Wednesday, 25 November 2009

23:48
When my dad used to say that he never had enough hours in the day I always used to think that he said it because he really was too busy and that the day wasn't long enough.

And then someone said that people who say that they never have enough hours in the day use it as an excuse because they're disorganised. And that idea stuck because for a few years my dad wasn't my favourite person in the world.

But it's true because I now realise that he wasn't disorganised. There are simply not enough hours in the day.

In the mornings I get onto the Tube and my hair is still a little wet from the gym because I've rushed.

And I am usually out of breath because I've ran for the train and I jump on just as the doors are closing. But all of this counts for nothing because I am still late getting into the office.

And then I work flat out but I have to do a menial task like buy stamps but it's too complicated so I don't bother doing it and that fucking envelope has been dicking about in my bag for around four days.

All it needs is a fucking stamp so that I can post it. Maybe it's just a London thing?

Maybe it's only in London that the queues in the Sainsbury's, where I buy my tuna in tins, at around 10pm is like 15 people deep.

And there's a wait everywhere. People, queues, pushing.

I get home and I make my food for the morning and I can't find a Tupperware box and that takes five minutes and then I realise that I'm not going to be in bed by 11pm because I want to be up early and fuck.

And then I can't find the remote for the Mac so I can't plug it in to listen to music and then I find the remote and I'm still thinking, what the fuck ever happened to that letter I was supposed to post?

Oh, it's in my bag without a stamp.

London. Fuck this place is for fucking idiots. But I am not having a London-hate day.

I have those every day but it's like that quote from er... it goes something like (and I've replaced London for democracy)... London is shit and it isn't perfect but it's the best that there is.

I'm having one of those days where .. oh god, I'm not going to bore you but doesn't it sometimes seem like everyone else's life sails on in calm serenity but yours kinda bashes to and fro?

Fuck.

My eyelids are heavy I can't keep them open.

Do you mind if I carry on with this in the morning.

And by the way. There's a new personal trainer at the gym. He is hot off the scale.

Liam and I are sure we know him from somewhere - Chris says he's straight.

Liam (not me) is sure he's seen him from where somewhere - in Liam's words; "like on one of those websites where straight men get their knobs sucked off by homos for money."

There is something familiar about him. Cocky, muscular, tattooed, cute, very friendly, built like a boy from the continent who dances in gold hotpants on a podium in Fire. Er...

The story, my pretties, continues shortly...

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

20:45
I think we should have Cultural Tuesday. This is an occasion where we are able to share and promote different videos and music and shit.

We're so fucking highbrow we make the fucking LRB look tabloid.

Firstly what do you get when you mix an over-pumped porn star with a budget set?

Er - if there's anyone who can explain what the fucking is happening here, I'd be interested to here.

Click on the picture to go to the video
And watch carefully because afterwards there could a test...



Question One
A post-modern tale of pop art genius. Discuss.

Question Two
How many pull-ups do we see Mr Loverman doing and can you beat his record?

Question Three
At around 2'16 we see Mr Lover in the company boardroom. Is this actually just the dining room from the previous scene with the pie dish replaced with a pie chart?

Question Five
Why is there a semi-naked picture of Mr Lover on the pie chart in the scene mentioned above?

Question Eight
Fuck the test.

Question Nine
Talk amongst yourselves for a bit.

20:47
Remember.

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.

21:06
I have a found a band that are going to be as big as The Rolling Stones.

Except not really that big.
There's another problem too and that's that they're South African and they sing in Afrikaans.

But I feel I would like to share this band with you. I mean, we all listen to Edith Piaf and she sings in French.

The band is called Die Antwoord which is Afrikaans for The Answer.

In this picture we see the three members of the band and those three members are, from left; Yo-landi Visser (pronounced Fisser), Jack Parow (Parow is a bit of cruddy suburb in Cape Town) and DJ Hi-Tek.

The song I would like to use by way of an introduction to Die Antwoord is Doosdronk.

