An inadvertent golden shower
Many moons ago I stopped off at a nightclub where I knew my friend, G, would be DJ'ing in the hope of blagging a lift home. Instead after closing I found myself heading back G's place for a few drinks. As the night drew to a close and a need for sleep increased, I was directed outside into the old garage that G was "converting into a guest-room".

G's idea of a conversion basically entailed of bricking up the car door and replacing it with a house style windowed front door, placing an old rug on the floor and chucking in an old mattress with a couple of blankets. Niceties such as lighting, plastering the walls and a bed frame were still on the drawing board.

Still it was a bed to crash in, and that is all that mattered.

Come the morning, I awake like most people with need a pressing need for the loo. I make my way to the door and to my horror find it locked. I look for a latch but there isn't one as its one of those that lock at the handle. Then through the window I spot the key - the dozy drunken git has only locked me in from the outside and left the key in the lock. I quickly try his mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail. The garage isn't attached to the house, so there is no point hammering on the walls as he's not going to hear me. I'm left with two choices - piss on the floor, or find something to piss in.

Using the little available light I scour the floor until I find something suitable to go in amongst the building materials. In this case a half empty bottle of white sprit. With a sense of blessed relief I drain my bladder and it never felt so good.

Eventually G releases me from my real life 'The Sims' killing chamber and drives me home. On the way I confess about the white spirit and get him to pull in at the nearest B&Q where I buy him a replacement bottle. We have a laugh about it, and theres no harm done.

Until a couple of week later.

My phone rings. It's G. "What exactly did you piss in you bastard?!?" he thundered.

"That bottle of white spirit, its the only thing I could go in. Well that or the floor" comes my apologetic reply".

"It wasn't white spirit you fucking idiot, it was the fluid for my fucking smoke machine!". "Oh" says I.

The story comes out. G was doing a private function, a big 21st birthday party or similar. Of course he grabs his gear from the garage/guest-room - speakers, decks, lights, smoke machine and a bottle of fluid that looks remarkably similar to white spirit to a hungover houseguest in desperate need of something to piss in.

The nights going swimmingly and everyones enjoying themselves. G adds a bit of atmosphere by firing up the smoke machine. After a bit he notices a bit of a funny smell in the air which has only come along since the smoke machine has been turned on. Someone comments that it 'smells a bit like a urinal in here' at which point realisation strikes G and focuses his memory in only the way that discovering that you are currently covering 50 or 60 paying guest with your drunk mates two week old stale urine can do.

And that it how I accidentally gave a golden shower to a an entire room of people, and why I may possibly be a terrible houseguest.
( Kovacs Slogan free since 2003, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 15:24, 8 replies)

Hiding in the bed
Does this count? It's about a guest in a house, so yeah, I suppose it does.
The story doesn’t feature me but two of my close friends. We’ll call them Ray and Ashley. They had been out drinking together, throwing a few abstract shapes on the dance floors of various bars and were suitably drunk. Ray had happened to pull a tasty little blonde lass named Chloe early on in the evening, and Chloe and her mates had joined the two inebriated rapscallions on their jaunt around the pubs and bars for the rest of the night. A great time was had by all I’m told; sambuca shots were downed, jugs of cocktails were shared, and the newly acquainted group shared laughs aplenty.

Eventually, 2am came, and with it, closing time. The gang made their way over to a kebab van as is the norm after a hefty drinking session. Food was purchased and Chloe was intent on going back with Ray for the night. As Ashley had already arranged to stay at Ray’s as well, the trio finished their food and headed for the taxi rank.

