Not my bedroom, but...
A couple of years ago, five of us were sharing a grotty little flat in the North of Edinburgh. Being dirty students, the flat soon descended into a replica of the set of the Young Ones and the dishes started to pile up.

Enraged at the constant squalor the other four of us were happy to live in (or too drugged up to notice), one of our flatmates took a stand and moved out, leaving us with a room that needed filled to pay the rent.

But karma came knocking, when we managed to get someone to take the room. He worked in a local grungy nightclub that plays mostly pop-punk tracks and teen rock anthems from the early 2000's with one of our flatmates. He was the sort of guy who never seemed to wash but always had time to straighten his long, greasy hair. He shall be known as 'Z'.

We barely saw the guy. He was either sleeping or at the nightclub regardless of whether he was working that night or not, then usually inviting his drunken, cuntish friends back to the flat at about five in the morning. He even invited a girl back for sexy times once who was so intoxicated she fell asleep on the toilet for several hours. We only know this because she was too drunk to go back home, but was adamant she wasn't going back into Z's room for some unexplained reason, so sheltered for the night with another flatmate who chivalrously gave up his bed when she randomly knocked on his door at 4am.

But our unwashed dish problem seemed to be going away, replaced by a mysteriously disappearing dish problem, as all our bowls, plates, cups and cutlery slowly started to go missing.

None of us four original flatmates could work out where they were going. We'd check Z's room from time to time when we got really desperate for crockery, maybe finding a plate or two, but hardly the amount that had been going missing.

So time came to move back to my parent's for the Summer. We were all glad to be getting out of that flat. My brother had come to pick up most of my stuff, but there was a few bits I'd left behind. So a couple of weeks later I went back to collect the rest of my belongings and scrub my room from top to bottom, in order to get the much-needed deposit back.

Z, clearly discontent with the biggest room in the flat, was now sleeping in my old bed. I was greeted by lad's mags, used tissues, a cup full of cigarette butts and a basin of sick discarded around my room. After throwing his shit into the hallway, thoroughly washing my hands and leaving the only passive-aggressive note I've ever written, warning him to stay the fuck out, I left that flat for the last time.

Anyway, the end of this story comes a few weeks later, when I was visiting two of my previous flatmates in their new abode. We were talking about moving out and I asked if Z had cleaned up after himself. He hadn't, just left all his belongings there and never returned, leaving these two guys to clear out his room and chuck everything he owned into a skip.

After wading through the mountains of pubes piled up in thin layers on the floor, they found the source of the missing dishes. He'd been neatly filing away plates and bowls into his cupboards and drawers, most often with half eaten food still sitting on them, now covered in mould after months and months of festering.

They also found an almost-full bin bag full of porn DVDs. Which, in this internet age, is pure dedication.

But the piece de resistance was a giant, clear, plastic sack, which the guys were so confused as to its contents, they had to take a picture. I had no idea what it was either... But you know that bit in Fight Club where they break into the liposuction clinic to steal a huge bag of human fat?

My best guess... human fat.
( Butters and his titanium codsocket, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 16:37, 2 replies)

I would ask for a picture of the rancid fat bag,
but I've thought better of it.

Z wasn't quite right in the head, was he?
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 23 Jun 2011, 20:20, closed)

stored manfat more likely. A lifetime sperm collection?
(unclestinky, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 3:37, closed)