Now, from here on in there is going to be some extremely descriptive language so you might want to put the kids to bed....

Doos is a slang word for vagina, in the strongest possible sense and dronk means drunk. So doosdrunk basically means cunted. Ahem.

You can listen to their tune here and to help you along I have prepared a rip-and-read translated version of the lyrics.

Okay, it's not quite "On A Clear Day You Can See Forever" but it's a close 9th.

::Song start::

Jack Parow? Daar's die man nou!
Jack Parow? There he is now...

Party, party, party, party...!

Hoes ya. Here maar ek's in my poes in.
Woo man. God, I'm cunted

Dude maar hy's fokken wasted.
Hello hoe lyk dit, ek en jy naked?
Dude, he's fucking wasted
Hello how do we look, you and me naked?

Fok jou, kom ons gaan lekker 'n dop hou
Kom by [can't work out] die Witblitz
Sit terug, vat 'n fokken sluip van die Klipdrift.
Fuck that, come and lets have a drink. [Something about witblitz - a very potent home-made alcohol] and then have a swig of Klipdrift [a brand of shitty brandy, favoured by vagrants and poor alcoholics]
Ah shut up you fokken bastard
Don't fuck around with the drunk [...?]

Kyk hier jou ma se porno
Don't want gehelp van my kopseer
Look at your mother's porno
And I don't want help with my headache

Kyk jy na my, ek is in ripper!
Ons party nou hos, nou lekker!
Something about 'let's party'...

Laa-dee, daa-dee
Party, party, party, party!

Chorus
Doosdronk,
Stop [val?] op my hond
Poes jou in the mond
En val op die grond
Cun-ted!
Stop falling on my dog*
(Untranslatable filth)
And fall on the ground

* = the references to the dog relate to it being a sort of an anthem of homeless alcoholics who enjoy getting drunk, spouting vile language and domestic violence.

Doosdronk,
God, waar is my hond?
Le in my kotz en
Vrot in die tronk
Cun-ted!
God, where is my dog?
Lie in my puke
And rot in jail

Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...
Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...

Waar's die papsak?
Jissie ons is heeltemal fucked up
Where's the papsak*?
Bloody hell but we're totally fucked up

* = papsak is a South African word for the silver foil bladder in boxed wine. As far as I'm aware they're actually banned in the country now because having wine available in such vast quantities apparently contributes and encourages crime and social degradation.

Score die vokken [?] vrou en dope
Kom ons gooi 'n bietjie [driete?]
I don't understand this bit but it related to having women and spliffs

Kyk na my piel doen so 'n beweging
Look at this...
Look at my cock and watch it swinging
Look at this...

Ek soek 'n piss.
Gaan piss in die hoek
Oh fok, ek dink ek gepiss in my broek
I need a piss
Go and piss in the corner
Oh fuck, I think I've just pissed myself

Gee vir my fok 'n [?] shooter
Los it!
Don't be a party pooper
Blas die hooter...
Give me a fucking shooter
Leave it!
Don't be a party pooper
Sound the horn...

Ons se nou baie drankie vir die drankie!
Wat sal ons doen sonder 'n drankie
Bokkies, boerekos en rugby?
We say thank you for the booze
What would we do without alcohol
Women, barbeques and rugby?

Don't worry be happy happy.
happy, happy, happy, happy...

Repeat the chorus.

Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...
Party, party, party, party, party, party, party...

Little comedy section of domestic violence...

Waar's die sleutels? Fok it...
Ek weet nie, look in your pocket
Where are the keys? Fuck itt
I don't know, look in your pocket

Fok jou!
God vrou ek poes now weg van jou...
Fuck you!
God, I will smack you in the cunt...

Fok jou! Hond... Vuil fokken hond!
Wie's jy? Niks! Jy's niks...
Fuck you... You dirty fucking dog!
What are you? Nothing! You're nothing...

22:11
Um.

