Housemates



Catch21 says "I go out of my way to make life hell for my shitty middle-class housemates who go running to the landlord every time I break wind". Weird housemates are the gift that keep on giving - tell us about yours.



( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 13:28) Catch21 says "I go out of my way to make life hell for my shitty middle-class housemates who go running to the landlord every time I break wind". Weird housemates are the gift that keep on giving - tell us about yours.( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 13:28)

The Colour Purple…



Disclaimer : Please get comfy…and you might want to get a cup of coffee / can of Redbull / gram of speed to keep you going through this one…



When my brother and the sugar-coated Sherman tank that ended up becoming his (now ex) wife were star crossed young lovers, they were desperate to shack up together and plunge nose-first into credit-related chaos.



Unfortunately, they were hindered in their plight by that annoying, age old stumbling block of having no job, no money…and criminal records.



Their doomed blossoming romance needed help…and someone answered their call…



Behold! Bumbling along, like a drunken, late-teens, slightly sex-obsessed superhero, whose special powers consisted only of regular employment, being debt-free and having no previous convictions against his name…step forward 'Super Pooflake' – aka: ‘Security Bond & Deposit Guarantee Boy’!



I signed up and lived there for about a year or so, genuinely enjoying my first taste of freedom without the parents...although to be fair, my folks were always pretty liberal on the ‘bringing girls home’ front (Dad used to ‘high five’ me as I escorted the young ladies out of the house 'post-humpage'). My steady girlfriend of the time pretty much moved in with me, work was nearby – all was good.



Unfortunately, although we made a fair fist of blissful cohabitation for a while, living under the same roof as my brother and his monu-mentalist missus simply couldn’t last.



(Their domestic disputes made the hundred years war look like a ‘bit of a tiff’…I soon developed a sort of Jedi-esque ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ ability at spotting violent arguments just before they kicked off…and spider senses to avoid ashtrays just before they whizzed past my head)



Eventually, I informed them of my decision to move out, and all was amicably agreed. They had been on the premises for over a year, were getting by and were settled in; however, they asked me to hang around for a bit whilst they found a replacement lodger to help them with the almost overlooked matter of paying.the.fucking.rent.



I don’t know how, or where from, but eventually, they found their saviour in the spindly form of ‘Nigel’.



Nigel was an accountant-type fellow and owned a home PC, and this was in the days where your average compooter-a-tron was the size of an articulated lorry, had twirly-round tape wheel thingies, and thousands of nondescript lights blinking on and off like the set of Blake’s 7.



I was impressed. However, my suspicions were first aroused as to him possibly having ‘rolled onto the mouldy side of the fruit bowl’ when I was helping him move in, and I complimented him on some of the artwork that adorned his new bedroom walls.



Although the subject matter wasn’t exactly my ‘cup-of-tea’ (general wildlife, gore fests, people hanging from trees etc), I could at least acknowledge the talent involved.



“They’re good” I bleated nervously before enquiring: “Did you paint them yourself?”



He then informed me that he had bought the paintings from various artists, but that every piece had one thing in common. Each artist featured in his collection had later committed suicide…this was his motivation for buying them.



'Ooooooookay then' thinks I, as I slowly back out of the room...



Nigel got past the first few days without incident, and like so many stories on this QotW will no doubt testify, he seemed to be one of those guys who pretty much ‘kept himself to himself’.



To celebrate his arrival (and my subsequent freedom), we decided to venture out for a good old ‘boozy do’. Nigel was invited but said he had ‘other plans’. Non perturbed, my brother, his g/f and I went to our local and partook in the time-honoured tradition of getting bladder-bustingly shitfaced.



When kicking out time came, we were predictably kicked out, and we staggered back to the house for a 'sophisticated night cap' (tins of cider), and the welcome invitation for me to sleep on the sofa.



We crept along as we approached the house, in a conscientious move to avoid causing a disturbance. My brother’s g/f then quietly opened the front door, and as we tip-toed along the hallway we noticed that the lounge light was still on. ‘Ah, Nigel must still be up’, we thought to ourselves as we opened the door…



The sight that awaited us shook me to the very core.



Nigel was laying flat out on the floor, plum faced, completely stark-bollock naked, except for his trollies which were pulled down by his ankles, and a thick leather belt wrapped tightly round his throat. In one of his hands was a half drunk bottle of scotch…on his other hand was a purple silk glove, and in it he was holding his limp, dribbling, flaccid bacon bazooka, which was drooping snoozily, with a drizzle of post-ejaculatum oozing from his blistered hog’s eye. Surrounding him was a collection of jizzed-to-a-pulp tissues, scattered liberally about like stumpy, scrunched up little monuments to all things spunkilicious.



Nigel had passed out completely…fixed with the kind of glazed, gurning expression that you find on mongs clutching tickets to a Chuckle Brothers extravaganza.



He had quite literally wanked himself into blurry unconsciousness.



Aghast at this initial sight, our eyes were then turned to the subject playing on the video…



Despite the shaky camerawork, we could clearly make out an uncomfortable-looking woman repeatedly thrusting herself back and forth on to the gargantuan dangling phallus of a strapping farm horse – and both parties were ‘whinnying’ frantically as the dong-tastic Dobbin was plunged balls deep into her cavernous cack-canyon time and time again.



As we collectively recoiled we were just in time to watch another young lady collect about half a gallon of fresh horse spaff into a carrier bag…then tip it all over herself.



Time then seemed to slow down for us, Matrix style, as we stood there looking at the screen, then each other, then Nigel, then the screen again...as we noticed the action had changed to feature a rather blessed-in-the-chest-department female receiving enthusiastic oral pleasure from a weapons grade Rottweiller…whilst another was frying the dog’s miniature mountain of munting manure…and eating it. (she was using a knife and fork though...it seems there’s always time for good table manners).



“ Whooooa? ” I mewed meekly, leaving my mouth agape as my fledgling mind warped more and more beyond recognition with every passing frame of filthy film footage.



…



Eventually, my brother timidly ponders: “Ahh…… erm ……Shhhh, don’t wake him” he whispers kindly, holding his finger to his lips.



In the meantime, his psychopathic significant other had stepped over Nigel, and quietly switched off the TV…But as she heard my brother's words she breathed deeply, then visibly ‘snapped’ – screaming out at a lung-collapsing volume:



”DON’T FUCKING WAKE HIM?”



Bellowing with a force that would have had Brian Blessed reaching for the ear plugs, she continued: ”Oi! *kicks Nigel stoutly in the ribs* – you dirty, filthy fucker! What the fucking FUCK do you think you’re doing?”



Nigel slowly awoke and he rubbed his eyes, then after a brief realisation of his surroundings and the situation, he let out a piercing screech, like tyres in a 70’s car chase, before catapulting himself skywards in the manner of someone who had just received 3000 volts through his wrinkled, spent scrote (which on reflection he probably would have enjoyed).



He then desperately scrambled about for his clouts, whilst attempting in vain to cover as many offending articles as he could; yet only succeeding in doing what looked like a combination of synchronised swimming, an epileptic episode, and an impressive rendition of the ‘funky chicken’ dance.



Gazing down at this pathetic personification of purest perversion I tried to stifle the onset of giggles by adopting the moral high ground, ‘tutting’ loudly, shaking my head slowly, then turning and walking away in mock disgust…before running out of earshot and laughing like a particularly ticklish drain.



I slept in the bath.



To his credit, Nigel didn’t move out straight away… Fair play to him, he tried to ‘live it down’, but there are just some things that no amount of apologising can make up for, some things that you can’t just 'sweep under the carpet' (especially when you know what has taken place on that carpet)



Most of all…it’s impossible to share a house with someone when you can’t even bring yourselves to look each other in the eye.



He lasted about a fortnight.

( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 11:58, : Please get comfy…and you might want to get a cup of coffee / can of Redbull / gram of speed to keep you going through this one…When my brother and the sugar-coated Sherman tank that ended up becoming his (now ex) wife were star crossed young lovers, they were desperate to shack up together and plunge nose-first into credit-related chaos.Unfortunately, they were hindered in their plight by that annoying, age old stumbling block of having no job, no money…and criminal records.Theirblossoming romance needed help…and someone answered their call…Behold! Bumbling along, like a drunken, late-teens, slightly sex-obsessed superhero, whose special powers consisted only of regular employment, being debt-free and having no previous convictions against his name…step forward 'Super Pooflake' – aka: ‘Security Bond & Deposit Guarantee Boy’!I signed up and lived there for about a year or so, genuinely enjoying my first taste of freedom without the parents...although to be fair, my folks were always pretty liberal on the ‘bringing girls home’ front (Dad used to ‘high five’ me as I escorted the young ladies out of the house 'post-humpage'). My steady girlfriend of the time pretty much moved in with me, work was nearby – all was good.Unfortunately, although we made a fair fist of blissful cohabitation for a while, living under the same roof as my brother and his monu-mentalist missus simply couldn’t last.(Their domestic disputes made the hundred years war look like a ‘bit of a tiff’…I soon developed a sort of Jedi-esque ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ ability at spotting violent arguments just before they kicked off…and spider senses to avoid ashtrays just before they whizzed past my head)Eventually, I informed them of my decision to move out, and all was amicably agreed. They had been on the premises for over a year, were getting by and were settled in; however, they asked me to hang around for a bit whilst they found a replacement lodger to help them with the almost overlooked matter of paying.the.fucking.rent.I don’t know how, or where from, but eventually, they found their saviour in the spindly form of ‘Nigel’.Nigel was an accountant-type fellow and owned a home PC, and this was in the days where your average compooter-a-tron was the size of an articulated lorry, had twirly-round tape wheel thingies, and thousands of nondescript lights blinking on and off like the set of Blake’s 7.I was impressed. However, my suspicions were first aroused as to him possibly having ‘rolled onto the mouldy side of the fruit bowl’ when I was helping him move in, and I complimented him on some of the artwork that adorned his new bedroom walls.Although the subject matter wasn’t exactly my ‘cup-of-tea’ (general wildlife, gore fests, people hanging from trees etc), I could at least acknowledge the talent involved.“They’re good” I bleated nervously before enquiring: “Did you paint them yourself?”He then informed me that he had bought the paintings from various artists, but that every piece had one thing in common. Each artist featured in his collection had later…this was his motivation for buying them.thinks I, as I slowly back out of the room...Nigel got past the first few days without incident, and like so many stories on this QotW will no doubt testify, he seemed to be one of those guys who pretty much ‘kept himself to himself’.To celebrate his arrival (and my subsequent freedom), we decided to venture out for a good old ‘boozy do’. Nigel was invited but said he had ‘other plans’. Non perturbed, my brother, his g/f and I went to our local and partook in the time-honoured tradition of getting bladder-bustingly shitfaced.When kicking out time came, we were predictably kicked out, and we staggered back to the house for a 'sophisticated night cap' (tins of cider), and the welcome invitation for me to sleep on the sofa.We crept along as we approached the house, in a conscientious move to avoid causing a disturbance. My brother’s g/f then quietly opened the front door, and as we tip-toed along the hallway we noticed that the lounge light was still on. ‘Ah, Nigel must still be up’, we thought to ourselves as we opened the door…The sight that awaited us shook me to the very core.Nigel was laying flat out on the floor, plum faced, completely stark-bollock naked, except for his trollies which were pulled down by his ankles, and a. In one of his hands was a half drunk bottle of scotch…on his other hand was a, and in it he was holding his limp, dribbling, flaccid bacon bazooka, which was drooping snoozily, with a drizzle of post-ejaculatum oozing from his blistered hog’s eye. Surrounding him was a collection of jizzed-to-a-pulp tissues, scattered liberally about like stumpy, scrunched up little monuments to all things spunkilicious.Nigel had passed out completely…fixed with the kind of glazed, gurning expression that you find on mongs clutching tickets to a Chuckle Brothers extravaganza.He had quite literally wanked himself into blurry unconsciousness.Aghast at this initial sight, our eyes were then turned to the subject playing on the video…Despite the shaky camerawork, we could clearly make out an uncomfortable-looking woman repeatedly thrusting herself back and forth on to the gargantuan dangling phallus of a strapping farm horse – and both parties were ‘whinnying’ frantically as the dong-tastic Dobbin was plunged balls deep into her cavernous cack-canyon time and time again.As we collectively recoiled we were just in time to watch another young lady collect about half a gallon of fresh horse spaff into a carrier bag…then tip it all over herself.Time then seemed to slow down for us, Matrix style, as we stood there looking at the screen, then each other, then Nigel, then the screen again...as we noticed the action had changed to feature a rather blessed-in-the-chest-department female receiving enthusiastic oral pleasure from a weapons grade Rottweiller…whilst another was frying the dog’s miniature mountain of munting manure…and eating it. (sheusing a knife and fork though...it seems there’stime for good table manners).” I mewed meekly, leaving my mouth agape as my fledgling mind warped more and more beyond recognition with every passing frame of filthy film footage.Eventually, my brother timidly ponders: “Ahh…………Shhhh, don’t wake him” he whispers kindly, holding his finger to his lips.In the meantime, his psychopathic significant other had stepped over Nigel, and quietly switched off the TV…But as she heard my brother's words she breathed deeply, then visibly ‘snapped’ – screaming out at a lung-collapsing volume:”DON’T FUCKING WAKE HIM?”Bellowing with a force that would have had Brian Blessed reaching for the ear plugs, she continued: ”Oi! *kicks Nigel stoutly in the ribs* – you dirty, filthy fucker! What the fucking FUCK do you think you’re doing?”Nigel slowly awoke and he rubbed his eyes, then after a brief realisation of his surroundings and the situation, he let out a piercing screech, like tyres in a 70’s car chase, before catapulting himself skywards in the manner of someone who had just received 3000 volts through his wrinkled, spent scrote (which on reflection he probably would have enjoyed).He then desperately scrambled about for his clouts, whilst attempting in vain to cover as many offending articles as he could; yet only succeeding in doing what looked like a combination of synchronised swimming, an epileptic episode, and an impressive rendition of the ‘funky chicken’ dance.Gazing down at this pathetic personification of purest perversion I tried to stifle the onset of giggles by adopting the moral high ground, ‘tutting’ loudly, shaking my head slowly, then turning and walking away in mock disgust…before running out of earshot and laughing like a particularly ticklish drain.I slept in the bath.To his credit, Nigel didn’t move out straight away… Fair play to him, he tried to ‘live it down’, but there are just some things that no amount of apologising can make up for, some things that you can’t just 'sweep under the carpet' (especially when you know what has taken place on that carpet)Most of all…it’s impossible to share a house with someone when you can’t even bring yourselves to look each other in the eye.He lasted about a fortnight.( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 11:58, 23 replies

Leave Mrs. B alone!

One of the places I used to live in Southampton was a bikers chapterhouse (basically a house that was the headquarters for a biker gang).

When people think of biker gangs they think of drug taking, kneecapping, granny beating antichrists.



Some are, lots are not.



I moved in about 2 months after the house was taken over. There were lots of big, smelly, scary bikers living there.



The area was a huge blue rinse zone and it didn't take too long for them to realise that we weren't what we appeared.



Before long I'd be wandering down the road in cut offs, long hair, three days growth and generally looking quite scary.



More often than not I'd have a little old lady coming up to me at the pedestrian crossing and asking me to help them cross the road (deary).



In the back garden we had about 15-20 apple trees. They were all cookers and there was a little old lady next door that came round to ask, as we weren't using them, if she could use them to make pies.



We had no problem with this what so ever, infact we'd pick them when they became ripe and take them round to her and she'd bring us vast quantities of homemade apple pies

. Everyone loved Mrs. B.



One day about twenty of us are lounging around smoking herbal cigarettes and there's a shout from the driveway.



A biker runs in and shouts, 'They're mugging Mrs. B.'



We all run out. Fuck with Mrs. B and you fuck with us!



We get into the road and there's two guys (obviously pissed off as Chavs haven't been invented and yet to find a way of defining themselves).



I still to this day feel sorry for them. Textbook granny mugging and they hear from behind, 'OI! LEAVE MRS. B ALONE!!!'



They had the living shite kicked out of them, even Mrs. B put a dainty boot in.



The police did turn up and talk to Mrs. B and said, 'So they fell over then.'



We never had any problems with the police after that and they pretty much relied on us to keep an eye on the granny fraternity afterwards.



Sod Help The Aged. You need more bikers.

( , Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:47, One of the places I used to live in Southampton was a bikers chapterhouse (basically a house that was the headquarters for a biker gang).When people think of biker gangs they think of drug taking, kneecapping, granny beating antichrists.Some are, lots are not.I moved in about 2 months after the house was taken over. There were lots of big, smelly, scary bikers living there.The area was a huge blue rinse zone and it didn't take too long for them to realise that we weren't what we appeared.Before long I'd be wandering down the road in cut offs, long hair, three days growth and generally looking quite scary.More often than not I'd have a little old lady coming up to me at the pedestrian crossing and asking me to help them cross the road (deary).In the back garden we had about 15-20 apple trees. They were all cookers and there was a little old lady next door that came round to ask, as we weren't using them, if she could use them to make pies.We had no problem with this what so ever, infact we'd pick them when they became ripe and take them round to her and she'd bring us vast quantities of homemade apple pies. Everyone loved Mrs. B.One day about twenty of us are lounging around smoking herbal cigarettes and there's a shout from the driveway.A biker runs in and shouts, 'They're mugging Mrs. B.'We all run out. Fuck with Mrs. B and you fuck with us!We get into the road and there's two guys (obviously pissed off as Chavs haven't been invented and yet to find a way of defining themselves).I still to this day feel sorry for them. Textbook granny mugging and they hear from behind, 'OI! LEAVE MRS. B ALONE!!!'They had the living shite kicked out of them, even Mrs. B put a dainty boot in.The police did turn up and talk to Mrs. B and said, 'So they fell over then.'We never had any problems with the police after that and they pretty much relied on us to keep an eye on the granny fraternity afterwards.Sod Help The Aged. You need more bikers.( , Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:47, 14 replies

Might be a repost but

My housemate Sabine was very nice, but a bit scatty.

She went to a party and had a few drinks and they shared a curry. At the end she said "thanks for a lovely evening but I should be going", tucked her bag under her arm and headed off.

A couple of minutes later she came back, looking a bit pink. "I'm dreadfully sorry" she said. "I thought I'd tucked my handbag under my arm, but it was a naan bread".

( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 10:48, My housemate Sabine was very nice, but a bit scatty.She went to a party and had a few drinks and they shared a curry. At the end she said "thanks for a lovely evening but I should be going", tucked her bag under her arm and headed off.A couple of minutes later she came back, looking a bit pink. "I'm dreadfully sorry" she said. "I thought I'd tucked my handbag under my arm, but it was a naan bread".( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 10:48, 8 replies

The saddest young man in the world

I was lodging with a very well to-do family in their large, modern home. The parents were very friendly types, the kind who’d watch Midsomer Murders on a Saturday night, but blush as soon as anything remotely adult appeared on screen. They had a complete failure of a son, who was older than myself, but worked in Sainsbury’s and rarely left his room, and a daughter, Gemma, who was my age, and whose room was directly opposite mine.

Gemma wasn’t hot, but she was certainly attractive, she had a curvy figure and a pretty great body, but was let down by her Jimmy Hill-ean chin; She had the kind of arse that forced involuntary spasms in the trousers of young men. Unfortunately, she also had a boyfriend. A ridiculously good-looking, manly, boyfriend, and their relationship was pretty solid, but of course, that wouldn’t stop me fwapping over her occasionally.



One night I was having trouble sleeping, and after a few minutes of tossing and turning, I became aware of a quiet, squeaking sound coming from across the hall. It took me a second to realise what it must be; Gemma and Captain Fantastic going at it, their bedsprings squeaking to the rhythm of their energetic thrusting. The thought started to get me going, I was becoming turned on, and my imagination ran wild with images of their sweaty embrace.

My hands reached down, and I began tugging at my meaty shaft. My head filled with fantasies of Gemma being taken roughly from behind, quietly whimpering as her boyfriend’s rigid cock bounced merrily off her G spot, then he flips her over, wraps her ankles around her shoulders, slides deep inside her, and they kiss gently as he grinds his hips against hers. I vividly imagined her smell, her taste, the way she would feel, in my mind I had taken the place of her boyfriend. I was making her feel things she had never felt before, taken her and pleasured her like never before, and then she came, writhing and arching her body beneath me. I was spent, the fantasy had done its job, and I tried to get to sleep.



