in its because he is judging you by the last set of assholes. Of course this works the other way too. One nice group of people had vacated a property in a flawless condition. Except for two missing light bulbs in the kitchen. This cost them a significant chunk of their deposit. Being billed for the time for me to drive to the property carry a ladder up four flights of stairs, find out the obscure fitting for the halogen spotlights,check the electrical connections, drive to the hardware shop buy two light bulbs, drive back and fit them, carry a ladder down four flights of stairs and drive back to the office.

TL;DR its worth complaining about every little thing even just to create a paper trail.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sat 17 Jan 2015, 14:42, 16 replies)

Not my house...
Over the month of November I had to essentially move in with my in-laws as things were getting very bad over there. How bad?

-father-in-law (FIL) had pneumonia and mother-in-law (MIL) had bronchitis.
-FIL began having a major mental lapse due to said pneumonia and became incoherent and hallucinating.
-both take loads of pills per day to keep them healthy, all prescribed by doctors. They kept forgetting to take them. Over the past six months they had taken less than half of their meds.
-they were living on what FIL cooked in the morning (eggs scrambled with spinach, squash and canned mushrooms) and the occasional dinner out, and sometimes going to a cheap diner for breakfast. Both were losing weight at an alarming rate.
-MIL had been falling down a lot, and FIL is not strong enough to get her back up.

Despite all of these things and more, they were refusing to give up their 2400 sq ft home and move to assisted living (not a nursing home). FIL had become such a bad driver that they guy at the body shop shook my hand when he found out that I had confiscated the keys and was now doing all of the driving, because FIL had taken to "playing a lot of bumper tag."

So I moved in with them and did a very hard sell on the assisted living place. Long story short, after a couple of weeks of getting proper nutrition, full meds and full sleep (I threatened to pull the plug on the cable if FIL didn't shut the damn thing off by 11), I succeeded. In early December I packed up their essentials and drove them to the facility, where my brother-in-law took over.

Meanwhile the wife and I went back to the house to gather furniture to take up to the facility, and in the process had to empty drawers and closets. In the process we found:

-no fewer than 14 tubes of lube
-several types of herbal supplements intended as Viagra
-numerous books of erotica and guides to sex
-other items which I will not mention as I am trying to block them out.

Parents out there, when you reach a certain age, do your children a favor and discreetly get rid of intimate things. The trauma induced was enough to put us off our feed for a couple of weeks.
( Wanderer, Tue 13 Jan 2015, 11:44, 32 replies)

Liverpool, 2009
I should preface by saying that, whilst my story does involve many themes of a stereotypical nature about the above Merseyside city, it really is actually a very nice place with really friendly people, and I spent many happy years there. But anyway...

It was 2009, and my future wife and I were in the process of moving house. We were just moving across the road, so she was tidying and deep cleaning to get our deposit back, whilst my friend and I ran back and forth with boxes and furniture. On the way back from one shuttle run we couldn't open the front door. This would make leaving the building (and moving the furniture) difficult. But wait - there was a kindred spirit on the other side, wanting to travel in the opposite direction to visit his mate! We spoke through the door, and he ended up buzzing my flat so my friend could run upstairs and unlock the jammed mechanism.

I'm not naive, and I'd been apprehensive about giving someone my flat number just as I was going out, but I literally had no other option if I wanted to get my moving done. When I opened the door my worst fears were realised. Imagine every unfair stereotype of a Scouse child that you could imagine. I'd just quit teaching in a horrible school in Liverpool so I could imagine a fair bit, and this kid embodied everything I'd hated about the experience. He'd probably nicked his haircut. He walked past my mate and we telepathically knew that he'd broken the door -and what was going to happen next.

We sprinted back to my old flat, grabbed some heavyish stuff (bar stools and an Ikea rocking chair), and got back as fast as we could. As we returned we saw a mutual friend who also lived in my new building unpacking some Ikea furniture from a van (Warrington Ikea was close, okay?!). He asked if we'd seen a dodgy looking kid roaming the halls. We filled him in on the situation, and our posse swelled to three.

We made contact in the stairwell. He was putting a computer game in his deep-pocketed robbing trousers; a game with a distinctive mark on the case. My friend ran up to the flat as my neighbour and I questioned him.

"Hi mate, which flat have you been to see?"
"32"
"I live in 32. Which flat have you been to see?"
"Er, I meant 42..."
"These flats only go up to 36, and that's my game. You've just robbed me."
"Fuck off!"

