What you’re about to read may seem like a standard humour article, but this is all one hundred percent true. If you don’t believe me, you only need look at my older articles to see I’m not funny or creative enough to come up with this shit. I will now recount the highlights of living in Homeville Place, Western Road, Cork for the last seven months, so you don’t have to.
As September began, we were filled with hope for the coming year, a year filled with happiness and friendship and love. Our kitchen however was filled with bin bags. The landlord, who will not be named, for fear she will try to scam even more money out of me, had decided to cancel the bins in mid-August, and refused to reactivate the subscription. The bags stacked up three high in the kitchen, the smell was like a constant lingering Guinness fart. While this was clearly not great for us, Stuart Little and the boys loved it. Within two weeks we had a healthy contingent of mice in the house. The mice congregated in a room. We know this because one night, the house was awoken by a blood curdling scream. We ran down to find her room covered in tinfoil and everything at least a foot off the floor. Needless to say, she moved out a short time later.
The house was constantly full of black mold, and was sinking on its foundations, leading to a slope that made people slide along my floor if they stood long enough on it. It was no surprise then that in a light breeze one night a pipe upstairs became dislodged. After a night of eating a usual student diet of fish fingers and beans, mashed into a paste for instant nutrient delivery, you can imagine the mess that was left on the roof. There was shit everywhere. It was like an Albatross had been eating protein bars and drinking stout all week had carpet bombed us. When the landlord was called, instead of calling a certified plumber to fix the pipe, she decided she could do it herself. So, we all waited and watched while this OAP climbed through our feces on the roof, jammed a candle under the pipe and cleaning her hands of the problem. Metaphorically, not literally, as she stuck her shit covered hands in the window for us to help her back in. When we refused, she climbed back in like the creature from the black lagoon, covering our walls in shitty hand prints.
As second semester rolled around, the house was all but empty as everyone had vacated, and rightfully so. I decided to ask the Landlord for a proper lease, as she had supplied us with a napkin covered in comic sans at the start of the year. No more than a day after I had asked, I got a text telling me I was evicted. I left my lecture and raced home to find her in the house. I confronted her and showed her the old lease, I told her it was not satisfactory and needed a better one. This ancient frog creature masquerading as a granny finally snapped. She lunged across a table at me and ripped the lease from my hand, tearing it and stuffing it into her pockets (presumably to insulate another house she rents with). When the shock had faded, I calmly said to her “What the fuck are you doing you deranged badger?” She called me a “very unhappy boy.” After which I responded, “Of course I’m unhappy, I am paying 500 a month to live in a crack shack.”
I have since parted ways with said frog lady. This is a warning to you all: if you are looking for accommodation, Homeville place is not worth it.
Since the time of writing I have been rehoused, another home on the accursed road called Homeville Place. I should have known, but I was just as hopeful as I was in September. And just as deluded. Currently I am in bed. The Gardaí have just raided a house party I was not a part of. I heard drugs hurriedly being hoovered up faster than that fucking hoover from Teletubbies scoops up custard. One Guard burst into my room and screamed and me to get out. I refused, told him I lived there and eventually he turned off the light and left.
Fuck Homeville Place.