DID a bastard so-called mate take you up on your offer to help them move house? You’ll go through these six states of despair:
Arriving: Resignation
You turn up at 10am, as agreed, in the vain hope you’ll find them efficiently taping the last box closed. Instead they’re hungover on the sofa and have f**k all ready. So you’re spending the first two hours shovelling their crap into bin bags while wanting to incinerate it.
Hoarding: Anguish
Not the ideal time to discover your friend’s a hoarder, with every copy of 2000AD since 1983 stored in unbelievably heavy crates. Watch the hours piss away as you haul boxes of Inspector Morse DVDs and other charity shop rejects down the stairs as if anyone would want this shit.
Transportation: Hopelessness
Catastrophic ineptitude meant your friend didn’t rent a van for the big move and, as you’re all middle-class pricks in London, nobody knows anyone who owns one. So you’re left trying to fold a stained double mattress into the back of a VW Polo for the first of many, many trips.
Breakages: Vexation
Professional movers have insurance. You don’t, so when you trip over a step in the new flat and drop a laundry basket full of crockery the only recompense your mate has is being pissy for the rest of the day, even though you know they eat all of their meals straight out of microwavable containers.
Re-Assembly: Dejection
The phrase ‘help move a few boxes’ does not mean entirely dismantling and reassembling an IKEA futon, but you’re trapped now. The only consolation as you put it back together is it won’t last more than a few nights before collapsing under them at 4am.
Remuneration: Misery
After 12 hours of back-breaking work, your now former friend buys you a pint and a curry by way of thanks. Even in f**king London that means you’ve earned about £1.80 per hour and they should be arrested under the Modern Slavery act. You’ll content yourself with never seeing the prick again.
