I’m spending this October thirty-first in the traditional British manner; hiding in the back room with the lights off and the curtains drawn, hoping no fucker knocks on the door. All this Halloween ‘holiday’ nonsense is alien to me. It drifted over from America sometime in the early nineties. First I knew of it, I was round about eighteen, and kids were suddenly banging on the door from the middle of October onwards, demanding money or else they would brick the windows. It was like some new excuse for armed robbery.
Fortunately, here at Castell Spinbreath I have a very long, very steep drive, which puts off all but the most determined of do-gooders, bible bashers and scroungers. By the time they get up here they’re so out of breath they can barely get their spiel out. Not that I answer the door, of course.
I should be using this time of quietude to write, to get stuck into one of the umpteen unfinished novels I’m working on, but alas, my concentration span is utterly fucked after a stressful few weeks and it just ain’t happening.
On top of all the other catastrophes I’ve recently endured, last week a Chinaman abused my hospitality, outstayed his welcome and busted up loads of my shit. The day after I threw the little bastard out, he went running to the CAB, told a pack of lies and now those fuckers are on my back as well. I received an angry phonecall from a Scouse woman, who seemed to fancy herself as Jeremy Kyle, and thought if she shouted at me long enough I’d wilt and beg forgiveness.
So yes, I hereby apologise. I’m sorry I had the temerity to try and make some money from my business. Had I known I was actually running a charity to provide luxury accommodation for spoilt brats who earn three times as much as I do, then obviously I would have bent over further and applied a more expensive brand of lubricant.