Persian Gulf

God Almighty. Usually they find me, but this time I can blame no-one else for my ill fortune. The Devil held out his foul odious hand and I snatched at it greedily - hungry for a new place to live in a nice area. That much I got, but as is often the case when you sell your soul to Vincent, the deal came at a Price.

I'd be lying if I said alarm bells weren't peeling incessantly the first time I visited my new place in Greektown, just off the famous Danforth Avenue. Not for the area itself, you understand. A more leafy suburban district you couldn't hope to find and initially it seemed like the ideal antidote to the festering pustule I'd been living in for the last few months. Even the local crackheads outside the subway station (Chester) appeared a cut above the rest, offering a welcoming pasty near-death grin when I first arrived - little did I realise that although legless, penniless and carrying with them the concentrated scent of a thousand rat's crotches, they were actually the lucky ones. In fact, I'd have gladly shacked up with the hopeless and toothless had I been offered the alternative if I knew then what I know now. My new housemate, Affas. What. A. Cunt. I'm sorry, Mum, I know you read this, but even cunt seems like a tame description of this capital cockmunch.

My first experience of him should have told me everything I needed to know and in my defense I did go back to the halls (oh dingy infested halls, how I miss you) and tell everyone he was a bit of a dick, but that would turn out to be the understatement of the year. Before meeting up at the flat I had spoken to him briefly on the phone and had gleaned from that short exchange that he was British, quite posh, from London and a pretty confident guy, so when the door opened I couldn't have been more shocked. What I had expected to see was a well-groomed youngish chap, maybe even in a suit, and instead what stood before me was a terrifying figure who could easily have been the bastard offspring of a sinister liaison between Saddam Hussein's uglier brother and a mangy old goat. Affas Massumi. 37 years old, of Iranian descent, about six foot tall and one of the world's truest examples of an arsehole. Not the colloquial insult version, you understand, but actually the living embodiment of a stinking puckering ring of flesh meant only for squeezing shit out of. Bloody hell, that's strong, even for me - but read on and I reckon you'll make the rusty sheriff's badge connection all by yourself.

After a cursory glance around the flat and what it had to offer - very nice, actually… dammit! - Affas suggested we go outside onto the roof terrace so he could, 'get a flavour'. Jesus, what was I thinking? I've been trying to come up with the best way to describe the way he speaks. He would probably tell you it's along the lines of Nigel Havers or Daniel Craig, but the truth is far more like a well-to-do David Brent. There are different pitches as well, depending on what the subject matter is. It's an excruciatingly lackadaisical drawl when he talks about himself - his achievements, successes, accomplishments, 'has anybody checked out me, by the way? - but it lends itself a much more disturbing and feverish quality when he drools on about women. Now I like a beer and every now and then I can enjoy a game of footy - God knows, I've even been known to mime kick-starting a motorbike while squeezing out a little Tommy squeaker, but all of this sinks into the quagmire of insignificance when compared to the laddy intensity this guy has when describing women. On these occasions he instantly becomes much more animated and starts to gurn and clench his teeth as he looks at you intently and tells you exactly how it is. 'She's got a great arse, Andrew, right? One you just wanna squeeze so tight it leaves a fucking bruise, yeah?' Actual quote from first day. I mean, what do you say to this? 'She has the kind of smile that makes you wanna smash her in the face with a table leg'? Oh, Mama - what have I got myself into?

Anyway, so still on the first day of meeting and we're back up on the roof terrace again. 'You'll probably see this at some point', he says rolling up a sweaty sleeve and pointing to a tattoo of a heart with a name in the middle (mmm - classy) The name in the heart is that of his dead dog (his dog?) but the more important issue is that as he points to this it suddenly becomes very apparent that he's flexing his arm muscle and looking directly at me again. Does he want to bruise my bottom, was one of the first things to cross my mind, but I quickly ruled that out. The only man he's ever loved looks back at him in the mirror every day with finger pistols locked, cocked and ready to rock. In fact, just when I thought he couldn't love himself anymore I was taking my first poop and glanced up to the wall to see framed pictures of himself and articles cut out of newspapers about the coffee shop he used to own. I've heard of insecurity, but this bloke is more insecure than shares in the new Baghdad-based china and glassware emporium. I just don't think mummy paid this one enough attention. In fact, that brings me to my next quote. After telling me the story about his dog - how it died young, how he spent a fortune trying to save its life - apparently he's not as God-like as he'd hoped - how he got the tattoo to commemorate the dog passing (his dog?) he went on to say, 'that was the lowest point in my life. I can safely say if my mum had died I wouldn't have felt as bad.' Now I love my cats in England. Pat and Dave have provided me with years of scratchy and furry fun, but if it came to a Sophie's Choice-style decision as to who would have to go out of them and Mummy Dearest, they'd be in a shallow grave under the apple tree before you could say, 'which way to Cat-Mart?'. Surely his are the ramblings of a mad man - I mean, his dog?

So the real question is why? Why did I take the flat after all the evidence put before me? And the answer is, genuinely, I was desperate - desperate and lazy. This was the first place I'd looked at since knowing I was gonna be evicted from Neill Wycik and as the deadline drew closer it just seemed like it would be easy. I wouldn't have to hang out with the guy, I thought, and it's only for a few weeks. Where's a flux capacitor when you need one? He's turned out to be more intrusive than a colonic and now that I've spent a whole week with him I definitely know that I've made a monumental mistake. Never mind, at least it makes for (hopefully) good material for you people and has also been a key factor in the rekindling of an old love affair between me and my old self-harming knife, Stabby. Sweet, sweet pain makes it all better. I've been writing down almost everything he says (mostly in disbelief) but have chosen only to post a couple of highlights as I think I was becoming dangerously obsessed with the whole situation. If you want to hear some more crackers let me know in the comments and I'll stick a couple more down in next week's posting, but for now I'll leave you with one of this week's more clench-worthy efforts. Pointing to his bedroom he has assured me with a knowing smile, 'I know what I'm doing in there.' So do I, Affas - it's called masturbating, probably over a picture of yourself.

Little extra bit here to say thanks again to Stoxie and Rob who revisited the comments page last week and left some more sterling efforts. Cheers for that, lads, and it just goes to prove my theory that the blog is a lot like crack and Othello - very moreish. It should also be noted that I've changed the name of the knobcheese cos I reckon he probably Googles himself a few times a week and if he saw this I'd be on the receiving end of one of those powerful arms - that is simply not an option. Ta ta.

(PS Congratulations Keith and Ruth - Baby Elliot James was born on 22nd August and by all accounts sounds like a cracker. Can't wait to meet him!)