However, the squeaking bedsprings went on for a long time after I’d finished, it felt like at least an hour before Gemma’s large, brute of a man had spilled his load.

The next morning I awoke early, and as I pottered around my bedroom I became aware of the bedspring sound again. Surely they weren’t at it again? I have to admit, I was impressed by their stamina, and decided to knock out another quick one before I left for work.



I straightened myself up, got ready, and stepped out into the hall. The bastard squeaking was still going, but looking at the floor, I realised where it had been coming from the whole time. Gemma had left her Hamster cage by her bedroom door, the sound of little Hammy running in his wheel had been keeping her awake at night.



Fucksocks. I’d only been wanking over a cunting Hamster.

( , Sun 1 Mar 2009, 19:27, I was lodging with a very well to-do family in their large, modern home. The parents were very friendly types, the kind who’d watch Midsomer Murders on a Saturday night, but blush as soon as anything remotely adult appeared on screen. They had a complete failure of a son, who was older than myself, but worked in Sainsbury’s and rarely left his room, and a daughter, Gemma, who was my age, and whose room was directly opposite mine.Gemma wasn’t hot, but she was certainly attractive, she had a curvy figure and a pretty great body, but was let down by her Jimmy Hill-ean chin; She had the kind of arse that forced involuntary spasms in the trousers of young men. Unfortunately, she also had a boyfriend. A ridiculously good-looking, manly, boyfriend, and their relationship was pretty solid, but of course, that wouldn’t stop me fwapping over her occasionally.One night I was having trouble sleeping, and after a few minutes of tossing and turning, I became aware of a quiet, squeaking sound coming from across the hall. It took me a second to realise what it must be; Gemma and Captain Fantastic going at it, their bedsprings squeaking to the rhythm of their energetic thrusting. The thought started to get me going, I was becoming turned on, and my imagination ran wild with images of their sweaty embrace.My hands reached down, and I began tugging at my meaty shaft. My head filled with fantasies of Gemma being taken roughly from behind, quietly whimpering as her boyfriend’s rigid cock bounced merrily off her G spot, then he flips her over, wraps her ankles around her shoulders, slides deep inside her, and they kiss gently as he grinds his hips against hers. I vividly imagined her smell, her taste, the way she would feel, in my mind I had taken the place of her boyfriend. I was making her feel things she had never felt before, taken her and pleasured her like never before, and then she came, writhing and arching her body beneath me. I was spent, the fantasy had done its job, and I tried to get to sleep.However, the squeaking bedsprings went on for a long time after I’d finished, it felt like at least an hour before Gemma’s large, brute of a man had spilled his load.The next morning I awoke early, and as I pottered around my bedroom I became aware of the bedspring sound again. Surely they weren’t at it? I have to admit, I was impressed by their stamina, and decided to knock out another quick one before I left for work.I straightened myself up, got ready, and stepped out into the hall. The bastard squeaking was still going, but looking at the floor, I realised where it had been coming from the whole time. Gemma had left her Hamster cage by her bedroom door, the sound of little Hammy running in his wheel had been keeping her awake at night.Fucksocks. I’d only been wanking over a cunting Hamster.( , Sun 1 Mar 2009, 19:27, 4 replies

The Mysterious World of Kit-Kat

Back when I was at Uni, a Chinese exchange student named Kit-Kat (seriously), moved into the house for the last semester.



We never saw him.



Ever.



Strangest thing was, he didn't seem to use the bathroom. Ever. He'd come back from his lectures and shoot up to his room, firmly locking the door behind him.



Winter and spring rolls by and one day we wake up from a heavy session at the pub the night before to discover Kit-Kat has fucked off. He moved out without even letting us know. It was only because the door to his room was open that we knew he'd gone, we'd never seen the door open. Not in all the time he was living with us.



Being nosy bastards, my housemates and I ventured into the unknown world of Kit-Kat's room.



The first thing that hit you was the smell. It was like rancid, decaying flesh and shit. And the carpet crunched underfoot. How the fuck do you make a carpet crunchy, for fucks sake?



"This is fucked up," said my mate Blackpool Ben.



I opened the wardrobe. "Fuck ME!!!"



It was stacked floor to ceiling with two litre coke bottles.



Full of piss.



There must've been enough piss to fill a swimming pool in that wardrobe.



And there were flies, swarming over the bottles, desperate - so it seemed - to find a way inside.



At about the same time my other housemate Betty (a bloke, but we called him Betty for some unknown reason) said: "Spanky, you are not gonna fucking believe this..."



Betty was standing over the dresser, he'd opened the first drawer. More flies. Bigger, angrier, faster, buzzier...



I sort of knew what he'd found already, you could tell by the sudden even stronger stentch that assailed the room.



"Shit," said Betty. "Bags of shit."



He opened the next drawer down. More shit. There was a change in the bottom drawer though, this one only had used shit roll, compressed into a drawer-sized brick. Streaky and matted with hair. And more fucking flies. And tiny pure white maggots. Lots of um, weaving about and having a fucking rave.



Blackpool Ben opened the curtains. Light flooded in and we flipped. Now we could see why the carpet was crunchy. It was covered, and I mean COVERED, in a thin film of crusty snot and/or semen in huge fucking random patches. The green carpet resembled a field after the first fall of winter snow, only with snot and cum instead.



The three of us ran like fuck, slamming the door closed behind us.



"Bang goes his deposit," I said, and the others tended to agree.

( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 13:57, Back when I was at Uni, a Chinese exchange student named Kit-Kat (seriously), moved into the house for the last semester.We never saw him.Ever.Strangest thing was, he didn't seem to use the bathroom. Ever. He'd come back from his lectures and shoot up to his room, firmly locking the door behind him.Winter and spring rolls by and one day we wake up from a heavy session at the pub the night before to discover Kit-Kat has fucked off. He moved out without even letting us know. It was only because the door to his room was open that we knew he'd gone, we'd never seen the door open. Not in all the time he was living with us.Being nosy bastards, my housemates and I ventured into the unknown world of Kit-Kat's room.The first thing that hit you was the smell. It was like rancid, decaying flesh and shit. And the carpet crunched underfoot. How the fuck do you make a carpet crunchy, for fucks sake?"This is fucked up," said my mate Blackpool Ben.I opened the wardrobe. "Fuck ME!!!"It was stacked floor to ceiling with two litre coke bottles.Full of piss.There must've been enough piss to fill a swimming pool in that wardrobe.And there were flies, swarming over the bottles, desperate - so it seemed - to find a way inside.At about the same time my other housemate Betty (a bloke, but we called him Betty for some unknown reason) said: "Spanky, you are not gonna fucking believe this..."Betty was standing over the dresser, he'd opened the first drawer. More flies. Bigger, angrier, faster, buzzier...I sort of knew what he'd found already, you could tell by the sudden even stronger stentch that assailed the room."Shit," said Betty. "Bags of shit."He opened the next drawer down. More shit. There was a change in the bottom drawer though, this one only had used shit roll, compressed into a drawer-sized brick. Streaky and matted with hair. And more fucking flies. And tiny pure white maggots. Lots of um, weaving about and having a fucking rave.Blackpool Ben opened the curtains. Light flooded in and we flipped. Now we could see why the carpet was crunchy. It was covered, and I mean COVERED, in a thin film of crusty snot and/or semen in huge fucking random patches. The green carpet resembled a field after the first fall of winter snow, only with snot and cum instead.The three of us ran like fuck, slamming the door closed behind us."Bang goes his deposit," I said, and the others tended to agree.( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 13:57, 26 replies

Early one morning, doing my rounds...

...I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down...



Wait...I fucked that up...let me start again.



In the wee small hours of one student morning, doing a couple of lines of something I shouldn't have been with a friend and playing on the NES (God, I am SO old).



We hear the front door open, We hear footsteps on the stairs.



We hear giggling, We hear moaning, We hear the unmistakable sounds of my Irish Cassanova flatmate getting down to the physical act of love.



I look at my co-conspirator, we shrug, and go back to our slightly aggressive game of Sensible Soccer, turning the volume up slightly, waiting for the inevitable signal that he had 'completed the task'





Why 'inevitable?' Well, we had a game, it was a very childish game admittedly, but it was our game nevertheless. If any of us pulled (and when I say any of us, I wasn't the most successful sexual adventurer as a student, so it was mainly the other guys), at the moment of climax, we'd have to shout an advertising slogan as loud as we could. You'd get a point for each housemate that heard it...







What would it be this time? we'd already recently had what I considered the unbeatable 'The Lion Goes From Strength To Strength!' yelled at about 9am on a Sunday morning.



We played another game of Sensible



And then we heard it, in a loud Irish Accent...



...'Don't Forget The Honey, Mummy!'



And we cracked. Cracked in the way that only two immature Charlie'd up wanker students could.



We were in hysterics, tears, crying, wheezing, giggling like buffoons.



We couldn't stop. I swear, it must have been 15 minutes later when, us still laughing, the door opened and in walked this girl we had never seen before.



She just said, 'I was just on my way home, but I had to come and see what was so funny'



So we explained, she didn't seem too put out, and, in fact, possibly even relieved that she had an explanation for the odd orgasm exclamation.



She was really sweet actually, and she stayed, talking to us, in a lovely, lilting Irish brogue for a good half hour.



I was beginning to think we could actually be friends.



Until the door burst open.



Irish Cassanova walked boldy in, wrapped in just a towel and proudly stated



'Oi, lads, oi've just fucked Terry Wogan's daughter...oh...I thought you'd left...'



She did.



Immediately.



For good.



Shame. It could have been my turn next.

