Well, the end came for Melvis about five months back. Me and Man Friday knew which day it would be and thus got up super early to sit on the door step and do some knitting (well, stare thru the letter box).
First a fire engine came. Then a police car and another car pulled up. A few neighbours came out to view proceedings. Then the police and two blokes in suits came in the communal door and went up to Melvis's. Boomph, boomph, boomph!
'Mr Valentine, can you come to the door please?'
'Are you incapacitated, sir?'
'Yes, I've got a pain in my fucking arse!'
'We have a court order with your name on it, sir....'
'And I've got an hammer with your fucking name on it...'
'Melvis Valentine, this is the police. If you do not open this door, we have a warrant to force entry.'
'Do your bloody worst!'
Then the fire men (4 of em) came in the front door. I dunno whether they thought that Melvis would set fire to the flat or if he might climb up on the roof and then they'd have to rescue him. Or maybe the police thought that they might need rescuing from old Melvis!
Well, the police had a battering ram thing and they used it on the door, which was a bit of a disaster cos Melvis's front door is only held together with spit and sealing wax (cos he's kicked it in so often - he loses his key a lot) and when they boofed in the door they (all four of em) went flying thru the door and down the corridor and landed on Melvis. Then Louis, Melvis's dog, thought it was the best game ever and jumped on the whole pile of 'em and kept nipping 'em and running away.
We heard all this afterwards from Sigaret Oppellederen (who lives upstairs and hates Melvis).
Then, the firemen went charging upstairs to help and the next thing we could see was Melvis being carried downstairs by four fireman. Melvis, who had gone stiff as a board was shouting at them: 'I'm not lifting a finger to help you boot me out of my own home.' And he let himself be carried down the stairs whilst lying there like Tutankhamen. It was a difficult manoeuvre cos the staircase is dead narrow and can hardly manage two abreast, let alone four firemen and a lunatic.
At one point, we hard Melvis yell out: 'Get your hand off me arse you pervert!' And one of the firemen said: 'Ha! Chance'd be a fine thing, Senor.' And the other firemen laughed. And Melvis shouted back: 'And you don't you 'Senor' me with yer la-di-la Costa Blanca talk.'
And that was it. A big repair van then pulled up and the workmen ran inside and put up metal grille things over the door and windows. Man, it was better than telly. Oh, and they took Melvis in the police car, 'escorting' him to his new home - a hostel in Edmonton (which is like, 200 miles away for Melvis, although only 5 miles for the rest of us).
However, we only 'didn't' see the bugger for less than a week! Apparently (and this is pieced together from Melvis's moaning, the funny prostitute lady (I could be wrong about her tho') and various neighbours), apparently, Melvis was moved into a hostel run by a super Christian charity, and when I say 'super' I don't mean 'a bunch of really good eggs' I mean like they're the sorts who make Jesus look like Hugh Hefner. So, as much as he annoyed them and flouted the rules, they kept on forgiving him. Which, of course, made him madder and madder. Finally, he threw a cocktail cabinet out of the communal tv room window and it killed a squirrel. Some versions say he threw out the tv and it beaned a vicar (but I don't belive that, I don't even believe the squirrel bit - come to think of it I dunno if I believe the cocktail cabinet bit. I mean, no-one but no-one has a cocktail cabinet anymore and the chance of super Christians having one of things is zero!)
So, finally the Super Christians bunged him out on his ear and he moved in with a mate of his who only just lives up the road, right next to our local betting shop! So we still see the beggar all the time. At least he doesn't live above us anymore and keep dropping billiard balls onto his marble flooring (which is exactly what it sounded like when he was three sheets to the wind and staggering around the domicile and throwing saucepans on the floor).
A new bloke (dunno his name yet) has moved in. But although the council repaired the electrics, radiator, water heater and front door and windows, they didn't have the dough to replaster (Melvis had, as it turned out, chipped orf 80% of the plaster - don't ask me why). However, poor new bloke couldnt afford to get a proper plasterer, so had a bash at it himself. It must've turned out a bit 'rustic' cos he spent a good two weeks sanding down the sticky-out bits. I imagine that once he finished the plastering it was a bit like yer mum's Christmas cake when she takes a fork to the icing to pretend it's snow. P.s. my old mum had a set of cake decorations that had built up over the years, one of which was a robin. However, the robin was six times the size of the children on the sledge. Her Xmas cakes always had a B-Movie look about em.