Burt, it would seem, does not embrace the particular brand of joie de vivre we cherish so dearly in our house. On Friday night, on the dancefloor at Break for the Border he announced he was moving out. 'I'm moving in with Gary and the lads on Friday!' he roared over Beyonce's Crazy in Love.
'What?' I screamed back. 'Why?'
'Cos I fucking hate ye! And the house is a dump!'
Eh, hello?
'But... what will I blog about if you go?' I implored.
This did not sway him. I tried the tough approach to get him to stay. I threatened to reveal a piece of information he told me on Thursday night. I will share this with you now in case he kills me and this nugget is lost forever. When Burt saw Braveheart for the first time, aged about fifteen or sixteen, he was so scared he didn't sleep for three days. Braveheart. An historical epic. Also, Notting Hill is his favorite film. Two excellent pieces of blackmail material, one would have thought. Burt ignored me completely, however. Foolish boy. I shall raze his reputation to the ground I vowed and shook my fist angrily at the ceiling of the club.
Later, moved to desperation at the thought of having to cover his rent for the next month, I sat outside his bedroom door after he went to bed and sang Dido's Don't Leave Home. Not a flicker. The stubborn bastard went straight to sleep.
It remains to be seen whether he will move out or not. If he does I plan to stick him with a bill for €103 for the oil, gas and electricity bills. I would have left him off the €3 before Friday night but now my back is most definitely up. Suffer my wrath, Burtenshaw.
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