( , Tue 3 Mar 2009, 10:57, ...I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down...Wait...I fucked that up...let me start again.In the wee small hours of one student morning, doing a couple of lines of something I shouldn't have been with a friend and playing on the NES (God, I am SO old).We hear the front door open, We hear footsteps on the stairs.We hear giggling, We hear moaning, We hear the unmistakable sounds of my Irish Cassanova flatmate getting down to the physical act of love.I look at my co-conspirator, we shrug, and go back to our slightly aggressive game of Sensible Soccer, turning the volume up slightly, waiting for the inevitable signal that he had 'completed the task'Why 'inevitable?' Well, we had a game, it was a very childish game admittedly, but it was our game nevertheless. If any of us pulled (and when I say any of us, I wasn't the most successful sexual adventurer as a student, so it was mainly the other guys), at the moment of climax, we'd have to shout an advertising slogan as loud as we could. You'd get a point for each housemate that heard it...What would it be this time? we'd already recently had what I considered the unbeatable 'The Lion Goes From Strength To Strength!' yelled at about 9am on a Sunday morning.We played another game of SensibleAnd then we heard it, in a loud Irish Accent......'Don't Forget The Honey, Mummy!'And we cracked. Cracked in the way that only two immature Charlie'd up wanker students could.We were in hysterics, tears, crying, wheezing, giggling like buffoons.We couldn't stop. I swear, it must have been 15 minutes later when, us still laughing, the door opened and in walked this girl we had never seen before.She just said, 'I was just on my way home, but I had to come and see what was so funny'So we explained, she didn't seem too put out, and, in fact, possibly even relieved that she had an explanation for the odd orgasm exclamation.She was really sweet actually, and she stayed, talking to us, in a lovely, lilting Irish brogue for a good half hour.I was beginning to think we could actually be friends.Until the door burst open.Irish Cassanova walked boldy in, wrapped in just a towel and proudly stated'Oi, lads, oi've just fucked Terry Wogan's daughter...oh...I thought you'd left...'She did.Immediately.For good.Shame. It could have been my turn next.( , Tue 3 Mar 2009, 10:57, 9 replies

The dinner party…



A posh friend of the family has just retired, and has decided to keep herself busy by learning the arts of the gourmet. Last Saturday, my (whole) family and I were amongst several guests cordially invited to a right proper la-de-fucking-da bash, with the finest expensive cuisine available



(This was, to be honest, totally wasted on my common-as-muck taste-buds, which have long since been obliterated by the savage combination of cheap cider and diet of ‘Tesco-value-blue-stripe-super-saver-don’t-even-know-what-it-is-because-the-label-has-fell-off-the-tin-but-fuck-it-anyway-it-was-reduced-so-it-will-do’ fodder.)



Note to self - no more fuck-off sized multi-hyphenated phrases



I apologise.



Moving on…



So, toffed-up-to-the-nines, we turn up. The present Mrs Pooflake looks stunningly resplendant in her sophisticated black dress, the flakelets adorable in their little suits. The finest china and silverware is out, and everybody is on their supremely best behaviour. (I was on top form…I think I only said ‘cunt-flap’ once, accidentally, and I believe it went unnoticed – result!)



The meal is excellent and goes well, I spend the whole time showing off, lying through my teeth pretending to be a veritable raconteur of the finer things in life, whilst my miniature Aryan race children are a credit to TPMP and I, sensible and well spoken, they display manners and knowledge beyond their years.



The party soon moves from the dining room to the bit where the kids go off to play, the ladies use an excuse to scuttle off to the kitchen so they can gossip and slag off the men, and the gentlemen have moved on for port, cigars and other such pretentious bullshit whilst we discuss ‘manly’ subject like brake-horsepower, world affairs, and the miracle that was Cov City’s latest victory.



After a while, the women join us and as we are all congregated in the conservatory before leaving. I casually mention the fabled tradition in my family of my boys being allowed to stay up late with me on a Saturday to watch ‘Match Of The Day’. Just then, the kids enter the room. As they approach, they are accosted by one of the old trouts who grabs my 5 year old son, rattles his cheek and cackles:



“So then, sonny, I’ve heard about you…tell me, what do your family do every Saturday?”



My son grins hugely and replies instantly: “We get a massive chinky in!”



“Mmmf” I say, spitting a gob-full of posh plonk across the room before trying to correct him in the vain hope of resurrecting some degree of poshness.“ Erm…..ha haha….Noooo…. after that…”



“Ooooh yeah” my son says, realising his mistake before continuing: “We watch ‘Match Of The Day.’ It’s brilliant!” he bleats with a big smile and a cute ‘thumbs up’, prompting everyone to laugh, and me to sigh deeply, having rescued the conversation.



But then, just when I thought I had gotten away with it, my youngest continues to blurt out: “Then...after that….we have to go to bed…(here he frowns and grumbles)...because it’s Mummy & Daddy’s ‘BIG SEXY TIME’!”*



…





At this point, my long-suffering missus tries to melt the walls with the glowing shame-heat from her face, as my sons launch into sounds effects like: ‘Mwwaah!, Mmmmmwaahh! Uh Uh Uh Uh Uhhhhh!”



I tell you, from the look on some of those witches’ faces, you’d think they’d never had a nice stiff cock inside ‘em at one time or another.





What…? Tenuous?...kids are housemates too aren’t they?







*The thing is…I don’t even know where he got the idea from…Every Saturday? I fucking WISH!

( , Tue 3 Mar 2009, 16:05, A posh friend of the family has just retired, and has decided to keep herself busy by learning the arts of the gourmet. Last Saturday, my (whole) family and I were amongst several guests cordially invited to a right proper la-de-fucking-da bash, with the finest expensive cuisine available(This was, to be honest, totally wasted on my common-as-muck taste-buds, which have long since been obliterated by the savage combination of cheap cider and diet of ‘Tesco-value-blue-stripe-super-saver-don’t-even-know-what-it-is-because-the-label-has-fell-off-the-tin-but-fuck-it-anyway-it-was-reduced-so-it-will-do’ fodder.)Note to self -I apologise.Moving on…So, toffed-up-to-the-nines, we turn up. The present Mrs Pooflake looks stunningly resplendant in her sophisticated black dress, the flakelets adorable in their little suits. The finest china and silverware is out, and everybody is on their supremely best behaviour. (I was on top form…I think I only said ‘cunt-flap’ once, accidentally, and I believe it went unnoticed – result!)The meal is excellent and goes well, I spend the whole time showing off, lying through my teeth pretending to be a veritable raconteur of the finer things in life, whilst mychildren are a credit to TPMP and I, sensible and well spoken, they display manners and knowledge beyond their years.The party soon moves from the dining room to the bit where the kids go off to play, the ladies use an excuse to scuttle off to the kitchen so they can gossip and slag off the men, and the gentlemen have moved on for port, cigars and other such pretentious bullshit whilst we discuss ‘manly’ subject like brake-horsepower, world affairs, and the miracle that was Cov City’s latest victory.After a while, the women join us and as we are all congregated in the conservatory before leaving. I casually mention the fabled tradition in my family of my boys being allowed to stay up late with me on a Saturday to watch ‘Match Of The Day’. Just then, the kids enter the room. As they approach, they are accosted by one of the old trouts who grabs my 5 year old son, rattles his cheek and cackles:“So then, sonny, I’ve heard about you…tell me, what do your family doSaturday?”My son grins hugely and replies instantly: “We get a massive chinky in!”“Mmmf” I say, spitting a gob-full of posh plonk across the room before trying to correct him in the vain hope of resurrecting some degree of poshness.“that…”“Ooooh yeah” my son says, realising his mistake before continuing: “We watch ‘Match Of The Day.’ It’s brilliant!” he bleats with a big smile and a cute ‘thumbs up’, prompting everyone to laugh, and me to sigh deeply, having rescued the conversation.But then, just when I thought I had gotten away with it, my youngest continues to blurt out: “Then...after that….we have to go to bed…(here he frowns and grumbles)...because it’s Mummy & Daddy’s ‘BIG SEXY TIME’!”*At this point, my long-suffering missus tries to melt the walls with the glowing shame-heat from her face, as my sons launch into sounds effects like: ‘Mwwaah!, Mmmmmwaahh! Uh Uh Uh Uh Uhhhhh!”I tell you, from the look on some of those witches’ faces, you’d think they’d never had a nice stiff cock inside ‘em at one time or another.What…? Tenuous?...kids are housemates too aren’t they?( , Tue 3 Mar 2009, 16:05, 8 replies

Turn it up to ELEVEN !!!

There comes a time when strapping two tea trays to your feet with duct tape and skiing down stairs wears thin.



There comes a day when all the powder fire extinguishers have been drained and the episodes of making your mates look like Casper the friendly ghost (only a drunk, pissed off choking variant) are but memories.



Yep. I'm talking third year at university.



It was a sunny Sunday morning in our large shared house. A great big detached place next to a graveyard. I was sprawling in the living room with the five other lads I shared with, watching Countryfile and drinking Skol - the usual Sunday morning routine. We were all too skint to do anything constructive, and doing some study was about as alien a concept to us as Leonardo da Vinci singing in a death metal band.



After an hour of bliss involving tractors, sheep, and border collies, the tv was turned off and somebody put some nice mellow easy listening on. Metallica, The Black Album.



It didn't take long for an idea to form in my booze-addled brain.



"Hey, we've all got this cd, right?" A few grunts and shrugs, which counted as a ringing endorsement from this lot. "Well, why don't we all play it simultaneously? Lets see how loud we can make it!"



A few more grunts and shrugs, "Its a plan" said my mate Betty (named after the Betty Ford clinic), as he downed his latest can of Scandinavian skull-fucker. We dispersed to our respective rooms except for Betty who remained with the beast of a stereo we had set up in the living room.



We'd already decided which track to play.



After a few minutes of fucking around we were ready.



"Five - Four - Three - Two - One!!! PLAY!!!"



And the house shook to its foundations!



It was like the building had a POUNDING heartbeat. The floorboards pulsed, the light fixtures danced, shit fell off shelves, windowframes creaked and groaned to the driving and almighty racket of -



SAY YOUR PRAYERS LITTLE ONE

DON'T FORGET, MY SON

TO INCLUDE EVERYONE -



A car alarm went off outside.



Ohh, this is good! I thought.



I loitered at the top of the stairs shouting down to Betty about how big and clever we were. The other lads were doing exactly the same. It was a real self-congratulatory love-in for about ten minutes. Then I ventured down to the living room for a change of scenery. The fucking walls were THROBBING and a strange dull whistling noise had developed in my ears, it was great.



Now, we had one of those stained glass front doors in the house, and as I cleared the last step I noticed a shape of a person outside.



Fuck!



It was only when I strained my hearing really hard I could make out the determined and constant banging on the door.



Oh, shit!



I strolled over and opened the door and there was a bloke standing there in a dress.



A black dress.



He was only a young fella, about my age, but I could tell he really wasn't into Metallica at all. He was very clean cut looking. If it wasn't for the dress he could've worked in a bank, or been one of those normal-looking psychopaths you see on the news and think: bloody hell, he looked so normal! His eyes were bulging and spit was spraying out of his mouth as he shouted above the racket.