Has anyone got this far?! Did you enjoy the song? Are you hooked? On the music, not the booze...

I think that brings us to the end of our cultural evening. Did you have fun?

If you have anything you'd like to bring to the table so that we can have a look at it next Tuesday, bring. it. on.

Um.

Tomorrow it's Normal Wednesday where a normal services resumes.

22:18
And what the fuck is that about Lola?

This song absolutely rocks.

Thursday, 18 November 2009

Remember that email I sent to my bank?

Their response is below.

Given that I said to them that I expect nothing more than for them to simply point to their terms and conditions like a hairy sex-starved matron, they have done me proud.

I win this argument purely because they're just so fucking boring.

I managed to read the first two paragraphs but then screamed in pain. Anyone bothered to read to the end?

18/Nov/2009 09:22

To: Mr R Cox

Thank you for your electronic message dated 14 November 2009.

I'm sorry for the upset caused by the management of your account, particularly the fee recently incurred. In the circumstances, I would like to take this opportunity to clarify our position.

With effect from 1 October 2007, our overdraft service changed. These changes were introduced to enable us to provide a service that offers choice and flexibility for our customers, whilst ensuring that we continue to lend responsibly.

As such, you can now request an overdraft in the following ways:

* Formal overdrafts may be requested in advance and will be agreed and authorised (subject to status) for up to 12 months.
* Informal overdrafts may be requested by presenting a debit for payment such as an ATM withdrawal, cheque, direct debit or standing order, when there is not enough money in your account. These requests will be authorised (subject to status) for 31 days. If another informal request is received within the same period, this will be treated as a new request.

In both instances, if the informal or formal request is agreed, a GBP25 arrangement fee may be applicable and is non-refundable, irrespective of the amount of the request in question, or the length of time required.

In your case, an informal request for an overdraft increase was received on 14 October when the balance of your account reached GBP505.89 debit and a fee was therefore incurred in line with our published Rate and Tariff. Whilst I understand your frustration, it remains your responsibility to monitor and manage your accounts and you should ensure that sufficient funds are available prior to items being presented for payment. As no bank error has occurred, I am unable to offer a refund.

Please be assured that the fee was not an attempt to recoup part of the joining incentive you were given. Our Rate and Tariff is applicable across the whole of our customer base and without prejudice.

Turning to your comments with regards to the conversations you had with us on 10 October and 14 October. Our records show that on 15 October we advised you that we had listened to the calls and we explained that the system was live and the fee would stand.

At first direct we are passionate about providing all of our customers with exceptional service so we're fully committed to providing prompt and accurate resolution to any complaints. If you are not completely satisfied with our response, please tell us at any time within the next eight weeks. To do so, you can telephone us on 08 456 100 100, send an electronic message via firstdirect.com, or write to Customer Relations at 40 Wakefield Road, Leeds, LS98 1FD. Otherwise, we'll consider this matter closed.

If we can't offer you a satisfactory resolution, you can refer to the Financial Ombudsman Service (but we really do hope it doesn't come to that). Further details about how to do so and about how we respond to complaints are contained on our website, www.firstdirect.com/howtocomplain.

Thank you for taking the time to write to us.

Steve Smithard
Credit Services Customer Relations

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

22:21
I seriously do not know where the bloody time goes. It's like there's a time black hole.

But.

You're never going to guess this but. It's like everything is coming full circle.

22:25
Ohmygod. I have started to make resolutions for 2010. Is that a bit silly? I have a feeling that 2010 is going to be an amazing year. I find that odd years are always a little shit and even years are always good.

Odd years are ones I sit around on my arse a little, even years are ones where I get ahead. It's weird like that. Ohmygod. Where has the time gone?

Like who can remember anything about 2007?! And what was 2008 all about?! It's like they have all just merged into one. And also, doesn't it feel like 2008 was like a redux version of 2007.

And 2009 has been like the director's cut of both years combined. Anyway.

So I have started to make resolutions for 2010. Like WTF.

