How clean is your house?"Part of my kitchen floor are thick with dust, grease, part of a broken mug, a few mummified oven-chips, a desiccated used teabag and a couple of pieces of cutlery", says Sandettie Light Vessel Automatic. To most people, that's filth. To some of us, that's dinner. Tell us about squalid homes or obsessive cleaners.
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Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 25 Mar 2010, 13:00)
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It's only a fucking plate.I am resident in the Colonies at the moment, and prior to obtaining my own, well lush bachelor pad in a playboy mansion stylee (well, more accurately a one bedroom apartment in the city centre), I was forced to live in a shared house, with a chap I will affectionately refer to as OCD man.
OCD man, or bald peado looking bastard (as he is known to his friends and the constabulary), was concerned with keeping the house in a state of near perfect tidiness.
Not in itself a problem, as I'm not that much of a slovenly bastard, I may do dishes in the morning as opposed to the evening when I've had my dinner, but otherwise am pretty tidy.
Not good enough for OCD man however. One evening I had recently finished making my dinner, which was a microwave meal of some variety.
Upon finishing my repast of cheap own-brand muck, I thought the best way to conclude my meal would be to have a Becks and a Marlboro Red.
As I was sitting outside smoking my Marlboro and drinking my beer, I saw a furtive, baldy, gleam on the periphery of my vision, it was OCD man.
As it was the middle of the night, and there were no minors around for him to solicit, it became clear he wished to engage me in conversation.
"Is that your plate and fork placed on the bench?" He not at all civily enquired.
"Indeed it is my good man, I shall be washing it momentarily once I have finished my beer and smoked my delightful cigarette" Quoth I.
This seemed to perturb him quite considerably, as he turned a startling shade of puce and said "That's not good enough".
I would like to say, readers, that at this point I glassed him in the face, whilst wearing a union jack draped around my shoulders and saying "stitch that you colonial bastard".
Regrettably, I did not. I did however repeatedly get off with the bird that also shared with us, who went a bit mental, hence I moved out.
The moral of this story: Don't go to the Colonies, they're all mad as a sack of badgers.
- No apologies for length or shit-ness of story.
(, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 22:22, 2 replies)
"a furtive baldy gleam"??this is sheer genius and i am stealing it for future references to my boss!!!
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rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 22:46,
closed)
Having lived here for all on 25 yearsI concur. Mad as spoons the lot of them.
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venezuelan beaver cheese is mortally afraid of spoons, Tue 30 Mar 2010, 23:44,
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