My friend came down and confirmed the break in, so we called the police. The thief tried to scarper, but my friend had blocked the door with the furniture as he went to disk 999. The scally still resisted, but my neighbour used to do Kung Fu, and I was about two weeks away from doing my first Dan in Ju-Jitsu. He was staying right where he was!

Those chain emails about off-duty marines destroying petty criminals might sound good, but you don't want the police to arrive and see an outnumbered teenager with a brand new case of brain damage, so containment was the order of the day. He managed to wriggle out of my first headlock when I saw him going puce and loosened it slightly (again, didn't want him to lose consciousness, as it could end up on me as the trained individual). My neighbour then tried to put on a wrist lock on him but he snaked out of that (he was a slippery little fuck!). I then decided that he needed to be grounded, so I threw him to the floor. Or I would have done, if the wall of the corridor hadn't broken his fall. This knocked the stuffing out of him and he sat down on the stairs, before trying to bribe his way out by giving me my stuff back (only the Wii games, mind, not the fucking PS3 controllers he'd nicked as well).

The police arrived.

"Hello again Ryan!"
"Alright..."

Turns out this wasn't his first time: he'd moved his operation down into Toxteth as everyone was wise to him in nearby Dingle, and he was going to get his mum evicted because of his thievery. He had his brains to fall back on though - he'd kicked in (the fortunately empty) flat 23 before my flat 32.

We got the moving done (just!). I got to see a proper forensics team in action (they obtained a fragment of shoe print from where he kicked our shitty Yale lock in and were able to identify the trainer brand on sight - I thought that was quite impressive!). I got two new locks fitted the next day and got to know our building's maintenance manager really well. He made us feel really welcome - he didn't even mind that the forensics dust was still clinging onto the door when we left three years later!

Tldr: Scouse kid shouldn't have robbed my flat. He got a year.
(Dowbocop, Mon 12 Jan 2015, 1:02, 27 replies)

SofaGate...
Not so long ago I calculated that I have lived at no fewer than 26 addresses over the years. Moving house is a (mostly) well rehearsed routine now, although I've been in my current place for about 10 years or so... so doing good so far.

Once incident that sticks in my mind is SofaGate.

Years ago I lived in a bedsit in Reading for a while. The door to the flat was on the ground floor, accessible from the outside. I'd gotten to know the couple that lived in the basement flat. I had somehow acquired (via my mother I think) a HUGE sofa she'd bin-raked from some refurbishment. It was the entire width of the room and doubled as a bed. When it came to moving out, my downstairs neighbours coveted said huge sofa, and it was too massive to go in the van. "Sure. You can have it, if we can get it down those stairs to the basement." The basement flat, you also got to via the outside of the building and was just one long set of steps in a narrow-ish stairwell.

Anyway, try as we might, we could not get this sofa down there. We pushed, we pulled, we tried it this way, we tried it that way. Basically.. it was not going to happen. So we tried to get the damned sofa back out. Unfortunately it was well and truly wedged in the stairwell and would not budge. By this time, we looked at each other and just started laughing at the stupidity of the situation... this sofa...sticking half out of the stairs, wedged. Three of us got to the bottom of the sofa and pushed... HEAAAAAAVEE!.. FOOM! The sofa shot out of the stairwell, pivoted on end for a bit and then toppled over and with an almighty crash went straight through next door's window. I mean... the whole lot.. the frame, the glass, the sash... trashed. "FUUUUUUUUUU..."

Then the lady who lived in that flat popped her head round the sofa and calmly said: "Umm... is this yours?" Like this was some trifilng little issue that happens every day.

All of us of course did the only thing possible at this point, which was to start screaming with laughter.. laughing so much we couldn't breathe, tears rolling down our faces.

Unfortunately the very prim and proper stuck-up landlady whose name was something like Mrs Snooty Harrington-Badgerface that lived next door had heard all the commotion and appeared.

"WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON HERE?"

"WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS! YOU ARE GOING TO PAY FOR THIS DAMAGE!!"

The angrier she got, the more we laughed, completely and utterly helplessly out of control. And the more we laughed, the angrier and shoutier and redder she got.

"THIS IS NOT FUNNY! LOOK AT THIS MESS! THIS IS COMING OUT OF YOUR DEPOSIT!!"

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

I honestly thought I was going to pass out from not breathing.

Needless to say, I didn't get my deposit back for that one.

