In the sequel to He Died With A Felafel In His Hand, John Birmingham guides us through a rip-roaring tale of house-sharing hell.
When John Birmingham and his flatmates took in the new guy they had their doubts. The Celine Dion albums, the hordes of fluffy stuffed animals and the plastic-covered floral-pattern love seat should have set their threat detectors singing. Within days their house had become a swirling maelstrom of junkies, stolen goods and hired goons, Tasmanian Babes and Karate Dykes. And then the new guy did a runner – taking their money and possessions with him.
Now the flatmates have just one week to sober up, find two thousand dollars and catch the runaway before the government, the cops, crims and their landlord tear their house down and jump on their bones.