I sound like some airhead Beverly Hills bitch.

22:35
Ohmygod. So we were mentioning about everything coming full circle which is funny really because it wasn't something that happened on the Circle Line, it was on the Jubilee Line.

Who can remember the hottest guy in the world?

Come on, don't be coy. This is him here. And so is this.

You're never going to guess who I spotted on the Jubilee Line?! Never.

Okay go on - have a guess! Look...

I nearly choked on the water I was sipping when I saw him.

How funny. And did I walk up to him and say "hello, we think your hotness is off the scale?" No.

22:47
I'm digging around on the iPhone to see if there are any other photos I haven't shared with you.

Oh here's one...

Except he's much hotter without his shirt on.

Would you?



22:57
Ohmygod and this photo. I took this last week and forgot to share it with you.

How goddam 2007 is this?

I reckon they'll be tucking into The Da Vinci Code next. Are there seriously still people reading that book!?

23:07
I reckon we need to start "Grindr Hottie Of The Day"...

(Honestly - has anyone actually met anyone off Grindr? It strikes me as a great tool for teasing but actually meeting someone!? Nope...)

Anyway.

Who rates this guy? It's todays "Grindr Hottie Of The Day".



23:19
I think that's enough for the evening. Don't you? And besides. My herbal tea's gone cold.

Friday, 13 November 09

23:57
Right. Do you think this is a little strong?

I am writing to place on record my disgust at being charged £25 for going overdrawn, as I did, for a few hours on 14/10/09 by less than £6

The charges are due to debit from my account shortly.

I was assured by you at the time that, all pending transactions considered, my account would remain in credit. This turned out not to the case despite your repeat assurances.

I asked on three separate occasions to listen to the phonecall between myself and firstdirect - which would prove that I was given incorrect advice - and on each occasion I was told that this wasn't going to be possible.

In effect firstdirect played judge and jury in deciding to charge me.

Annoyingly, I did as you were expecting and gave up the fight. I imagine somewhere at firstdirect HQ, a staffer was rubbing their spindly fingers Mr Burns-style and declaring "ha ha Smithers, in the end we got him!"

Admittedly, I am not entirely bothered because I was credited with £100 for joining firstdirect when I did. Effectively this £25 isn't a change, it's just a way for you to gleefully claw back some of the money you initially gave me.

I'm sure it all ends up in the bonus pot to be given to someone who'll use it to buy tacky champagne to spray around a West Club club at bonus time.

I don't expect any sort of response, other than for you to smugly hold up your guide to the terms and conditions, like a school teacher with a hairy chin in a pressed skirt, and declare "well Mr Cox, we did tell you..."

However, I did want it placed on record that I object to the charge - £25 for going overdrawn by less than £6 for a few hours is the kind of business practice that would make lawyer with a baseball bat in a bad suit blush.

That said, I am a journalist by training and it's heartwarming to know that, as much as we and bad-suited lawyers are disliked, we are never going to be loathed to the extent that UK bank workers are now. Every cloud, silver lining etc. No offence intended...

Finally, having sent this at 11.16pm, the bolshy language and outlandish metaphors might suggest that I have enjoyed a fairly liquid Friday evening out, the truth is I am very much sober and am actually working a nightshift.

I couldn't let it pass without mention that I think the charge is unfair, wrong, outrageous but more importantly, completely contrary to what good business should be about.
Then again, if you were about good practice and being fair to customers, you would have gone out of business ages ago.

Sharing my thoughts has brightened my night. You're welcome to use this as a dartboard / loo paper etc.

It better be okay because I just sent it. Do you think they will tell me to fuck off?

Thursday, 12 November 2009

23:16
Ohmygod. Where did the last six days go? What the hell...?! Did anybody see that?

No, I haven't been killed in World War 3. Although I have to admit that the fighting as all but ceased, simply because Liam and I haven't seen Beckham* around.