She came up with some lame excuse like I hadn't washed the net curtains and this was worth the remaining £500 deposit.
(robl, Tue 13 Jan 2015, 11:35, 3 replies)

Friends with benefits.
Hang on to your boaters you public school poofters, I have a confession to make. I once lived in a council house on a council estate! Yes, a council house. The estate nestled on the edge of a northern city and was infested with inbred Ryans and Shannons thieving, vandalising and shagging their way to a life on benefits and prison. I liked them, obviously, but it was still something of a culture shock for me and my family. We had enjoyed our life in the country before the bankruptcy. Faced with the choice of homelessness, a room in a bed and breakfast ‘hotel’ or a council house we opted for the latter.
We endured, sorry, enjoyed five very stimulating years on the estate before we were finally able to return to society. A period in which we had stolen cars dumped on our front lawn and torched, a Piebald gypsy stallion being released to gallop around our garden, our windows being egged at regular intervals and numerous shit parcels posted through our letter box. Not to mention the bullying of our kids and the three times we were burgled, all in all I think we integrated pretty well.
Much of this delightful behaviour was instigated by our immediate neighbour and his pack. Our houses were separated by a thirty foot long privet hedge. Grossly overgrown at twelve feet high it was the pride and joy of the head claimant but it looked a bloody mess. Shortly after moving in I bought a hedge trimmer and slowly but surely over the years I trimmed the hedge down to a less ridiculous height of about nine feet. To appease the beast next door and to avoid a deluge of shit parcels and false pizza deliveries, I always trimmed his side of the hedge too. Never a word of thanks though.
Don’t give up yet, I’m getting to the point. Thanks to Thatcher, after two years we were able to buy the house and then after a further three years we were able to put it on the market. I did the house up beautifully but the only sticking point to attracting a sale was the huge privet hedge. I hired a chain saw and hacked a further three feet off the top of the hedge. That was the plan anyway but Mr Meathead had other ideas. He went fucking spare when he saw what I was doing and made it clear that the saw would end up my arse if I continued. Not wanting to waste my hire fee, I continued to lower my half of the hedge anyway and leave his untouched. I made the best of a bad job and it can’t have looked too bad because we had a buyer the following week.
During the six weeks after agreeing the sale and my family actually moving out, my friend next door, still stinging after my assault on his beloved hedge, upped the ante in the anti-social behaviour stakes. He made our lives hell but I never responded in kind. I was more intelligent, civilised and mature and unbelievably happy to be moving out. We escaped with our lives and vowed never to return to that area again. I couldn't resist though and about a year later I returned very early one morning for one last look at the old place. The thirty foot long privet hedge was now a light brown tangle of dead sticks. Not a green leaf in sight. It appeared to be deceased, dead, a hedge no more. I smiled and remembered fondly how I had accidentally spilled twenty litres of copper sulphate solution around the roots of the hedge just before I left. The five litres of B &Q Rootkiller can’t have helped much either.
(mallyjoe, Thu 8 Jan 2015, 20:43, 18 replies)

I can't imagine this producing many replies, as most of the people here still live with their parents.

( Muns, Wed 7 Jan 2015, 14:33, 9 replies)

piece of piss
i was living in a shitty high rise block, which was all that had been available at the time. knowing they were kicking everyone out and having to rehome them soon, i stayed put.
as a result of this, when time came to be hoofed out, i got a lovely ground floor flat with a massive garden, the removal men and van were paid for by the council and i was given £3,850 "for the inconvenience".
happy fucking days!

EDIT: just pointing out that i lived there for 7 years and had no idea for the first five that plans were being made to evict all the tenants and close the block. once plans were announced, nobody else was allowed to move in, so nobody could take advantage of the council's policy of paying out to people being evicted when they didn't want to be.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Wed 14 Jan 2015, 15:23, 22 replies)

Murphy's Law vs. Karma
I last moved nine years ago. I still go pale and clammy at the thought.

First, we discovered that there was some mortgage paperwork which was still in joint names - the names being me and my ex-girlfriend, whom I hadn't spoken to or seen for fifteen years. So I had to track her down, and hope that she would sign a release - otherwise she would be entitled to half the profit on the sale.

I managed to find her, and thankfully she was happy to sign. So I contacted the freeholder to get him to sign the release too. At which point he decided to die. Selfish bastard. I managed to get to the office just as they were in the process of closing up to go to the funeral, and luckily the form was on the top of the pile so the secretary signed it before they closed - indefinitely.

At last we can exchange contracts! Our buyers had been complete shits for the whole process, continuously finding "issues" that required us to lower the sale price. But now they excelled themselves: they announced that they had, in fact, lied about having the deposit. They didn't have it. Not a bean.