"DO YOU KNOW WE'RE TRYING TO CONDUCT A FUNERAL OVER HERE!!! HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR THE DEAD???"



Fuck...



Our house was pretty isolated, backing onto a graveyard, trees and other green twattery everywhere. Only we'd forgotten that over the other side of the lovely field littered with tombstones was the parish church of Saint Stephen All Saints.



The curate calmed down when we switched the music off. But I swear to this day he uttered the word: "cunts!" under his breath as he turned and stormed back down the way he'd came.

( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 23:37, There comes a time when strapping two tea trays to your feet with duct tape and skiing down stairs wears thin.There comes a day when all the powder fire extinguishers have been drained and the episodes of making your mates look like Casper the friendly ghost (only a drunk, pissed off choking variant) are but memories.Yep. I'm talking third year at university.It was a sunny Sunday morning in our large shared house. A great big detached place next to a graveyard. I was sprawling in the living room with the five other lads I shared with, watching Countryfile and drinking Skol - the usual Sunday morning routine. We were all too skint to do anything constructive, and doing some study was about as alien a concept to us as Leonardo da Vinci singing in a death metal band.After an hour of bliss involving tractors, sheep, and border collies, the tv was turned off and somebody put some nice mellow easy listening on. Metallica, The Black Album.It didn't take long for an idea to form in my booze-addled brain."Hey, we've all got this cd, right?" A few grunts and shrugs, which counted as a ringing endorsement from this lot. "Well, why don't we all play it simultaneously? Lets see how loud we can make it!"A few more grunts and shrugs, "Its a plan" said my mate Betty (named after the Betty Ford clinic), as he downed his latest can of Scandinavian skull-fucker. We dispersed to our respective rooms except for Betty who remained with the beast of a stereo we had set up in the living room.We'd already decided which track to play.After a few minutes of fucking around we were ready."Five - Four - Three - Two - One!!! PLAY!!!"And the house shook to its foundations!It was like the building had a POUNDING heartbeat. The floorboards pulsed, the light fixtures danced, shit fell off shelves, windowframes creaked and groaned to the driving and almighty racket of -SAY YOUR PRAYERS LITTLE ONEDON'T FORGET, MY SONTO INCLUDE EVERYONE -A car alarm went off outside.Ohh, this is good! I thought.I loitered at the top of the stairs shouting down to Betty about how big and clever we were. The other lads were doing exactly the same. It was a real self-congratulatory love-in for about ten minutes. Then I ventured down to the living room for a change of scenery. The fucking walls were THROBBING and a strange dull whistling noise had developed in my ears, it was great.Now, we had one of those stained glass front doors in the house, and as I cleared the last step I noticed a shape of a person outside.Fuck!It was only when I strained my hearing really hard I could make out the determined and constant banging on the door.Oh, shit!I strolled over and opened the door and there was a bloke standing there in a dress.A black dress.He was only a young fella, about my age, but I could tell he really wasn't into Metallica at all. He was very clean cut looking. If it wasn't for the dress he could've worked in a bank, or been one of those normal-looking psychopaths you see on the news and think: bloody hell, he looked so normal! His eyes were bulging and spit was spraying out of his mouth as he shouted above the racket."DO YOU KNOW WE'RE TRYING TO CONDUCT A FUNERAL OVER HERE!!! HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR THE DEAD???"Fuck...Our house was pretty isolated, backing onto a graveyard, trees and other green twattery everywhere. Only we'd forgotten that over the other side of the lovely field littered with tombstones was the parish church of Saint Stephen All Saints.The curate calmed down when we switched the music off. But I swear to this day he uttered the word: "cunts!" under his breath as he turned and stormed back down the way he'd came.( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 23:37, 6 replies

The person with whom I live

When I was young, my mother ran a youth group. As a result, at a very early age, I was aware of people going off to Oxford. By the age of three, I had decided that I wanted to do the same. This will turn out to be important.



The person with whom I live has been a part of my life for a long time. We were at primary school together, and when my work was pinned to the wall, he used to tear it off and throw it in the bin. He would predict with confidence that I would spend my adult life unemployed, and would point out that I had quite a little pot-belly.



When I went to high school, I thought I might be able to shake the person with whom I live - and he kept quiet a lot of the time, though he was reliably there in social situations making sure that I never got out of place: he did his best to point out every social and academic mishap. On occasion, he would he appear and encourage me to bang my head against walls or tables until my face bled as the just punishment for not understanding calculus or not being able to remember bits of Latin or Russian vocabulary. The person with whom I live has a stern sense of justice.



When I passed the Oxford entrance exam, I thought that that might shut up the person with whom I live - but when, post-interview, the rejection letter arrived, the person with whom I live framed it and hung it on the wall. It hangs there still, 14 years later, just above my screen as I write this, as a reminder of my failure to achieve the one thing that meant anything to me as a child.



When I went to university, I thought again that I might be able to shake the person with whom I live. Yet he shadowed me, reminding me about the limits to my abilities, about my body, about my social and emotional cack-handedness, about the disappointment to myself and everyone else that undoubtedly I was.



When I met CHCB, I made the mistake of thinking that I might have something to offer someone whom I admire. My home situation was difficult, but I wanted to find a way through that. The person with whom I live saved me the effort, though, by reminding me that, if I were to visit her, I'd have to eat without going to the gym. He would then calculate the meals I'd have to skip, and the extra hours I'd have to put in on the treadmill, to make up the deficit. The person with whom I live is helpful like that.



I never once caught the train. The relationship with CHCB ended before it began.



My current contract ends in July, and I am chasing three jobs at the moment - one of which is at my current institution, another of which is in Dublin. The person with whom I live thinks that I should withdraw my applications, or not send them in. After all, they won't amount to anything. He tells me this and explains his reasoning at length.



The person with whom I live is scornful of my writing this now. It is, after all, a Saturday evening. But he is good enough to remind me that I am ugly, tubby, pasty, uninteresting, and inept, and that it would be a waste of time to consider doing anything else. As I said - the person with whom I live is helpful.



The person with whom I live is called Iain, and I wish that he would go away.

( , Sat 28 Feb 2009, 20:59, When I was young, my mother ran a youth group. As a result, at a very early age, I was aware of people going off to Oxford. By the age of three, I had decided that I wanted to do the same. This will turn out to be important.The person with whom I live has been a part of my life for a long time. We were at primary school together, and when my work was pinned to the wall, he used to tear it off and throw it in the bin. He would predict with confidence that I would spend my adult life unemployed, and would point out that I had quite a little pot-belly.When I went to high school, I thought I might be able to shake the person with whom I live - and he kept quiet a lot of the time, though he was reliably there in social situations making sure that I never got out of place: he did his best to point out every social and academic mishap. On occasion, he would he appear and encourage me to bang my head against walls or tables until my face bled as the just punishment for not understanding calculus or not being able to remember bits of Latin or Russian vocabulary. The person with whom I live has a stern sense of justice.When I passed the Oxford entrance exam, I thought that that might shut up the person with whom I live - but when, post-interview, the rejection letter arrived, the person with whom I live framed it and hung it on the wall. It hangs there still, 14 years later, just above my screen as I write this, as a reminder of my failure to achieve the one thing that meant anything to me as a child.When I went to university, I thought again that I might be able to shake the person with whom I live. Yet he shadowed me, reminding me about the limits to my abilities, about my body, about my social and emotional cack-handedness, about the disappointment to myself and everyone else that undoubtedly I was.When I met CHCB, I made the mistake of thinking that I might have something to offer someone whom I admire. My home situation was difficult, but I wanted to find a way through that. The person with whom I live saved me the effort, though, by reminding me that, if I were to visit her, I'd have to eat without going to the gym. He would then calculate the meals I'd have to skip, and the extra hours I'd have to put in on the treadmill, to make up the deficit. The person with whom I live is helpful like that.I never once caught the train. The relationship with CHCB ended before it began.My current contract ends in July, and I am chasing three jobs at the moment - one of which is at my current institution, another of which is in Dublin. The person with whom I live thinks that I should withdraw my applications, or not send them in. After all, they won't amount to anything. He tells me this and explains his reasoning at length.The person with whom I live is scornful of my writing this now. It is, after all, a Saturday evening. But he is good enough to remind me that I am ugly, tubby, pasty, uninteresting, and inept, and that it would be a waste of time to consider doing anything else. As I said - the person with whom I live is helpful.The person with whom I live is called Iain, and I wish that he would go away.( , Sat 28 Feb 2009, 20:59, 18 replies

I love my flatmates.

After years of living with people I didn't really get on with, I took a chance and moved in with my best friend and a friend who has since become another best friend.



As I type this, he's sitting opposite me rolling a cigarette surrounded by pizza boxes and coke cans.



Anyway, we moved in to this wonderful flat near the centre of Edinburgh at the end of summer 2006. Three bedrooms and a boxroom; sizable, with a very reasonable rental price.



My dad and stepmum went off on holiday and I borrowed their car. It was a hot summer of roadtrips with a ska-punk soundtrack.



One of our regular destinations was Ikea. We came for the hotdogs and left with crap we didn't need from the reduced to clear area.



One day, we arrived at Ikea and found a very interesting bargain sitting at the front door. Or, should I say, 2500 interesting bargains. Suddenly, our boxroom had a purpose beyond storing crap!







Oh yes.







A little 'recycled' wood, some screws and we had ourselves a fully functioning ball pool.



It doesn't stay up all year, it only comes out at party time.







Here are the gents themselves; David Candy and Paul Sleggs, you guys are the best friends and flatmates a guy could want.



It's not about the length. It's about the love.

( , Sat 28 Feb 2009, 0:56, After years of living with people I didn't really get on with, I took a chance and moved in with my best friend and a friend who has since become another best friend.As I type this, he's sitting opposite me rolling a cigarette surrounded by pizza boxes and coke cans.Anyway, we moved in to this wonderful flat near the centre of Edinburgh at the end of summer 2006. Three bedrooms and a boxroom; sizable, with a very reasonable rental price.My dad and stepmum went off on holiday and I borrowed their car. It was a hot summer of roadtrips with a ska-punk soundtrack.One of our regular destinations was Ikea. We came for the hotdogs and left with crap we didn't need from the reduced to clear area.One day, we arrived at Ikea and found a very interesting bargain sitting at the front door. Or, should I say, 2500 interesting bargains. Suddenly, our boxroom had a purpose beyond storing crap!Oh yes.A little 'recycled' wood, some screws and we had ourselves a fully functioning ball pool.It doesn't stay up all year, it only comes out at party time.Here are the gents themselves; David Candy and Paul Sleggs, you guys are the best friends and flatmates a guy could want.It's not about the length. It's about the love.( , Sat 28 Feb 2009, 0:56, 18 replies

I have never had a dishwasher.



