Readers (what few of you there are), I'm fed up. Pissed off, in fact. Yes, I know, another whining Livejournal entry from another individual who is hopeless in the great game of life is hardly going to encourage you to continue reading, but this is the way it is.

You may remember some entries ago - some months ago, in fact - I complained that our flat appeared to have gained a cockroach infestation. Well, the saga continues. We've had exterminators around a number of times placing down powerful poison that should by now have actually wiped the crunchy bastards out, but they haven't. The problem has got worse, and it's the opinion of Uncle Rentokil that in fact the issue is originating from elsewhere in the block, from one of our neighbours who hasn't reported it.

It's a mammoth problem, too. Last night I walked into the kitchen to find approximately thirty cockroaches scarpering around the kitchen tabletop like clockwork tanks. We'd left a couple of plates by the side to wash up at a later date in the daily hurry (a foolish move, I realise) and the resulting scene looked like something out of a 1960s New York gangster film heavily featuring vermin infested flophouses. In a drunken rage I slammed my fists on the little gits, stamped on them, sprayed them, and did everything I could to catch them all, only for a few more to poke their heads out from behind the boiler to see what was going on. I cannot describe my fury at this point. We ended up pumping the whole kitchen with poison and disinfecting the work surfaces before leaving it for the evening. When we came back this morning, there were still a few crawling around as if nothing had ever actually happened, and feasting on the odd dead one that had come into contact with the poison. Cockroaches, you see, are by nature cannibals, and leaving dead relatives of theirs undisposed of is as much incitement to an invasion as leaving breadcrumbs on the side. To them, it's all the same old tasty treat, and they'll often eat each other rather than eat other produce that's available. They are not creatures that are known for being fussy eaters.

There are numerous people in our block who barely speak English, and I suspect that one of the families here may have the problem but is either too afraid to speak about it, is unable to explain it, or for whatever reason won't do anything about it. The Polish family downstairs in particular often refuse to let plumbers or maintenance officials through their front door even when identification is shown, so we may have an uphill struggle getting them to understand the concept of or indeed agree to an official inspection. Nonetheless, we've informed the landlord and even he has grudgingly admitted that everyone's property may have to be fumigated.

My despair hit a high point this morning in the bathroom. We live a couple of doors away from a Spanish restaurant (also suspects in the great cockroach mystery, I might add) and their choice of music tapes for their customers has been a source of some mirth to myself and Amanda for some time. Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" is an A-list favourite, as is "The Best of Elton John" and, of course, the Gypsy Kings. These tapes are played during the daytime at a very loud volume, and seep up into the bathroom through the open window when I'm taking a shower. However, just to be a little bit unpredictable, the proprieters of the restaurant appear to have purchased a new tape of Euro-smashes of the eighties. This means that instead of getting the aforementioned treats, we now get to hear DJ Sven's "Holiday Rap", Ryan Paris' "Dolce Vita", Baltimore's "Tarzan Boy" (which I quite like, I'm sorry to say), Europe's "The Final Countdown", and "Brother Louie" by whoever the fuck it was actually recorded that monstrosity.

Whilst I was brushing my teeth after dragging myself out of bed, I observed a large cockroach on the wall above the sink. It was wiggling its antennae thoughtfully, and almost in time to, the mawkish downstairs melody of FR David's "Words". As he sang in a thick accent "I am just a music man/ Melodies are part of my plan" I splatted the bastard with a contempt I cannot describe. I then sadly thought to myself "Jesus Christ, I am actually living in Room 101".

We have to move soon. I fear I might actually kill someone if we don't. Or vote for the UK Independence Party, whichever is worse.