Dirty foreign types
I had the misfortune to live in a shared house in Chester run by a rental agency who never bothered to check references and sent any old hoo ha to live with you without consultation.

One such delight was an overweight Belgian who we shall call Chris, for this is what his parents deemed fit to name him. He had looked a little bit like Private Pile from Full Metal Jacket and spoke like Michael Jackson.

He used to make his fried breakfast in a wok because he couldn't fit it all in a frying pan, and his lunch normally consisted of 14 slices of bread and an entire pot of jam. I have no idea how he washed... our shower cubicle was too small for me when I was 11 stone, how he fitted 28 stone in that cubicle I have no idea. We guessed that his belly probably made a water tight seal around the cubicle leaving him only minutes to wash his upper half before he drowned.

Anyway, he did many disgusting things like sawing at his in-growing toe nails with my cook's knife and leaving us to clear out his room of bin bags full of Black Lace novels and copies of Voluptuous magazine all smeared in cake when he left the country after being sacked for gross misconduct.

One event though is indellibly burned into my retina and I fear it may be the last image that flashes before my eyes when I die. As you can imagine, no one really gets to that size without being incredibly fucking lazy. He has Sky installed in his room and when he wasn't working that was all he did, lay on his bed like Jabba in his palace. TV. Cake. Porn.

My bedroom was sadly next to the upstairs bathroom. I came home early one day, climbed the stairs to be confronted with the vision of his enormous wobbly arse mid-wipe. He'd taken to having a poo with the door open because he couldn't hear the TV with it shut.

Someone, please. Burn my eyes!
( Draconacticus Reject shampoo. Demand real poo!, Fri 13 Feb 2015, 14:30, Reply)