The taxi journey itself was uneventful; I’m not sure if Ray tried to get his fingers wet or not, but with Ashley sat in the back of the taxi with him and Chloe, it made things rather awkward; after all, he didn’t want his best mate to look like a gooseberry. Time was passed with drunken conversation and banter, rather than the attempted sneaky blowjob Ray had been hoping for. Soon, they arrived home and headed for their bedrooms, with Chloe obviously joining Ray in his king size bed, and Ashley heading off to the spare room to sleep on a single mattress

The inevitable happened; Ray and Chloe exchanged bodily fluids and then passed out, whilst Ashley failed in a half-hearted attempt to relieve himself of his own bodily fluid before falling asleep. However, at around 4am, he woke from his drunken stupor with a raging headache and decided to go downstairs to get a drink of water.
To get downstairs, Ashley had to pass Ray’s bedroom, which was on the opposite side of the landing. Still drunk and feeling a little mischievous, he decided to take a peek into the bedroom to see what the two lovers were up to. He sneaked over to the door slowly, trying to avoid the creakiest floorboards. Then, he opened the door slowly, so there was a gap big enough for him to slip through. As he peered over at the bed, he could see both Chloe and Ray asleep, with Chloe on her back nearest the wall, and Ray in the centre of the bed, facing her. The cover was pulled over both of them.

Dismayed at not even seeing a female nipple, let alone a hint of boob, Ashley saw how snug they both looked in the big spacious bed. It looked incredibly inviting, so, forgetting the reason why he had got up in the first place, he decided to get in with them. He tiptoed across the bedroom, pulled the corner of the duvet back and slipped in. Then, he pulled the cover over his whole body including his head and promptly fell asleep.

Ashley woke feeling hot. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep and he struggled to remember where he was. Then he heard movement next to him. Still he stayed under the covers, racking his hungover brain, trying to retrace his movements. Unexpectedly, he heard a small groan. It was a female groan, he was sure of it. Everything came flooding back to him. He knew exactly where he was.

Peering from the top of the duvet, Ashley saw that it was still quite dark, but he could make out the figure of Chloe sat on top of Ray, riding him like a nimble jockey. Ray was laid next to Ashley in the bed, with hands behind his head, unaware that his mate was next to him. Ashley’s initial feelings of shock and then slight horniness quickly dispersed; he now felt like a complete pervert and at a complete loss as to how he could get out of the situation. He couldn’t sneak back out of the bedroom as they’d easily see him, and he didn’t really want to take the chance that Ray and Chloe would fall back asleep once they’d finished their energetic early morning ritual. Instead, he chose another option. An option that has ensured this story gets told time and time again amongst friends.

Keeping his legs flat to the bad, Ashley thrust his back and head forwards up off the mattress so that he was sat bolt upright. The duvet cover slipped off of his face, revealing him like a prize on a game show. As he reached the position where his back was completely vertical, he waved his right hand in a cheery fashion and said a hearty ‘Helllllooooooo’.

Chloe immediately grabbed for something to cover her tits with and jumped off Ray’s cock just as quick as she’d hopped on. Still, Ashley sat in his bolt upright position with a huge grin on his face, maintaining the little wave with his hand, just staring into the same space. Chloe was now screaming at him asking him what the fuck he was playing at and Ray was chuckling to himself, still slightly pissed and a bit annoyed that his early morning shag had been rudely interrupted. After a good 30 seconds of waving, Ashley rolled off the edge of the bed, did a forward roll and left the room, crying with laughter.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 21:40, 5 replies)

A mild incident (I am trying to forget all the awful ones)...
My wife and I stayed over one night at her friends' house after a nice big boozy dinner. THis was not your crappy student flat - we were all grown up and in nice houses with bought furniture and the like.

I woke in the morning to a pretty frosty reception. Not unknown - my wife doesn't really drink and I drink her share to avoid offending our hosts; with the usual expected consequences. THat morning I recalled how I had a strange dream that I couldn't get into the bed the night - the duvet wouldn't come off. It was all very odd.

She pointed ot the corner of the room from where I had apparently proceeded to pull up their fitted carpet and crawl underneath it to sleep before returning to bed a few hours later on account of the cold.
(Rammer, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 12:01, 2 replies)

When my brother was a student in Norwich the old woman from the flat upstairs came to visit.
I say visit, more a case of the liquid from her rotting corpse leaking through his kitchen ceiling.


