Hollywood Hayes: A Corkman’s adventures in LA

So, great news: I’m being evicted. Nice. Got an eviction notice yesterday from my landlord. 

Apparently putting your spare room up on AirBnB while your roommate is away is frowned upon in West Hollywood.

Even though we were told it was OK. I blame the building manager. Let’s call him Nobby, a big, bald eagle-headed guy shaped like a lump of Play-Doh. He’s a clown in fairness to him, gunning for us from day one.

Nobby dropped off the eviction notice yesterday. He’s such a liar that when he handed me the envelope with the papers he told me: “I don’t know what this is about or what’s in the envelope and I was told by the owner not to ask questions and I can’t answer anything either.”

I opened the envelope and saw that every page of the notice was signed by Nobby.

Must mull now whether to fight it or not. Technically the owner told us we could sub-let the room while my roommate Rob was away. Claims he meant long-term and not for short term bursts. Nice one.

Rob isn’t pushed. Not sure when he’s coming back from London so he saves money on rent. Handy-handy, for him.

I, on the other hand, am a bit goosed. Have to find a new abode and move, moving being one of my most favourite things in the world, what with me loving stress, spending money and unexpected hassle. Just the best, win-win.

Don’t think I want to live on my own. I’ll be a full-on recluse if I do, Hermit Hayes they’d call me. Having a roommate forces me to interact. Speak to others.

Hermit life can wait until I’m rich enough to no longer have to leave the house, instead having people come to me when I chose. Oh that would be the life. Ultimate dream.

Despite the stress of moving, I am always happier when I do move. Gives me a new outlook, new lease of life, new place to fool myself from.

I’m better moving than sitting. I just enjoy sitting in my comfort zone so much, at times I forget.

Nothing better, that warm bubble of familiarity and routine, such a treat, a nice loving hug from the daily gibber of LA life.

Mostly end on bad terms when I have to move in LA. My landlord was my roommate’s new girlfriend last time (Third Wheel Hayes).

English girl, let’s call her Zara.

Seemed sound at first, then I moved in and the “woe is me, typical, just my luck” drama began. Every. Single. Day. Crying over nothing and me slowly but surely never leaving my room when she was home. Brutal.

But the rent was cheap. So I stuck around. I’m a cheap man.

When the lease was up I presumed it was obvious that we were going our separate ways until one day she phoned me saying, “I have big news, huge! Stay at home, this will change your life.”

Almost dropped my cup of tea. Could only mean one thing, in my deluded head: she must’ve spoke to a big producer about me, my books, my comedy and now the producer and TV people want me to make my own sitcom.

This is it! We’ve made it! (Honest to God, I thought this was it.)

Zara arrives home, for once not deflating into the couch like a sad sack of potatoes. Sits me down. Asks if I’m ready. I am, I say, bottle of champagne in hand.


“I’ve found us a new house in the hills. Rent is more expensive than here but I’ll pay the extra money and you can pay the exact same as right now. AMAZING!!”

Wait, what? Champagne bottle pops. Champagne dribbles out with a whimper. Fitting. No sitcom? I say.

“Huh?” she asks.

That’s the big news?

“I found us somewhere to live in the hills. You’re going to be living IN THE HILLS!”

You mean you and I are going to be more secluded, not within walking distance of any shops, bars or the gym so I won’t be able to easily escape when you start crying because a guy you never spoke to didn’t say hi and might not like you and also WHAT ABOUT MY SITCOM DEAL?

Except, I didn’t say that. I said: Eh, don’t think I want to live in the hills to be honest.

“You what?”

Bit far out. Too quiet.

“You don’t want to live with me anymore?”

Not sure, not really. No. It’s not you, it’s me.

“I don’t know how you could say this after all I did to get us the new house.”

I never asked you to. This won’t be awkward now, will it?

“Go fuck yourself.”

OK. Perfect. Thank you.

So yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine. I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. Adventure on!


Frits Potgieter is General Manager with Muckross Park Hotel and Spa.You've Been Served: Frits Potgieter, Muckross Park Hotel and Spa

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