This isn't the greatest hardship endured by man, but sometimes I think it would be nice to simply drop the plates into that magic white box and have them pop out steaming and clean in the morning rather than have them growing mould on my work surface for a week before I get around to chiselling the now rock hard "food" off them.





The worst thing about this yearning for a dishwasher is that I had once, for one day only.



It was the beginning of my second year at Uni and as a group myself and some of my chums were moving into a new house, it was a bit of a shithole, but it had a large living room, large garden, huge kitchen and the all important dishwasher.



We had a long day carrying boxes, unpacking porn collections, building Ikea furniture and smoking more weed than is good for anybody. The evening came and we were al fairly shattered and decide an early night was in order, K who had not been smoking and was less tired proclaimed that she would stack the dishwasher. No probs we thought as we all slunk off to bed.



I was first up the morning as I had raging thirst. I stumbled to the kitchen, went back to my room to put on some clothes as I remember that I lived with people, stumbled back to the kitchen and retrieved a glass from the dishwasher. Without paying much attention I filled the glass with cool, refreshing water and took a deep gulp.



Oh good god, it felt like I had ingested the crushed bones of mummified Gandhi! I ran the tap to see what the problem was, it was running clear and fresh, how queer I thought to myself. I moved my attention to the glass which I now realised had a strange frosted appearance. I picked at the glass and white powder came away under my nail.



This really was a conundrum and when I checked inside the dish washer I found that all of the crockery, cutlery and glass wear were covered in a thin film of some sort of white powder. Gradually my housemates emerged and we all began to discuss what could have left our eating implements in such a state.



Eventually K arrived and we quizzed her on her dishwasher usage skills. She explained that she had taken the dishwasher powder from under the sink and ran the machine as the instructions indicated.



This seemed like a fairly good explanation, until someone made the salient point that none of us had brought any dishwasher powder with us. “Yes” exclaimed K “but I found some under the sink!”



She duly retrieved the dishwasher powder to show us.



It was plaster of fucking paris!



The heat from the dishwasher had baked it onto every plate, every knife and every glass; it all had to be binned as we couldn’t clean it. As for the dishwasher we tried to flush it out, but after a couple of unsuccessful attempts it coughed, burped, farted and died for ever more. If we cut away the outer shell and piping I guess we would have had a perfect ceramic model of the inside of an Indesit 4200.



And that was the closest I ever came to having a dishwasher.

( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 15:15, This isn't the greatest hardship endured by man, but sometimes I think it would be nice to simply drop the plates into that magic white box and have them pop out steaming and clean in the morning rather than have them growing mould on my work surface for a week before I get around to chiselling the now rock hard "food" off them.The worst thing about this yearning for a dishwasher is that I had once, for one day only.It was the beginning of my second year at Uni and as a group myself and some of my chums were moving into a new house, it was a bit of a shithole, but it had a large living room, large garden, huge kitchen and the all important dishwasher.We had a long day carrying boxes, unpacking porn collections, building Ikea furniture and smoking more weed than is good for anybody. The evening came and we were al fairly shattered and decide an early night was in order, K who had not been smoking and was less tired proclaimed that she would stack the dishwasher. No probs we thought as we all slunk off to bed.I was first up the morning as I had raging thirst. I stumbled to the kitchen, went back to my room to put on some clothes as I remember that I lived with people, stumbled back to the kitchen and retrieved a glass from the dishwasher. Without paying much attention I filled the glass with cool, refreshing water and took a deep gulp.Oh good god, it felt like I had ingested the crushed bones of mummified Gandhi! I ran the tap to see what the problem was, it was running clear and fresh, how queer I thought to myself. I moved my attention to the glass which I now realised had a strange frosted appearance. I picked at the glass and white powder came away under my nail.This really was a conundrum and when I checked inside the dish washer I found that all of the crockery, cutlery and glass wear were covered in a thin film of some sort of white powder. Gradually my housemates emerged and we all began to discuss what could have left our eating implements in such a state.Eventually K arrived and we quizzed her on her dishwasher usage skills. She explained that she had taken the dishwasher powder from under the sink and ran the machine as the instructions indicated.This seemed like a fairly good explanation, until someone made the salient point that none of us had brought any dishwasher powder with us. “Yes” exclaimed K “but I found some under the sink!”She duly retrieved the dishwasher powder to show us.It was plaster of fucking paris!The heat from the dishwasher had baked it onto every plate, every knife and every glass; it all had to be binned as we couldn’t clean it. As for the dishwasher we tried to flush it out, but after a couple of unsuccessful attempts it coughed, burped, farted and died for ever more. If we cut away the outer shell and piping I guess we would have had a perfect ceramic model of the inside of an Indesit 4200.And that was the closest I ever came to having a dishwasher.( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 15:15, 3 replies

So many choices...

The girls who demanded I pay a share of the food even though I ate at the work canteen or the pub every meal? Nah.

The girl who used my dog's flea soap rather than pay for a cake of regular soap? Nah.

The guy who woke me up waving a running chainsaw at my face? Nah.

For my money it was the girlfriend of a housemate who moved in with us, made life shit in so many petty ways, then convinced him to move out.

I'd steadfastly refused to help him pack, confident it was a stupid move and he'd be back anyway but came back from the pub as they were about to leave.

Everything was boxed up in the truck, goodbyes were being said when she realised the CD currently playing on the stereo was "hers".

"Um... no, that's mine actually," I say.

"No it isn't, it's mine!" she insists, popping it out, putting it in the cover and jamming it into the last box.

"Actually, that is Difficultchild's", her embarrassed boyfriend explains, opening the box to take it back out.

"And... er... so is this one. And this one too. Um and this one."

"But I listen to them all the time!"

"Well that's fine, but they're not actually ours, so we can't take them."

She gets shitty, stamps her feet and glares at me as he starts removing selected CDs and handing them back.

Eventually there's a pile of about 30 cds in front of me when he says.

"Hang on, this is Difficultchild's book too..."

"But I love that book!"

"Yes, but it's not yours... maybe we should just have a quick look through the whole box and make sure there's nothing else that got accidentally mixed up."

And so began what turned out to be more than an hour of unpacking everything from the truck as every box revealed more of my stuff she had packed away because she either used it, liked it, wanted it etc.

I'm talking CDs (more than 100, I was reviewing them at the time and had stacks of the things) DVDs (at least 30), books (about 50), pots, pans, plates, kitchen knives, the blender, a pepper mill, herbs, spices, canned foods, blankets, towells, a skateboard, games, toys, my fucking guitar!!!, plants from the back yard, bottles of wine, stuff from the bathroom, stuff from the junk room (tools, power and otherwise) etc etc etc.

Basically if it wasn't in my locked room, she'd tried to take it.

He was mortified. She was ropable and kept saying "But I use that ALL THE TIME!!!" or something similar.

I was delighted.

The truck was a lot lighter as they left and in the next week I got another box of stuff back he'd found while unpacking.

Then I recovered some more while visiting.

It was all too much, they had a messy break up, he took everything that was his... actually that should read "he took everything" and moved back in.

Funnily enough I ran into her a couple of years later and she asked if I still had that book of hers she'd loaned me.

I laughed so hard beer came out my nose.

( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 2:00, The girls who demanded I pay a share of the food even though I ate at the work canteen or the pub every meal? Nah.The girl who used my dog's flea soap rather than pay for a cake of regular soap? Nah.The guy who woke me up waving a running chainsaw at my face? Nah.For my money it was the girlfriend of a housemate who moved in with us, made life shit in so many petty ways, then convinced him to move out.I'd steadfastly refused to help him pack, confident it was a stupid move and he'd be back anyway but came back from the pub as they were about to leave.Everything was boxed up in the truck, goodbyes were being said when she realised the CD currently playing on the stereo was "hers"."Um... no, that's mine actually," I say."No it isn't, it's mine!" she insists, popping it out, putting it in the cover and jamming it into the last box."Actually, that is Difficultchild's", her embarrassed boyfriend explains, opening the box to take it back out."And... er... so is this one. And this one too. Um and this one.""But I listen to them all the time!""Well that's fine, but they're not actually ours, so we can't take them."She gets shitty, stamps her feet and glares at me as he starts removing selected CDs and handing them back.Eventually there's a pile of about 30 cds in front of me when he says."Hang on, this is Difficultchild's book too...""But I love that book!""Yes, but it's not yours... maybe we should just have a quick look through the whole box and make sure there's nothing else that got accidentally mixed up."And so began what turned out to be more than an hour of unpacking everything from the truck as every box revealed more of my stuff she had packed away because she either used it, liked it, wanted it etc.I'm talking CDs (more than 100, I was reviewing them at the time and had stacks of the things) DVDs (at least 30), books (about 50), pots, pans, plates, kitchen knives, the blender, a pepper mill, herbs, spices, canned foods, blankets, towells, a skateboard, games, toys, my fucking guitar!!!, plants from the back yard, bottles of wine, stuff from the bathroom, stuff from the junk room (tools, power and otherwise) etc etc etc.Basically if it wasn't in my locked room, she'd tried to take it.He was mortified. She was ropable and kept saying "But I use that ALL THE TIME!!!" or something similar.I was delighted.The truck was a lot lighter as they left and in the next week I got another box of stuff back he'd found while unpacking.Then I recovered some more while visiting.It was all too much, they had a messy break up, he took everything that was his... actually that should read "he took everything" and moved back in.Funnily enough I ran into her a couple of years later and she asked if I still had that book of hers she'd loaned me.I laughed so hard beer came out my nose.( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 2:00, 5 replies

Communal Living

I was born and brought up in a commune, and let me tell you, there were some seriously strange people there. I wasn't allowed out to school, but had to stay and work for the commune, so it was only much later that I realised quite how strange my situation was. There was one woman (let's call her Liz) who had somehow managed to get herself into position as the 'boss' of the commune. She was big and fat. No, she was huge. She had never been formally chosen as the leader, but she was so charismatic and manipulative that somehow she could always get anyone to do whatever she wanted. She didn't do any work (all the rest of us had to), we had to prepare all her meals and clear up after her. She even made a rule that everyone in the commune would practice celibacy (except for her of course). Everyone was totally under her power. You don't realize it at the time, but living in a place like that can totally destroy your spirit. It was a huge effort for me to leave, but at last I have, and now I'm working hard at making a new life for myself without that controlling influence. The only thing I really miss is the honey.

( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:28, I was born and brought up in a commune, and let me tell you, there were some seriously strange people there. I wasn't allowed out to school, but had to stay and work for the commune, so it was only much later that I realised quite how strange my situation was. There was one woman (let's call her Liz) who had somehow managed to get herself into position as the 'boss' of the commune. She was big and fat. No, she was huge. She had never been formally chosen as the leader, but she was so charismatic and manipulative that somehow she could always get anyone to do whatever she wanted. She didn't do any work (all the rest of us had to), we had to prepare all her meals and clear up after her. She even made a rule that everyone in the commune would practice celibacy (except for her of course). Everyone was totally under her power. You don't realize it at the time, but living in a place like that can totally destroy your spirit. It was a huge effort for me to leave, but at last I have, and now I'm working hard at making a new life for myself without that controlling influence. The only thing I really miss is the honey.( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:28, 15 replies

Scandinavian Housemate

Oystien conformed to many of the Scandinavian stereotypes we hold, being blond and sexually uninhibited. Sadly the lack of a second X chromosome held him back from being the perfect housemate. He's long gone now, but you will know him if you meet him because he will tell this story to anyone after a few drinks, complete with whimsical backstory...



Winter nights are long and cold in Norway, and drinking is the only way to get through them. Sadly a "small beer" costs about £4 for about 300ml so young people short on cash drink heavily at home before a night out at preparties/vorspiels(sp?), often drinking terrible but inexpensive home made spirits.



Lutefisk is a Scandinavian delicacy consisting of fish soaked in lye. If that doesn't sound bad enough, true gourmets believe it is more flavoursome when it has just started to ferment . Judging whether fermentation has gone too far is something of an art, and a task made considerably more difficult after the consumption of large amounts of home distilled vodka.



One evening sees young Oystien, suffering after heavy consumption of both of the above national delicacies, reeling his merry way into the dark Scandinavian night. Nature inevitably takes its course, and by the time he makes it into town the gut rot and rotten fish are exerting a powerful effect on his lower digestive system. Matters "come to a head", and he is forced to make a speedy decision. Scandinavians are very socially minded, and public urination, or indeed defecation, carries a heavy fine, and besides the streets are crowded. The towns only public toilet is a long walk away and the few night spots in reach have long queues of freezing revelers outside.



As another contraction hits, he finds himself outside the lighted doors of a bank, one of those which allow entry to indoor cash machines after closing. Inspiration strikes-although the lobby doors face the street, the cash machines inside provide a screen from the street. Not much, but enough for a desperate man to relieve himself with some degree of privacy. So he ventures inside, and there behind the furthest cash machine, like a gift from the Gods, sits a wire waste paper basket, upon which he can squat and avoid losing his balance and falling drunkenly into his own leavings. And squat he does, and it is good. Oystien rationalises that a shit in a basket is less offensive and easier to clean up than a shit on the floor, and so some of his guilt is assuaged. His business at the bank almost completed, he notices in wonder that littered around him are lots of those little receipt things the machines give, and with these he can clean himself behind.



But, as he fastens his trousers, realisation hits! The bank would surely have installed cctv in the lobby, and the whole sordid episode would be caught on tape! Rationalising fast, our hero makes a mental check of his attire: white trainers, baggy jeans, dark gloves, a nondescipt black jacket, and most vitally, a baseball cap! Clothes that would not make him easy to identify, and the peak of the cap obscuring his face. Making certain not to scan the ceiling for cameras, he exits the lobby with a spring in his step and blessedly empty bowels. He has perpetrated the perfect crime!



Come Monday, his hangover little more than a dull sense of paranoia, he is working happily at his desk when the phone rings. Who should it be but the local police station , and would he please present himself there before the end of the day? After work, He makes his way to the station with trepidation, but not without some confidence- he is sure he never revealed his face to the cameras, nor removed his gloves; what evidence would the police have besides a passing visual resemblance? A stern faced officer takes his name at the desk, and he is made to wait before being ushered into a crowded room and sat before a TV screen in crowded room. The officer presses a button on the video, and Oystein is treated to a ceiling mounted view of his the escapades of the past weekend. Try as he might, our hero cannot keep a straight face. He realises the room is full of people who have come to see his reaction. Knowing his blushes are already giving him away, he makes full confession before the laughing audience of police.



One thing is still puzzling him. Today is monday, and the incident was on saturday night, not two days ago. How had they found him so fast? Banks have developed a mechanism to stop unwanted person entering their lobbies after closing. Only those in possession of a bank card are able to pass through the doors. This is checked by a simple scanner, through which one must drag ones card. Oystein had used his own, providing his name and address to to the authorities before he had even committed a crime.

( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 15:37, Oystien conformed to many of the Scandinavian stereotypes we hold, being blond and sexually uninhibited. Sadly the lack of a second X chromosome held him back from being the perfect housemate. He's long gone now, but you will know him if you meet him because he will tell this story to anyone after a few drinks, complete with whimsical backstory...Winter nights are long and cold in Norway, and drinking is the only way to get through them. Sadly a "small beer" costs about £4 for about 300ml so young people short on cash drink heavily at home before a night out at preparties/vorspiels(sp?), often drinking terrible but inexpensive home made spirits.Lutefisk is a Scandinavian delicacy consisting of fish soaked in lye. If that doesn't sound bad enough, true gourmets believe it is more flavoursome when it has just started to ferment . Judging whether fermentation has gone too far is something of an art, and a task made considerably more difficult after the consumption of large amounts of home distilled vodka.One evening sees young Oystien, suffering after heavy consumption of both of the above national delicacies, reeling his merry way into the dark Scandinavian night. Nature inevitably takes its course, and by the time he makes it into town the gut rot and rotten fish are exerting a powerful effect on his lower digestive system. Matters "come to a head", and he is forced to make a speedy decision. Scandinavians are very socially minded, and public urination, or indeed defecation, carries a heavy fine, and besides the streets are crowded. The towns only public toilet is a long walk away and the few night spots in reach have long queues of freezing revelers outside.As another contraction hits, he finds himself outside the lighted doors of a bank, one of those which allow entry to indoor cash machines after closing. Inspiration strikes-although the lobby doors face the street, the cash machines inside provide a screen from the street. Not much, but enough for a desperate man to relieve himself with some degree of privacy. So he ventures inside, and there behind the furthest cash machine, like a gift from the Gods, sits a wire waste paper basket, upon which he can squat and avoid losing his balance and falling drunkenly into his own leavings. And squat he does, and it is good. Oystien rationalises that a shit in a basket is less offensive and easier to clean up than a shit on the floor, and so some of his guilt is assuaged. His business at the bank almost completed, he notices in wonder that littered around him are lots of those little receipt things the machines give, and with these he can clean himself behind.But, as he fastens his trousers, realisation hits! The bank would surely have installed cctv in the lobby, and the whole sordid episode would be caught on tape! Rationalising fast, our hero makes a mental check of his attire: white trainers, baggy jeans, dark gloves, a nondescipt black jacket, and most vitally, a baseball cap! Clothes that would not make him easy to identify, and the peak of the cap obscuring his face. Making certain not to scan the ceiling for cameras, he exits the lobby with a spring in his step and blessedly empty bowels. He has perpetrated the perfect crime!Come Monday, his hangover little more than a dull sense of paranoia, he is working happily at his desk when the phone rings. Who should it be but the local police station , and would he please present himself there before the end of the day? After work, He makes his way to the station with trepidation, but not without some confidence- he is sure he never revealed his face to the cameras, nor removed his gloves; what evidence would the police have besides a passing visual resemblance? A stern faced officer takes his name at the desk, and he is made to wait before being ushered into a crowded room and sat before a TV screen in crowded room. The officer presses a button on the video, and Oystein is treated to a ceiling mounted view of his the escapades of the past weekend. Try as he might, our hero cannot keep a straight face. He realises the room is full of people who have come to see his reaction. Knowing his blushes are already giving him away, he makes full confession before the laughing audience of police.One thing is still puzzling him. Today is monday, and the incident was on saturday night, not two days ago. How had they found him so fast? Banks have developed a mechanism to stop unwanted person entering their lobbies after closing. Only those in possession of a bank card are able to pass through the doors. This is checked by a simple scanner, through which one must drag ones card. Oystein had used his own, providing his name and address to to the authorities before he had even committed a crime.( , Fri 27 Feb 2009, 15:37, 2 replies

This QOTW brings a smile to my face...

My housemates moved in a while ago - first a single girl, who we'll call "Claire" and then about a month later, her newly single best friend, "Kate". No, this isn't going the way you think.



I was hesitant at first to let Kate move in. "She can't move in if she's just going to mope around and get teary about splitting up with her boyfriend," I told Claire.



"She won't, I promise," was the reply.



There is too much detail that I could go into for the events that follow. I'll give you the highlights.



Kate, fortunately, wasn't too upset about splitting from her boyfriend. Especially as she now lived with her new partner-in-crime. In fact, she was quite positive about it all. And a bit too keen to flaunt her newly-found singledom with her equally single best friend.



I came home one sunny afternoon to find that they'd moved the sofa into the street, and got shitfaced on cider. Then, with me sat there, had started flashing the local scrotes who were hanging around the street smoking weed. I had to leave to meet friends, and told the girls that on no terms should the chavs be allowed in to the flat. I left. They promptly invited four of them in, "for a laugh". These scrawny fuckweasels must have been 18 at the most, and complete strangers - none of them even lived anywhere nearby. I was not happy.



The next day, there were apologies, but I had to point out to them the stupidity of letting strangers into the flat - at the least, we could have been robbed. The girls were in no state to stop them. They had assumed I was annoyed because they weren't paying me any attention. Seriously.



Life returned to normal for a short while, until one night when one of my friends, Dan, was staying over and was sleeping on the sofa. I woke up in the morning, turned to switch off my alarm, and he was lying next to me. "Erm... morning. What are you doing?" I asked.



