(Above: Greg Baker, kissing Prince Charles' arse)
The only place more terrifying than Greg Baker's bedroom is Greg Baker's kitchen. Inside the cupboards, dirty plates are hidden like war crimes. The mouldy food that grows from them has been there long enough to answer back in French.
When I heard Jay Schwodler was moving in with Greg, in the flat next door to me, I knew I had to act quickly to protect myself from them. I'd lived with Jay before. To say his attitude towards cleaning was liberal back then is a bit like saying that Timothy O'Leary wasn't too uptight when it came to dropping LSD.
I could see Jay knocking my door through the spy hole. He wanted me to look at what he'd done to Greg's flat. When I saw I had to sit down. Two years of living with a woman has had a strange affect on Jay. He's been exposed to a world of bleach, stain devil, order and self respect. I'm not sure if it suits him. He'd cleaned Greg's kitchen and bathroom. I never knew his toilet bowl was white.
But what was that on the coffee table in the lounge? A box of Marlboro? I've never seen either of them take so much as single puff on a cigarette. And what was this? A slice of the lid neatly torn away. “For roach no doubt,” I said to Jay, who had no idea what I was talking about. Before I noticed on closer inspection that it revealed a packet of king size silver Rizla.
Suddenly it all began to make sense. Greg had always made out that the reason he never misses penalties was due to his German ancestry. Then there's his love of crisps and snacks. The fact his flat was a pig sty if girls weren't due to visit, not to mention how scatty he can be. Who else scrapes the side of their Kia company car on the wall of the car park.
I could take it that he never invited me over when he had girls round, but this? I thought I knew Greg. I felt so let down. So disgusted that he would use drugs and not invite me around to share them.