Our solicitor did some legal magic, and made the problem go away (basically insuring for the amount of the deposit against the chain collapsing). Finally, contracts were exchanged.

All this was against the backdrop of Mrs Moon Monkey being something like 9.5 months pregnant. So you can imagine the stress level.

Then, in the week before moving, a strange, fetid smell began to waft into the house. A smell like Beelzebub's Bristly Bunghole, a foul stench that seemed colour the very air with a shimmering green haze. Clearly, something major had happened to a sewer pipe under the house. Shit had, quite literally, got real.

And then, with joy in our hearts we realised that, since we'd exchanged contracts, this was now officially Not Our Problem! Mr and Mrs Complete-Shit could have the problem as a house-warming present. We later heard from neighbours that the entire ground floor had had to be dug up...

I don't plan to move again.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 12 Jan 2015, 14:57, 10 replies)

When we were "hilarious" students
I helped a friend move from one grotty citycentre flat to another. Of course none of us had a car or could afford a van or anything, so we helped lug his crap by hand through the town centre. He had a fifteenth-hand rickety old sofa, which three us of had to carry right through the town centre on Friday fucking night. Being lazy shut-ins, this was a bit tiring, so we plonked the thing down at a junction and sat on it like a povvo version of the Cranberries.

Good times.
(McChinaman banned, Sat 10 Jan 2015, 10:06, 1 reply)

Suwon to Seoul
In 2009 my wife decided she was getting old and wanted to turn the clock back to before she met me, so our marriage ended suddenly. At the time we lived in a very nice new apartment in Suwon, a small town with a population of about one million about an hour south of Seoul, South Korea. I stayed long enough to tie up some things, and then got a very good new job up in Seoul working for a patent office. The hour-long commute on not one but two of Seoul Metro's busiest subway lines was killing me, so I quickly found a place to move up to Seoul.

At the time, I had an American friend who had no job prospects and was desperate for money, so I hired him and his Korean girlfriend to help me out. He would do the heavy lifting and she would help with interpreting. I can get around with my survival Korean skills usually, but apartment rental is so expensive that you can't afford any mistakes. For example, the tiny basement apartment I was moving to had a "key money" deposit of about 6016 GBP, with rent aruond 391 GBP per month. If that sounds bad, my current apartment has a key money deposit three times higher, and rent's somewhat lower.

So, we hired a professional mover, and my friend and his girlfriend came down to Suwon to help. Well, she arrived on time, but he got lost in the bus system, drank too much soju, and was vomiting all over a bus terminal by 1pm and was a couple hours late.

Eventually I packed all my belongings into a truck and left the rest to my ex-wife (whose mom owned the apartment I was moving out of). The truck only had room for three people though, so I ditched my friend in favour of his girlfriend.

Also, we had to keep my two cats Millie and Buster in the cab with us. I held Millie's case on my lap and opened it so she could crawl onto the dashboard in front of me. My friend's girlfriend held Buster's travel case on her lap, with the door open pointed toward me so I could comfort him.

About 90 minutes into the trip, Millie decided she couldn't hold it in anymore. She leaned back off the dashboard and shat out a couple days' worth of excrement. On its way down it grazed my right knee and ended up somewhere below me where I couldn't reach it.

Then the stench caught up to Buster's nose, where he was hiding in his case on my friend's girlfriend's lap, looking out toward me. He barfed right onto my crotch area, which continued to be damp for the rest of the trip to my new apartment.

I probably could've gone crazy, but I did the only other possible thing and broke into laughter. Long, low, and crazy, realising my predicament and the lack of an immediate solution.

And that trip took another 30 minutes, exacerbated by firetrucks tending to a fire along one of the roads we needed to take. During which, the whole time, I sat there with crap on my leg and barf on my crotch.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Thu 8 Jan 2015, 15:25, 11 replies)

I moved house once, it took about 20 minutes
for me to burn the episodes to a dvd. Boom!
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Wed 7 Jan 2015, 22:40, 1 reply)

Move? Me?
Carried the missus over the threshold in October 1978
Bought the adjoining property for £3000 cash in 1980
Got as many local council improvement grants that were available
Knocked the two together in 1982
Whoopee – twice the size house and 3 kids now
Fourth kid
Kids all eventually leave
Mortgage paid off
Retired
Nice large(ish) house in the country
Never had to move
They’ll carry me out in a box
Think about the Stone Tapes we’ll have left
( CharlesDexterWard no rush eh, Tue 6 Jan 2015, 19:19, 8 replies)