"The girls brought back a load of blokes last night at about 3am. They told me to fuck off out of the living room. I would've just stayed any way, but two of them looked like they were going to puke on me..."



Oh. I walked into the living room. It was empty. But covered in puke. The bathroom floor had become a lake of piss. The front door was wide open. And my laptop had been stolen. I bolted the front door, and got a very large knife from the kitchen.



As luck (!) would have it, one of the guys was still asleep in bed with one of my housemates. He was friends with the wankers who had robbed me. And he was locked in an unfamiliar flat, with a very, very angry, knife-wielding Sloppy stood over him, and Dan looming in the background. Frantic phone-calls where made, and my belongings were returned by some very sheepish looking teenagers. The girls were 26 by this point, FFS.



Again, there were apologies. Tears this time. Kate admitted she wasn't coping with being single at all, and was bringing home anyone who showed any interest to make her feel better. Claire's brutally honest excuse was, "I'm a bit of slag when I'm drunk, but this will never, ever happen again."



I'm a bit of soft-touch, and being a couple of years older, felt some sort of brotherly duty to give them another chance to sort themselves out. When they were good, living with them was great, and so I decided I would try and overlook these slip-ups - they were genuinely shaken by what had happened, and it was obviously a lesson learned. For a fortnight.



I woke up, two weeks later, at 5am, Sunday morning, with music pounding from the living room. The girls were in there, with 4 blokes I had never seen before (turns out they hadn't either) all snorting ketamine off of the coffee table. It was impossible to get any sense out of them. Turning down the music had little effect, it went straight back up every time I left the room, several times. I was told to fuck off, that I was being boring. By the blokes I didn't know. I walked out at 8am and wandered London aimlessly for hours, grinding my teeth.



I returned home to find a stranger slumped against my bedroom door, who I kicked out of the way and then had to step over to get into my room. For the next three hours, I listened to idiots with Special K-induced paralysis of the limbs tumble down the stair case, and then laugh hysterically, presumably because they'd landed on a purple marshmallow made out of tits.



I did my research. The comedown would hit them, hard, on Tuesday morning. Monday night, they were told on no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of the flat, and left to dwell on it for the rest of the week.



And so the reason I'm smiling? As I type this, they are walking backwards and forwards carrying piles of crap to a van, with looks of despair on their faces as they prepare to move back to their parents' box rooms, since they've blown the little money they had on drugs and booze.



Two of my friends are moving in on the weekend. I'm tempted to say that we'll celebrate with a huge line of ketamine and an orgy, but unfortunately for the sake of ironic punchlines, the guys moving in are not druggy slaggy wankers. We will however, get shitfaced and have a laugh, without inducing the urge to rip each other's faces off, as any good houseshare should operate.



Apologies for not being particularly witty, but I am revelling in the appropriateness of this weeks question. Whoo!

( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 16:19, My housemates moved in a while ago - first a single girl, who we'll call "Claire" and then about a month later, her newly single best friend, "Kate". No, this isn't going the way you think.I was hesitant at first to let Kate move in. "She can't move in if she's just going to mope around and get teary about splitting up with her boyfriend," I told Claire."She won't, I promise," was the reply.There is too much detail that I could go into for the events that follow. I'll give you the highlights.Kate, fortunately, wasn't too upset about splitting from her boyfriend. Especially as she now lived with her new partner-in-crime. In fact, she was quite positive about it all. And a bit too keen to flaunt her newly-found singledom with her equally single best friend.I came home one sunny afternoon to find that they'd moved the sofa into the street, and got shitfaced on cider. Then, with me sat there, had started flashing the local scrotes who were hanging around the street smoking weed. I had to leave to meet friends, and told the girls that on no terms should the chavs be allowed in to the flat. I left. They promptly invited four of them in, "for a laugh". These scrawny fuckweasels must have been 18 at the most, and complete strangers - none of them even lived anywhere nearby. I was not happy.The next day, there were apologies, but I had to point out to them the stupidity of letting strangers into the flat - at the least, we could have been robbed. The girls were in no state to stop them. They had assumed I was annoyed because they weren't paying me any attention. Seriously.Life returned to normal for a short while, until one night when one of my friends, Dan, was staying over and was sleeping on the sofa. I woke up in the morning, turned to switch off my alarm, and he was lying next to me. "Erm... morning. What are you doing?" I asked."The girls brought back a load of blokes last night at about 3am. They told me to fuck off out of the living room. I would've just stayed any way, but two of them looked like they were going to puke on me..."Oh. I walked into the living room. It was empty. But covered in puke. The bathroom floor had become a lake of piss. The front door was wide open. And my laptop had been stolen. I bolted the front door, and got a very large knife from the kitchen.As luck (!) would have it, one of the guys was still asleep in bed with one of my housemates. He was friends with the wankers who had robbed me. And he was locked in an unfamiliar flat, with a very, very angry, knife-wielding Sloppy stood over him, and Dan looming in the background. Frantic phone-calls where made, and my belongings were returned by some very sheepish looking teenagers. The girls were 26 by this point, FFS.Again, there were apologies. Tears this time. Kate admitted she wasn't coping with being single at all, and was bringing home anyone who showed any interest to make her feel better. Claire's brutally honest excuse was, "I'm a bit of slag when I'm drunk, but this will never, ever happen again."I'm a bit of soft-touch, and being a couple of years older, felt some sort of brotherly duty to give them another chance to sort themselves out. When they were good, living with them was great, and so I decided I would try and overlook these slip-ups - they were genuinely shaken by what had happened, and it was obviously a lesson learned. For a fortnight.I woke up, two weeks later, at 5am, Sunday morning, with music pounding from the living room. The girls were in there, with 4 blokes I had never seen before (turns out they hadn't either) all snorting ketamine off of the coffee table. It was impossible to get any sense out of them. Turning down the music had little effect, it went straight back up every time I left the room, several times. I was told to fuck off, that I was being boring. By the blokes I didn't know. I walked out at 8am and wandered London aimlessly for hours, grinding my teeth.I returned home to find a stranger slumped against my bedroom door, who I kicked out of the way and then had to step over to get into my room. For the next three hours, I listened to idiots with Special K-induced paralysis of the limbs tumble down the stair case, and then laugh hysterically, presumably because they'd landed on a purple marshmallow made out of tits.I did my research. The comedown would hit them, hard, on Tuesday morning. Monday night, they were told on no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of the flat, and left to dwell on it for the rest of the week.And so the reason I'm smiling? As I type this, they are walking backwards and forwards carrying piles of crap to a van, with looks of despair on their faces as they prepare to move back to their parents' box rooms, since they've blown the little money they had on drugs and booze.Two of my friends are moving in on the weekend. I'm tempted to say that we'll celebrate with a huge line of ketamine and an orgy, but unfortunately for the sake of ironic punchlines, the guys moving in are not druggy slaggy wankers. We will however, get shitfaced and have a laugh, without inducing the urge to rip each other's faces off, as any good houseshare should operate.Apologies for not being particularly witty, but I am revelling in the appropriateness of this weeks question. Whoo!( , Thu 26 Feb 2009, 16:19, 7 replies

I share with two good looking women

who have a bit of a problem tidying up or doing the dishes , particularly after they've been in the house alone for any length of time . I'm not paticularly vindictive but enough is enough and so today I have hidden most of the crockery and furniture . We'll see just how much of a mess they can make with one cup .....

( , Tue 3 Mar 2009, 16:17, who have a bit of a problem tidying up or doing the dishes , particularly after they've been in the house alone for any length of time . I'm not paticularly vindictive but enough is enough and so today I have hidden most of the crockery and furniture . We'll see just how much of a mess they can make with one cup .....( , Tue 3 Mar 2009, 16:17, 9 replies

Blackmail Me

Still makes me feel violated, this one...



I've been wondering whether to confess to this, but confessing and Catholics have a similar symbiotic relationship as lemmings and cliffs.



So here goes.



When I first moved to London I secured a room in a shared house in Hackney. I was there for about a month before I hastily packed my bags and legged it without telling anyone. I literally ran away in shame.



The people I shared with were ok. Everyone pretty much kept themselves to themselves. There were a few Quentin and Saffron types, you know, the sort who would snort at me when I got out a loaf of Hovis. One time a girl who lived there said: "Haven't you ever heard of focaccia?" In a pitying tone. I responded with: "fuck-at-ya?" And this girl looked at me like I was a walking turd, she stormed out the kitchen in a bit of a period-tit-lip, but left me alone after that which was fine by me.



Basically, there was nothing I couldn't handle. Nice house, nice base to make my plans for world domination.



The only people I really got on with were the couple who shared the room next to mine.



He was an office-type bod, very middle of the road, a bit doughy but a nice enough fella. She was nice too. Rather heavy set, big fucking butchers hands and a bit of a tash, but she seemed like a nice enough person. When I first moved in she introduced herself, Anne, she said she was a photography student and invited me out for a drink that evening.



The three of us, Anne, her boyfriend, and I ventured out to the local and sank a few jars. We made small talk and came home.



We did this several times over the next few weeks. It was nice. At the time I was working really long days, I'd be the first out the house in the morning and the last back. So it was great to just unwind with a couple of normal people over a pint or two.



About a week before I did a runner, the tubes were on strike and being a thick twat who can't drive, I found myself stranded in the house. My boss decided I could work from home. Result!



So when Anne came into the kitchen in her dressing gown and saw me quite happily munching at my sugar puffs, she was quite surprised.



"Spanky! Aren't you supposed to be working?" She asked, looking rather too fucking pleased to see me.



I explained that my job involved travelling all round London, and because of the tube strike I was effectively fucked.



"Oh, I just need to phone someone - I'll be right back!" And she waddled out the room in a bit of a fluster. I remember thinking she was smiling a little too much.



Oh, fuck! I could almost see where this was leading...



Moments later Anne returned, still in her dressing gown.



"Spanky - I've been meaning to ask you something..."



"Oh?" I replied, feeling that sinking feeling inside. I really didn't fancy complicating my living situation by fucking the girl who lived with her boyfriend in the room next door. Besides, she was a fucking whale.



But it wasn't what I thought at all. Not in the slightest.



Anne went on to explain she really, really, REALLY needed my help. She was DESPERATE. She said she was failing her photography course and had left it until the last minute to sort out her coursework.



It took a fair bit of fumbling round the subject, but eventually by the time I'd started my second c