* = not really David Beckham but a dickhead in the gym who calls himself Beckham which is strangely ironic because although people find the Beckham attractive (pass the sick bag), this guy who calls himself Beckham is a pig. (Is that a little strong? No...)

I mean, how the hell are you supposed to fight a war if the enemy won't pitch. What the fuck!?

Maybe we need to remind him that there's a fucking conflict that he's in the midst of. Maybe we could send someone down to The Club Where Beckham Works and bash him about the knees with a baseball bat.

Anyway.

23:22
I have had the drawing board out (thanks for asking) and have been planning something.

Do you remember earlier in the year I tried to do something which was, in theory, pretty simple? In fact it was so simple that half way through the year I had to give it up...

The idea is that every day for a year you take a photo of yourself. That's it.

But not like a silly passport photo - you know, put some fucking effort into the bloody thing.

Well this year I decided to do it on January 1st which felt a bit like being kicked forward and not being able to stop to catch your footing.

Sometime around May I stumbled.

The abandoned 365 Project is <--- there if you want to have a look...

I'm just going back over it now and if I may say so... do you know, some of those pictures are actually fucking good. e.g. March 29th, March 18th etc.

I am planning to try and do it again on January 1, 2010. Is there anyone else onboard?

So I'm trying out looks to make sure that I don't run out of ideas and give it up. Hence I dived into the make-up box earlier...

It is supposed to be a fucking freakshow - start big and then refine.





Can I say...

1/ I had no fucking talcum power to set the white liquid base hence it's gone a little pink.
2/ I had no black liquid liner so the bottom eyelids are a little shite.
3/ Do you know how bloody difficult it is to work with black and whites and then stop them from smudging?!

And of course props to the Lady GaGa lips.

Yes, the idea is that it makes you feel a little unsettled. Maybe funny dreams perhaps.

While you lie awake in a cold sweat, I'll be at the drawing board.

Thursday, 05 November 2009

19:26
So we're at gym and the first salvos of World War 3 have been launched.

(Incase you've been living under a rock since it's the thing that everyone is talking about, basically we have had to declare a third global conflict at our gym. You can read about it here.)

Like so many before us, this conflict was not started at a time of our choosing and we were dragged into it unprovoked but it will end once we have prevailed.

And our important Three Point Plan For War™ has been instigated, specifically points 1, 4 and 9.

Point one was for Brent - the reception manager - to get the details of ... er, hold on.

Firstly we need to clarify the name of the enemy because we can't keep referring to him as the fugly thug who wears hideous gold shoes.

So, for the task of clarification we have enlisted the help of Christopher* who will lead the intelligence cavalry.

* = our personal trainer, do pay attention at the back please.

"Christopher, what do you know of that fucking tosspot over there with the ridiculously silly gold shoes?"
"Who, Beckham...?"
"I beg your pardon?"

Yes. This guy calls himself Beckham. What a complete and utter - I mean, doesn't it just so fit? He thinks he's David Beckham.

And can I stress again... this guy is your typical thuggish oaf from Eastern Europe with a hairy neck and the prejudices of Idi Amin.

And to think that he calls himself Beckham. It just shows that he is about as deluded as the former president of Uganda and sometime King of Scotland. (Get us and our history...)

What Christopher is also able to tell us is that Beckham works - and I am being serious. He really does call himself Beckham and it is true that he works as a bouncer at a trashy and wannabe club in the West End.

So I have Googled "[name of club]" and "bouncer" and the following phrases pop up:

"door staff and bouncers were all ASSHOLES"
"The bouncers outside seem to all be on some sort of power trip"
"horrible old fashioned sexist bouncers"...

And so the results continue ad nauseam for 28,000 times...

So I think that on point one, we are clearly ahead. The propaganda victory is ours. Clearly everyone in the capital also hates Beckham.

(Ohmygod, every time I say his ridiculous name, I get a little snot in my nose from a mini-laugh.)

So the next point - is this point 2? Anyway, it's PSYOPS, one of the most important aspects of conflict.