I helped my friend Tim move...
...to his new flat. He'd done it properly, hired a van, and when we arrived at the new place we agreed that he would carry the boxes, and I would carry the bin bags. Each bin bag weighed a ton, and there were 10 or 11 of them. The new flat was up four steep flights of stairs, and I was in a bad way by the time I got to the 8th bag. I tripped and the bag split, scattering a very large number of well-thumbed Razzles, Mayfairs, Clubs and Men Onlys all the way back to the doorway.
It turned out that every one of these bags was devoted to his collection of pornography, and when I refused to carry any more he flew into a rage and refused to give me my reward pint and packet of crisps.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Tue 6 Jan 2015, 15:25, 11 replies)

Wardrobe-gate
The sofagate story below reminds me of the time my GF asked me to help move a wardrobe out of her basement flat during a move. She took a load to the new place, leaving me and one other bloke to get the wardrobe out.

We found that it was too high to fit through the door. So, lay it on its side. Now it's too long to turn through 90 degrees for the outer door. So turn it back up in the lobby. But there's a meter box in the way. So turn it on it's back, slide it along, THEN turn it up. And so on, and so on.

Eventually, like one opening a chinese puzzle box, or solving a giant Rubic's Cube, we found a long sequence of slides / turns / twists / rotates / curses / To me / To you's that finally got the damn thing into the great outdoors. It was like delivering a breeched elephant calf, with corners. The whole process took over an hour, and as we slumped panting in the yard, preparing to hump it up the steps to the street, the GF returned.

We described the tortuous process of getting it through the door. I wondered aloud how it got into the flat in the first place.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? It comes apart into three pieces..."
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Thu 15 Jan 2015, 10:48, 3 replies)

Quaintly Queef McFucknuggets
Not quite me but hurrah, my ASBO neighbour from hell got "removed" from her home just before Xmas for being a complete cunt to all for the last 3 years. Since she moved in next door she has tormented myself and other neighbours with the usual partying until 5, screaming, banging, throwing human waste up gardens etc, a real product of the modern world is she.
When the complaints started flooding in she turned her attention to myself and my wife on Facebook and started sending threats and abuse toward us, much to the merriment of the local Police who kept copies of the lot (she was already known to them, how'd they pick up on this diamond in the rough?). It didn't help that the missus found 5 Facebook accounts for her when looking her up, including one she used for a sex site (oh god the photos, was like the fallout photos from the BP oil spill, charities have been set up for less).
She's a cracking catch by the way; mid 20's and only 2 children (so far), the smell of sweat and rancid clothes act as a camouflage for a creature only Jules Verne could write about. When she was living there her harmonic and poetic tones of "FUCKING HELL WHAT THE FUCK ARE DOING!!!!!" being screamed at her destined for care children resonated eloquently on a summer's night, the sound slightly dulled only by the constant background noise of her knuckles dragging along the floor. But hey guys, what are the chances, this crazy gal is single! If you're into fucking damp whales covered in sardine oil then get your wet suit on and dive in, she's probably game for it. Just bring 2 bottles of bleach with you just in case.
Before Xmas I received a polite message from her mum of all people through Facebook advising that it would be slightly noisy as she's having to move out. My straight reply of "No probs, Merry Xmas!" was all I could send back.
I'd like to thank the local wildlife charities that have helped in contributing to her new habitat, which is most likely a large field with fencing around it. I can only hope that the rope they use on the tyre swing is strong enough to keep her and her offspring happy.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Tue 13 Jan 2015, 16:50, 4 replies)

The whole process of buying a property in this country (England) is fucked in the head
We seem to have a system of buying and selling property that is stressful, antiquated, needlessly bureaucratic and solely designed to benefit the middlemen in this process. Namely solicitors, bankers, estate agents and surveyors.

There must be a better way.

I don't know if anyone has had any experience of buying/selling property in other countries. Is the process as convoluted, glacial and contrived as it is here? I very much doubt it. What sane country would come up with a process of purchasing property as mental as ours?

A few years back the then Labour government brought in Home Information Packs. Which to me, seemed like rather a sensible idea, but oh dear, Kirsty Allsop doesn't like HIPS, So the New Labour kack their pants and water down the legislation before the Tories get rid of it all together.

I've moved house a couple of times. Lowlights for me have included: The seller who just wouldn't move out, and delayed and delayed for months on end. The mortgage company who claimed that they would waive the fee if we took out another mortgage with them, who then promptly changed their minds costing us an additional £4000. The stress of moving into a new home/project only to do a ton of work on it to make it liveable.