Nice.

.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Thu 6 Jan 2011, 19:07, 5 replies)

Crazy Al
Sitting watching TV one night enjoying a quiet beer, the doorbell rings, and there's Crazy Al, a schoolfriend from Adelaide who was great fun for a night out, but universally acknowledged as nobody you'd ever want to live with. And he'd somehow been given our address.
"I'm on my way to London," he says, "Got a stopover in Sydney and thought I'd pop over and say hi, lets go get a few beers in!"
The beers run late, so he asks if we'd mind him kipping on the couch "just for the night"... and so it begins.
The stopover, it seems, was as far as he'd booked the flights and as the days turned to weeks, Al would happily wander Sydney seeing the sights, getting plastered and coming home at all hours with an increasingly strange assortment of friends he'd made in his travels to eat all our food, drink anything in the house, crank the stereo up and have a great old time.
The final straw was the punk girl he'd met at a gig and brough home for loud sex in the living room, breaking furniture as they moshed nude.
With a dozen mutual friends and our parents friends with his we couldn't just throw him out, so...
The next day John (the flatmate) and I took action. We bought a bottle of tequila, sat Al down and started him drinking.
By about noon he was smashed and up for anything. "Lets go to the city!" I say so off we go. "Lets drink some more!" says John, so we do, "Let's go in the travel agency!" I say, so we do. "Lets buy a ticket to London!" we chorus. And he did.
By the time the bender was over, he was in huge credit card debt, we'd shaved his head into an anti-mohawk, he was packed and at the airport waving goodbye.
The phone call, when it came a few days later, went something like this:
"Fuck me, I have no idea how the hell I got to London, I just remember going out for a few drinks. It's freezing here and I'm almost broke, but I know a mate who lives in Islington who should let me kip on his couch for a night or two..."
God help them, he left more than a year later.
*Actually I've just been reminded I have a video cassette somewhere of John and I shaving Al's head while he sings. I'll see if I can a) find it and b) upload it somewhere).
( difficultchild, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 5:49, 3 replies)

Have you ever noticed
there's a directly proportional relationship between how much you like and want to impress your host, and how colossal, smelly and/or unflushably buoyant the shits you do in their toilet are?
(StapMyVitals wouldn't mind a bit of that, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 1:21, 4 replies)

Houseguests? How many, I wonder?
Hello from the flooded wastelands of Queensland. I live in Brisbane and yesterday was the worst day of my life.

It started like any other day in the past month. I dropped my husband off at the bus station and spent the morning running errands, dragging two grumbling kids, in the torrential downpour that has become a regular fixture in our lives of late. The first sign that something was seriously wrong was a lack of signal on my mobile phone when I tried to check in with my husband.

Odd, I thought.

The next sign was when I overheard a whispered conversation between two shop employees. "The city has been evacuated."

Which city? I wondered. I assumed the two people had family in one of the many cities in the North which is being evacuated by the Army.

I get home, and the phone rings. It's my mother. She tells me that the city being evacuated is Brisbane. She's heading home. I wish her luck and tell her to call me as soon as she can. I call my husband at his office. No answer. I try his mobile. No signal. I check the email. Nothing.

I turn on the news. Fuck. Me. Devastation on a scale that I cannot summon the talent to describe to you. I heard the words of the Hindenburg announcer. "Oh the humanity." So sudden and so devastating.

The next five hours were the longest of my life. When my husband arrived at the door, drookit and with a solemn face, I felt the most intense sensation of relief of my life. He had walked 15 kilometers to get home, some of it through fast running water.

His story was of an entire city's rapid descent into chaos. He saw people punching each other for a place in a public transport queue that was 150 deep waiting for buses and trains that never came. The Army was on the ground. Evacuation centers have been established.