Wikipedia drones on endlessly about psychological operations in war - and you may know what they are but if you don't, PSYOPS basically involves fucking with the enemy's mind.

We have the tactics.

Basically whenever Beckham comes near Liam or I, we both make vomit noises.

Adult issues deserve a mature response.

Oh yeah, and when he wanders off to drink water from the fountain or stare at his silly fucking gold shoes in the mirror somewhere, we discreetly pack his weights back on the rack.

20:17
So the first day of war has definitely not been like the troops on Christmas Day climbing over the top and playing football in no-man's land.

Fighting has been hard and fierce. Shock and awe. We'll smoke Saddam and his henchmen out of their holes. (Er, I think we're getting our wars mixed up a little...)

Liam and I are able to take some time with Brent to debrief about the battle so far.

Remember it was Brent, the front of house manager, who was going to find out Beckham's (chortle / puke) real name so that we could attack his house with a tank and get his gym membership torn up.

But Brent has had to deal with the fact that apparently the creche manager and the pilates teacher were caught having sex in the pool after hours. This is true fucking shit, man...

Er, excuse me but how are we supposed to be beating the enemy when our lieutenants are having to deal with members of their squadron having casual sex while on duty?

Oh yeah - and another bit of gossip for you (dinkum shit, baby...)

Apparently Steve, the maintenance guy, was again caught bashing one out to Loose Women on TV in an empty staff common room.

War is hell.

Wednesday, 04 November 2009

22:37
You know that I am definitely not the kind of person who indulges in exaggeration and hyperbole but it's fucking World War 3 at the gym.

And of course there is nothing worse than having to read of me droning on about what happens in the gym, so here goes...

Liam and I are having a chat and working out and we. are. being. fabulous.

So we move to one of the benches where we want to hang our towels and continue in total fabulation.

And no sooner have we picked up two weights when this man appears.

He is a total fuckwit. I am going to describe his fuckwittery to you so that you can understand just how much of a fuckwit he is.

He is about 35 and thinks he's mighty fucking cool. In fact, he thinks he's so fucking cool that he wears shiny gold-coloured fake Dolce & Gabbana shoes.

Yes. A total fucking idiot.

Anyway, so Liam's sitting on the bench with the weights and this arsehole just wanders up and, in this thick Eastern European accent goes "fuck off..."

What!? Who?!

I'm like "I beg your pardon?" And Liam's like "I beg your pardon?" And together we're like "I beg your pardon?"

He says it again, "fuck off I busy here...."

And I'm like "oh, we didn't realise because we've been here for about five minutes and..." and Liam's like "oh, we didn't realise because we've been here for about five minutes and..." and we're both like "oh, we didn't realise because we get the message...

But he says it again... "yeah, fuck off."

And I'm like, "well sorry but there was nothing here to indicate that you were sitting here..."

He cuts me off and says "well what the fuck do you want? Do I have to leave my fucking hair rollers here for you to see...?"

And we're like "wo."

Except we don't say that but instead behave like typical gays and scuttle off to Brent (gay) at the reception desk to complain.

And I'm like "what a tosser" and Liam's like "what a tosser" and Brent's like "what a tosser."

So Liam, Brent and I devise a three-point plan.

1/ Brent is going to find out what his name is.
2/ Liam and I are going to write a letter to the gym manager saying we refuse to work out in an atmosphere filled with hate-fuelled roid-rage, homophobia and racism (might as well throw that one in...)
3/ Brent is going to lobby the gym manager to get this tosser's membership revoked.
4/ Once we have found his name, I am going to use the information to find out where this wanker lives.
5/ Liam and I are going to throw rocks through his lounge window, set fire to his garden and drive an FV4034 Challenger 2 battle tank through his front door.
6/ Liam is going to search Gaydar to see if there are any homos in the army who will lend us a tank.

Fuck that. Who the fuck does he think he is? Who is he? Who. Is. He?

