Tall Posh Boy, Short Posh Boy

Hey all,

Tall Posh Boy and Short Posh Boy did not finish university, having dropped out to concentrate on their drug consumption “music” until inheritance rolls on in.  Were employed at the request of Head Posh Boy and both made themselves thoroughly obnoxious in the first couple of days – Short Posh Boy was, at least initially, so lazy that I thought he was dead at one point until he lit a cigarette.  After sundry dramas and a week of being penalised by dragging trees through the snow, Tall Posh Boy began to behave himself and worked well, at least when not being distracted by Short Posh Boy, who is a profoundly insolent little brat, if amusingly so, at least until you have to rely on him – but even he, on his own, could be compelled to action by the simple expedient of throwing trees at his head fast enough and hard enough to leave him with the following choice: pick up the pace and pull your weight or be rendered unconscious.  Here is Short Posh Boy's defence when being told off by the boss for not relaying a phone call message to the rest of the house: “Well you should have called someone more responsible!” (offended tone, genuine outrage).  HPB will definitely grow out of it.  TPB may very well do so – there is a layer of consideration for others there which makes him easy to like. Short Posh Boy won't grow out of it until something tragic happens: someone he cares about dies, he gets beaten to within an inch of his life (how this has not happened thus far is a mystery to me), or the Biggest Possible Disaster Of All: he gets cut out of the will.

Paying quite a bit of attention to Tall and Short Posh Boys due to the fact that, after Big Kiwi and Little Kiwi left early for a job in Switzerland, Posh Boys moved in with us because Head Posh Boy (the only one with a license) could no longer drive them to work as his elbow had turned into a block of metal screws.

Unfortunately, after drinking nearly a litre and a half of whisky one night between them, they reverted to original form when hung-over, Short Posh Boy in particular being such a little brat that Canada looked on with a blank dead stare in his eyes as SPB was so rude to Head Romanian that we all felt outraged on his behalf despite his fangs and his lack of a pulse. And you could see at moments like this that Canada would not be a good person to mess with, could conceive him calmly and without any real sense of malice breaking the jaw of someone on the hockey rink in one of their enthusiastic helmets-off punch-ups, then having a beer with the guy a month later – no hard feelings buddy...  Canada's ominous comment on SPB's behaviour: “I wouldn't have put up with that if I was [Romanian Vampire]...”

As they were starting to irritate both myself and Canada with their level of hygiene (a total of one shower between the two of them the whole time they were there), I used the last of their milk making pancakes (in my defence, I gave them a couple each) on my final night in the house.  To hide my theft and release some of the frustration caused by their apparent inability to use a sink, a mystery which shocked them even more than the shower, I replaced their milk with the milk that the Kiwis' had left in the kitchen (but not in the fridge) over a week previously, which was so lumpy and rancid that Canada could smell it at the dining table as soon as I opened it in the kitchen.  I expected a quick sniff the following morning from one of the posh boys while Canada and myself looked on in silent amusement as they had to go with black tea and raw porridge, but it turned out to be much more successful that that.  Here is Short Posh Boy's algorithm for figuring out that the milk is off:

1. Unscrew the cap, smell it, screw up your face in horror and look confused.
2. Try to pour it in to your tea.
3. When it won't come out because it is too lumpy, shake bottle vigorously.
4. Squeeze lumpy milk out of bottle into the cup of tea and stir it in until lumps go away.
5. Smell tea, screw up your face in horror and look confused.
6. DRINK HALF OF IT. Screw up face in horror and look confused.
7. Pour out tea.
8. Pour new cup of tea.
9. I shit you not: repeat steps 1-7 with THE SAME BOTTLE OF MILK.
10. Say, "There is something weird with this milk!"

This actually happened.  I struggled initially not to laugh.  Could see Canada doing the same.  Eventually the need to laugh killed off by mutual astonishment at repetition of steps 1-7.

The one day I had off the entire time there was as a result of being snowed in to the house, which was out in the middle of nowhere a long way from the plantation itself.  TPB and SPB spent about four and a half hours walking through a blizzard to the nearest town to get cigarettes and scotch.  Canada and I looked on in amazement, even Poland shook his head briefly and may have considered raising an eyebrow.  Canada: “F***.  Should tell the Boss that if he wants them to do some work he should just promise them a packet of fags at the end of the day.”

Photos.  Various shots of snow woman in progress of being built in middle of night and blizzard by wasted house mates.  Started off very funny but became quite serious towards the end in that trashed kind of way as Canada and the Posh Boys discussed the pros and cons of giving her a wand and pubic hair, while Poland said things like, “Yes, yes,” or, “No, no!”   I took photos and laughed.

Cheers, B.