Anyway. Rant over. I'm completely fine about it now! Keep taking the pills.
(Nitrous Nitrous, Sat 10 Jan 2015, 0:49, 4 replies)

I moved from the UK to the US 6 years ago
Was pretty humbling reducing my life down to one small pilots bag of stuff and my clothes I was wearing.

Mind you due to the random and strange nature of my trinkets, I had a nice time gettin to know the 'nice' fellows at Manchester Airport security very well.

Checked every single fuckin piece of my chess set the twats, went rhouh all my gear, checked my feet out and everything, and totally failed to find the illicit pork pies and hash I had stashed in the bag pocket ... Wankers.
(yeswehavenopasties, Fri 9 Jan 2015, 6:01, 6 replies)

The house looked okay before the day.
Come the actual move the place was full of ants and smelt like something had died inside it.

There were rotting animal innards in the cellar, human faeces in the boiler, a leaking water supply pipe, the radiators and shower didn't work, containers of what looked like acid everywhere, and pieces of kebab meat decomposing nicely inside the walls. All the tap heads were missing.

And there was a fucking great hole burnt through the roof and ceilings in a straight line down to where I suspect an armchair was located.
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Thu 8 Jan 2015, 17:57, 7 replies)

I moved last May
Although I am generally a disjointedly fuckwitted bellend when it comes to organisation - I tend to take seriously the hunt for somewhere to live.
I found the ideal place, did the tour with Henry - the letting agent - who promised the usual deep clean, sorting of repair issues, tidying of garden etc etc. I gave my previous landlord notice, paid my deposit and sat back, safe in the knowledge that I had done everything expected of me and the letting agents had 7 weeks to arrange all of the work.

Clearly I was dealing with professionals.

No, wait, the other thing.

The lazy money-grubbing fucking halfwitted shitbags took my money and did precisely fuck-all. I know they did precisely fuck-all because, less than 12 hours before I was to move in, I got an email from the lying scumbags to the effect that they didn't have the keys so I'd have to move in 'a week later' - no apologies, no concern that my stuff was all packed and I was ready to move in, moreover I had to hand the keys of my last place back at 12:00 the very next day.

Praise where praise is due, the boss of the unadulterated cunt that was Henry did arrange for there to be a locksmith at the premises so I could move in, what he hadn't bargained for was the fact that the previous tenant hadn't moved their stuff out. Nor had there been a gas check, an inventory check, an electrical check, a fire safety check etc etc - all of which they'd had a whole 7 fucking weeks to do.



I was less than whelmed.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 8 Jan 2015, 12:11, 5 replies)

I had to move somewhere quickly after a relationship broke down violently, so a workmate offered me his flat while he went on holiday
I knew it would be scruffy, as the guy was an antisocial nerd who rarely changed his clothes. Still, it was a short-term bolt hole and I was grateful.

I didn't expect the fridge to be full of clumps of dog hair, the grey, threadbare towels all over the bathroom covered in mysterious brown stains, or the decomposing pigeon in the fire grate, with ribs on show. It had presumably died after falling down the chimney and must have been there for weeks. Scuzzy bugger.
(Porcupine, Thu 8 Jan 2015, 9:40, Reply)

I once saw Alexei Sayle in the northbound car park of Keele Services on the M6.
I was moving house at the time.
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Wed 7 Jan 2015, 13:37, 2 replies)

I once loaded the majority of my possessions into a van,
and transported them to another residence in order to start living there instead of where I used to live. It was a wild, wild time.
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Wed 7 Jan 2015, 10:49, 2 replies)

I like the idea of painting messily in brown paint
"HAVE YOU FOUND THE OTHERS YET?" or similar, before wallpapering one of the rooms, if one is going to move.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 7 Jan 2015, 9:30, 4 replies)

Don't look behind the wardrobe!!
My old flatmate really was a dirty bastard. Never used to wash up, room full of mouldy mugs and so on

. He had been away for a few days, and I was on my way out when I noticed that his bedroom window was wide open. I went into his hovel to make the house secure, and I notice his wardrobe. Wide open, a massive stash of magazines featuring ladies over 50 and 60, and realise that the wardrobe itself is pretty much glued to the wall by ancient wanky tissues. Filthy cunt.
( Kung_Fu_Russ ran out of amusing signatures on, Tue 6 Jan 2015, 19:12, Reply)