23:03
Oh yeah, I got this e-mail saying "why the hell can't we comment?" I was like "er... I turned them off because it sometimes feels like ..."

I'm not really sure where they went but they're make. So go on then....

23:18
Because you know how much we like visiting in/famous houses and such - for example, I told you where the X Factor house is.
In case you were interested, a famous singer lives here...


View Larger Map
Think er... "Well I lie here in the wet patch,
in the middle of the bed
I'm feeling pretty damn hard done by,
I spent ages giving head."
Remember, it's totally illegal to even step a foot onto the property.

Unless of course they wear gold-coloured fake D&G shoes and are horrid and nasty to other people in the gym.

Then it's acceptable to drive a weapon of war through their front door. Obviously.

Monday, 02 November 2009

2:18
Today I went on an adventure and it wasn't one I had planned. And it's not really an adventure I would go on again.

I was in the Waterstones next to the gym, thumbing through a book about 2008. One of the entries was about the case of Baby P.

If you're not sure, the story is an extremely harrowing one which you can read about here.

Of course, if you were in Britain towards the end of last year you couldn't have escaped the outrage that engulfed the country about Baby P.

And, standing there in the bookshop now reading about the story, my intrigue overcame me. Where did this poor little boy live? What does the house in which he was abused to death look like? Is it still there? Who lives there now?

A quick Google search shows the house is on Penshurst Road in Tottenham, N17.

You may know that parts of Tottenham are pretty depressed. There is nasty war between Turkish gangs taking place in the borough.

As you can see, it's pretty rough...

Abandoned shops and semi-empty streets. It feels edgy.

I have my iPod on, listening to the latest Barbra Streisand album.

If I get caught in some gangland cross-fire at least Barbra will be wailing in my ears as the bullets ricochet off the boarded-up buildings.

There are groups of boys standing on just about every street corner but I'm not brave enough to start pointing my iPhone camera at them. Yet.

From Seven Sisters Road I took the 297 bus to White Hart Lane football stadium. You get off and the area is a mixture of boarded up buildings, car scrap yards and houses.

There is a weird lack of people except for those hanging around. I doesn't feel menacing, just a little uncomfortable.

So you turn onto Penshurst Road from White Hart Lane and you walk through part of a council estate and then road turns to the right.

Carry on until you reach the second last house on the left. And there it is...

Completely unremarkable. Ordinary and a little shabby.

Yet inside that house lived poor little Peter his siblings and an unfit and obese mother who was captivated with violent porn and internet sex-chat sites.

Her boyfriend lived there too. An overweight 6ft 4in man who was obsessed with knives, kept a cross-bow as a weapon and harboured a collection of Swastika memorabilia.

The boyfriend's brother also stayed there. He's a convicted arsonist, burglar and neo-Nazi, arrested in the mid-1990s on suspicion of torturing his dying grandmother to get her to change her will.

There was a Rottweiler called Kaiser and two snakes that slithered loosely around the house.

When ambulance workers went into the house after the toddler was found tortured to death in his cot, they found the house littered with human faeces, dog faeces, and dead rats and chickens to feed the two pet snakes.

Empty vodka bottles and Budweiser cans strewn about the floor, fleas, lice, knives and replica guns.

On the kitchen surface was a dismembered rabbit. The place was infested with fleas and stank of urine.

I honestly didn't know what I was expecting to see or feel when I got to the house. It's a building.
Someone must live there now.

And even though I've now been, stood for a while and looked at the house, I still can't connect with what happened within those walls.

It is depressing to think about, because what occurred there not so long ago was the worst kind of evil. And it's depressing now because it is just so ordinary.

But that's it. It's a house. It can't speak.

People must live there who're oblivious to its history. It needs painting. The bushes in the front need trimming.

Was I really expecting the house to say something? Did I really think there would be something to mark it out as place that has housed hell?

I guess I was just curious.

And that was what I did this afternoon.