My Mum's still caught in that, I thought.

Two hours later, the phone rings. It's Mum. She's almost hysterical with relief. Her house is fine. Her cat is pissed at her. All is well.

So now we all knuckle down and see just how big this flood is going to be. The flood waters will probably peak in two days time.

So back to the house guests. We are on a hill. Our nearby family will be coming to us if they have to evacuate. We have 140 litres of drinking water, 3000 litres of rainwater and pool which will soon be used as our laundry and bathroom. I just hope it's enough.

I am caught between dreading the influx of reluctant house guests and welcoming the added manpower to see off looters.

The power is probably going to be shut off soon. Wish us luck.

UPDATE: Power just came back on. Yay! Brisbane river peaked today. Hopefully it's just a wait-and-see job and then a massive cleanup. Thanks for your support people. It means a lot.
(Que?, Wed 12 Jan 2011, 0:48, 22 replies)

small mammalian guest
I used to live on a houseboat. I have two kitties, both of whom spent their formative years onboard and bar the odd kittie overboard moment (QOTW – Near Death Experiences Involving Pets) , all was cosy.
One of these kitties – George – finally got round to doing some mousing. This was the derelict bit of Brentford by the canal, so there were plenty of mice to mouse.

Unfortunately his simple kittie brain managed to miss the concepts involved in pest control, eg, catch mice on boat, kill said mouse, present mouse corpse, mouse corpse burial at sea.

One evening he appeared with his first mouse in his mouth. I must say, i was rather pleased in a paternal way. He then placed the mouse at my feet as the mouse, sensing its opportunity had arrived, legged it.

This being a rather large dutch barge and having been brought onboard over a large watery gap in the mouth of a feline, he was stuck.

Every evening for the next two years, safe between the wood panelling and the foam insulation, Mickey lived a happy contented existence nibbiling through pretty much everything he could, dining off catfood and deftly evading capture.

I saw him once again before i moved out. He looked very well.
(magictorch, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 15:25, 4 replies)

Booze, Beads and 1 girl in need of a cup
Many years ago when I was attending one of Glasgow's fine educational institutions I had the pleasure of sharing a flat with the president of the student union (among others) for a summer. For the most part it was an unremarkable relationship, to the point that I can't actually remember his name.
However one weekend his 16 year old brother came to stay for a weekend. Being the nice friendly chaps that we were we decided to take him out for a few beverages. So after many a knockback we inevitably ended up at Glasgow's (not so) finest nightspot - the garage as they were the only ones prepared to accept his dodgy fake ID.
After much fun and drinking and dancing about like morons we noticed that Jock (not his real name I thought I'd just chuck in some casual racism) was nowhere to be seen. We hunted high and low until the club closed, then up and down suachiehall street for hours after. Had called police, hospitals everything. My flatmate is going out of his mind. Shitting himself and with the sun coming up (behind clouds, this is Glasgow) we returned home for about the 5th time to find young Jock on the doorstep with a look of terror on his face. After getting him inside and me sparking a doobie he proceeded to tell us this tale.
"Do you remember that bird I was dancing with? Well she invited me back to hers. When I got back she pounced on me dragged me straight to bed. Anyway I was just getting into it when she opened her bedside table and pulled out a string of beads and started feeding them up my arse!"
At this point we interrupt to ask why he had let her violate him in such a manner to which he speepishly replied that it was his first time and he didn't want her to stop taking his young cherry if he refused the bum-beads.
So he continued.
"Right so like a minute later I start coming and when I do she rips the beads out of my arse and I shat myself. I looked around to see the mess I had made and when I looked back she was rubbing handfuls of my shit into her tits"
*I have by this stage lost and semblance of sympathy and am on the verge of doing myself a serious injury through laughter*
"Next she jumped up and asked was I coming for a shower,so I had to have a shower with her then she came back in and whipped the RUBBER sheets off the bed, stuck on some clean cotton ones and climbed in inviting me in with her. I didn't know where the fuck I was or how to get home so I had to lie awake next to her till the sun came up and I could go outside and flag a taxi."

