Thirty Eight
That’s the number of people I’ve lived with since I left home almost 13 years ago. Of the ones I remember vividly; one was engaged to my best friend and is now marrying another of my mates; one’s a film director; one emigrated to New Zealand, one to Goa; one’s a drug rep, one’s a drug addict; one became a professional athlete, one became a lesbian; one works for NASA, one hasn’t had a job in 8 years; one runs a record label, one’s a professional musician. And one of them’s dead.

But they all tumble into a sea of insignificance compared to *that* one. I thought long and hard about which parables from the Gospel according Rakky I could share with you, would it be the one where I walked in on him wanking in the living room, maybe the one where he set my skirt on fire while I was still wearing it, but finally decided on these two. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you… Jay.

He announced to me one morning that he was going on a detox for a couple of days, like his yoga teacher had advised him when he was living on that ashram at the foot of the Himalayas. Apparently it’s good for the mind and body to enter a healing crisis, allowing the physical and mental interior to be fully cleansed and rejuvenated. “Really?” I replied, over my coco pops. “Bollocks” I thought, as I’m a cynical bitch who has no time for anything remotely wafty or alternative.
This detox comprises of eating nothing and drinking water and green tea for two days. At the end, you’re supposed to feel a sense of euphoria which is to do with the toxins having left your body and nothing at all to do with the fact that you’re on the verge of passing out as you haven’t eaten for two days. Now cynic I may be, but I’ve gone without food for a couple of days after a bout of food poisoning and you don’t need to be a hatchet-faced poo sorter like Gillian McKeith to know that when you reintroduce food into your body you do so slowly. Boiled rice, soups and the like. What you don’t do is what Jay did – to reintroduce two bottles of Rioja and a healthy slug of Cinzano.

Another housemate at the time came in to find him curled up in the foetal position giggling like a loon, waving a fag and half empty bottle around. “Shall I get you some food?” asks housemate 2, slightly concerned that the two bottles of red were about to make a sudden reappearance. “Yeah, let’s go to the chippy!” giggle Jay. Housemate 2 props Jay up at the counter of the chippy and asks what he wants. “Half a roast chicken and chips, “ the now seemingly ex-vegetarian slurred back. The order is placed but there’s a fair few people in the chippy so they have to wait. As they wait, Jay starts to go greyer and greyer and slump further and further down the wall. And then lets rip the most arse splitting, rectum tearing guff heard to mankind. “Tony, “ he bellows over to a mortified looking Housemate 2, “I’ve just shat meself.” Housemate 2 takes him home and stands horrified at the front door as Jay divests himself of his shit filled underwear, drops them in the hall and staggers upstairs to pass out on his bed for the next 24 hours. Housemate 2, meanwhile, clears up the aftermath. Tony, I salute you.

Now, while bad, that incident didn’t really impinge on me personally, think of it more as a scene setter. There were five of us in this house, the aforementioned Housemate 2, Housemate 3, a lovely girl who I’m still friends with and Housemate 4. And me and Jay. Now I’m happy to admit that I’m a touch difficult at times. Ok, I’m as neurotic as a box of cats on a coke comedown, but I’m nice with it. So imagine, if you will, the horror…

I had a special tea mug that I used every morning. Special because it was mine and because it was the size of a bucket which exactly the size of mug a morning brew should come in. And Housemate 4 and Jay broke it during a game of football. Which wasn’t surprising as they were using it as the ball. So I commandeered other bucket sized mug in the house which I naively assumed was Housemate 4’s. One morning, I went down to kitchen to put the kettle on and as I got to the door heard a shout of “NOT YET”… I waited a couple of minutes then walked into find Jay tucking himself back into his jogging bottoms with an “All finished.” My eyes scanned past where he’d been standing and alighted on the sink. Which was full of washing up. Which he’d been pissing into.

“Have you… were you? Did you just piss in the sink? On the dishes?” I spluttered.
“Well, they’re dirty, and I figured they were going to be washed and the bathroom was occupied… Anyway, I do it most mornings, I try to keep it confined to my mug, the big blue one.”

The big blue one. The one I’d been rinsing each morning and putting my fresh piping hot cuppa into. I went upstairs, banged on the bathroom door until Housemate 3 let me in, I then cleaned my teeth till my gums bled. Housemate 4, hearing my keening, stuck his head round the door and asked what the matter was. When I told him he agreed that that was indeed hideous but maybe if I had my own mug, this wouldn’t have happened.

Housemate 3 exacted a much better revenge on Jay than a crappy girly wuss like me ever could. If anyone wants I can post that story too. But I’ve gone on long enough and the nurse will be round with my medication soon, so I’d better stop.

Lengthy it may be, but boy, is it cathartic...
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Tue 10 Apr 2007, 9:19, Reply)