The Loony Landlord

We have all suffered at the hands of the weird, eccentric and all out crazy landlords and the worst ones are those who live on the premises. At least that is what I thought until I moved into shared accommodation in north London.

Having recently moved to the UK, I found it strange that the landlord or agency received the rental guarantee directly, while in other European countries, a blocked account is opened for the guarantee and both parties must sign to release the money. Furthermore, I was used to much smaller rents and much larger accommodation, not to mention shorter commutes and cheaper public transport – but that is a story for another day.

It all started with a simple request, I wanted to pay my rent by direct debit and needed the landlord’s bank details so I sent a letter requesting his information. Next thing I know I get a message from the landlord, via my housemate Vicky, that he wanted me out of the house, no explanation. However, from the general gist of the message I gathered that the landlord had a few screws loose.

Vicky worked nights, and I worked during the day, in other words, I was mainly alone at night. The loony landlord upped the ante and started turning up in the evening after Vicky had left for work. He would pound and kick on the front door, screaming insults through the letterbox, and threatening to kill me. I did what any sensible person would do; I would call the Police, who luckily for me could hear the screaming in the background. As soon as they would turn up, the landlord would slink back into the night, only to reappear as soon as the Police left. This went on into the wee hours of the morning, every time the Police would come back until the landlord would get bored or tired and leave. He kept up his antics most nights for the next couple of weeks.

What I couldn’t wrap my mind around was why such a simple request would send someone into such a rage. So I did some digging and what I discovered explained a lot. It appeared that the house I was renting was a council property in the name of the landlord’s father, who incidentally had died five years ago. It didn’t stop there, as far as I could tell loony tunes was still receiving his father’s pensions and other benefits. My imagination went into overdrive visualising the father’s body rolled up in a carpet and stashed in the attic. First, there had been the uninvited bed guest and now a potential body in the attic, not to mention the lunatic landlord set on killing me. This whole thing was starting to resemble a script from a bad horror movie.

Then the inevitable happened, I had to work late and by the time I got to my tube stop Vicky had already left for work. Call it female intuition but I had a bad feeling that the landlord would be waiting for me. So I did what any smart woman would do and called a cab. Thankfully, my cabby was a strapping young man from Glasgow. I felt like the damsel in distress in one of those old black and white movies and this irritated me, as I was not in control of the situation, read into it what you want.

So, there I was, that cold November evening, telling a complete stranger about my bizarre landlord problems and that I strongly suspected he would be waiting for me. Luckily for me, the Glaswegian cabby proposed to stick around and ensure that I got safely inside the house, which did make me feel a bit better. Now all that was between me and the front door was a dark path lined with tall hedges. I felt slightly apprehensive as I got out of the cab and made my way up the ominously dark path.

The path had never seemed so long and just as I reached the end of the hedges, a large dark form emerged from behind the last hedge, dressed all in black, arms outstretched and screaming. My first instinct was to take a step back, then realising it was my personal loony tune, instinct kicked in and I took a step forward, finger pointing, screaming my own verbal abuse. In the background, I could hear my cabby getting out of his car and coming up the path behind me.

The landlord looked shocked that someone so small could turn into such a ball of fearless furry, and more than a little miffed that it was a woman doing the abusing, so to speak. To say that the landlord was foaming at the mouth would be a total exaggeration but he did rather remind me of a rabid pit bull, no offence to the pit bulls around the world. Even my strapping cabby decided not to tangle with the wild beast. Instead, he drove me to the nearest police station.

The police were very understanding and helpful, even offered me the proverbial cup of milky breakfast tea. Unfortunately, as I was sub-letting, the Police couldn’t accompany me back to the house. They did suggest that I return to the house during the day with some friends to collect my personal effects. However, when it came to the murder threats they took them very seriously and the cabby had been nice enough to make a statement.

Once they looked into the landlord they discovered a ream of domestic call-outs to the landlord’s house, but his wife would never file charges, probably too scared. The next day the Police sent a female officer around to question him, a man not gifted in the brain department. He kept referring to me as the B***h and when the officer pushed him further he called her something derogatory, berated the officer’s mother and then, true to form he threatens to kill the police officer. Obviously, it didn’t end well for the landlord!