He arrived in Glasgow as a cocky young boy and left a broken dishevelled wanksock of a man

Now, everyone, imagine that is what happened to you when you lost your virginity.
I bet it was a fucking long time before he accepted an invitation "back to mine" from a bird in a club.

Sorry it was so long, but I hope you get the years of enjoyment out of that story that I continue to have.
(Figmaus, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 15:12, 13 replies)

Does a trespasser in the garden count as a houseguest?
Sod it - it'll do.

A balmy summer evening in Headwound Towers. Headwound senior is the main protagonist here, rather than me, who was but a toddler at the time. Warm, muggy conditions and pretty much every window on the first floor open to allow what breeze there was a chance to circulate.

Papa Headwound, suddenly, is awakened by the noise of someone moving furtively in the garden. That unmistakeable sound of someone trying to move without making any noise - you'll be familiar with it I'm sure. So he sits up in bed, listening to the sounds drifting in through the open windows until he's convinced it's a human in the garden, as opposed to say a cat, or an incontinent fox.

He then gets out of bed, moves over to the open window, through which he sticks his head to remonstrate with the intruder.

Cut to intruder's perspective...

The tranquil night air is rent by the sound of shattering glass, as an Army Major's head bursts through the, emphatically not open, window, and busts forth with the first few syllables of a vitriolic stream of commentary on the finer points of land ownership and rights of access, initially delivered in full parade ground voice, but tailing off rather abruptly into a kind of strangled squawk.

The tranquil night air suddenly becomes tranquil once more, broken only by the gentle pattering of shards of glass landing on the flower border, as said head, commentary aborted before it's even got into its stride, is gingerly withdrawn through the hole in the pane.

Three minutes later, now decided on a more measured approach to the situation, Dad emerges from the back door, clad in dressing gown and packing Mum's 7 iron.

Unsurprisingly, the intruder was no longer on the premises.

I think we can conclude an effective, if somewhat inadvisable, burglar deterrent.
( barryheadwound Mul-ti-pass? Multipass!, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 12:03, 5 replies)

Mate Of Mine
had some unexpected, uninvited, house-guests. A nest of wasps that had set up in his attic. Thousands of the fuckers. His eviction plan was quite clever though. He got togged up in his bikers leathers and sealed wrists, ankles, waist and helmet with gaffa tape and headed into the attic to do battle.

His cunning plan involved sucking the wasps out of their nest with a Dyson. Allegedly, it worked surprising well with mangled wasp carcasses been spun around at several thousand RPM leaving a creamy mess on the inside of the hoover of death.

It all went tits-up though when he misplaced his foot and crashed through the floor dragging Dyson and the remains of the wasps nest (which split open on impact) with him. Flat-mates were unimpressed with several hundred angry wasps being suddenly introduced into the conversation....

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 2:08, 5 replies)

In which Chickenlady cocks up guest bathrooms
I don’t seem to be a good houseguest when it comes to bathrooms….

When I was first seeing the ex-MrChickenlady he lived with his brother and sister-in-law in a large rambling manor house in the countryside with no neighbours for miles around. I’d gone to stay for the weekend – large hearty meals, vast quantities of wine, long walks and evil hangovers - rather like The Archers but with less death.
The brother and SiL prepared a lovely meal one night, we all got extremely drunk and staggered off to bed. The ex’s bedroom was at the opposite end of the house from the brother and SiL and both had their own large bathrooms. After some drunken fumblings and beery farts (him, not me), I needed to pee. Tottering into the bathroom in very high heels and little else I locked the door behind me – no, I don’t know why either. I peed – that’s what I’d come in for, washed my hands – even when drunk I always remember that cleanliness is next to Godliness – the nuns taught me well – and I went to unlock the door and return to bed – maybe even take the heels off if I could negotiate the tiny buckles and straps around the ankle.
So, there I am, entirely starkers except what are best described as Porn Queen Shoes, attempting to turn a very old key in a rusty hole…ahem…
I tried and nothing happened – too much wine, probably. So I tried again – nothing. Then I decided to put a little more force into it – I planted my feet wide, bent at the knees, grasped the key in both hands and pushed hard towards the right….
And fell over, hitting my head against the wall as the key broke in the lock.
I was trapped. It was 2am, I was in the middle of the English countryside, in a house of drunken toffs, naked except some obscene shoes, I had a lump on my head and very little chance of rescue until a large Labrador began to lick someone’s hairy balls at 6.15am. Marvellous. So I began to shout and moan – that always wakes the neighbours up. Success! The ex woke up and once he’d worked out that this wasn’t some Challenge Anneka type sex game, he tried to open the door – except all he did was fumble at the lock, wiggle the handle and push a bit – the story of my married life….
Soon his brother was woken up too and between the two of them they decided to rescue me through the window using a long fruit picking ladder that they had out in the barn. Within hours they were shouting from outside to open up the bathroom window. Before this turned into a Carry-On farce I grabbed a large bath towel and attempted to cover my dignity with the striped threadbare piece of terrycloth which had probably served both brothers well in many nativity scenes.
Opening the window I was faced with the leering grin of the ex’s brother – of course, the ex was scared of heights. Climbing onto the toilet seat I managed to manoeuvre my increasingly cold self over the window sill, out into the chilly freedom of the night….in high heels, no mean feat. The brother was by now halfway down the ladder – holding it firm, he said. As the icy blasts whipped around my nether regions I could hear laboured breathing coming from below me – the cold air apparently made his ‘asthma’ play up. He carefully guided my Porn Queen shoed feet onto each rung – even when some of the rungs were missing and I had to lower myself almost onto his head.
I made it safely down to the ground, the ex was by now having a fag and scratching his balls – I believe the Labrador was woken by all of this too. The brother was grinning and tugging his dressing gown around him and said I was welcome to come to stay anytime – even if they did need to buy a new door for the bathroom now.
Skip forward in time some five or six years and the ex’s brother and SiL had young children, as did the ex and I. We’d all gone to stay for one of the kid’s birthday’s – mountains of cake, lashings of ginger beer, and the SiL and I quietly and desperately pissed on gin mixed with Tesco Value Orange Squash. The house had a large Aga in the kitchen on which they used to drape damp washing during the winter months which gave the room a vague aroma of damp dog and lavender. Sometimes it was baby vomit and lavender. After about six or seven Montessori gin slings I needed a pee – this is a common theme it would seem….
I retreated to the downstairs loo avoiding the bow and arrows, lego and brio, safely locked the smallest room door behind me and had a satisfying pee that would have shamed Red Rum. Then I turned to the toilet roll – no lady likes to shake and go – and there to my horror I found nothing. I believe Blue Peter had been showing how to make your own 4x4 the day before – no doubt one of the kids had requisitioned the toilet roll in an effort to become a proto-Jeremy Clarkson.
I was faced with a dilemma – shake and be damp or…..although the loo was a small room, it wasn’t that small – they kept their washing machine in there and sitting waiting was a pile of sheets and towels. I grabbed a handtowel used it and returned it to the pile – it was about to be washed anyway, wasn’t it?
Erm…no. The SiL went in after me, retrieved the basket of washing and draped it around the Aga. As it slowly began to steam I suggested we go out for a walk….but not before the ex’s brother came in from the garden, washed his hands and face and called out for a hand towel.

I don't think I was cut out for the posh life.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 20:17, 7 replies)

The terrible night of the Strip Jenga.
I was a guest in a friend's Uni house. He'd been dumped a couple of months before by his girlfriend and was just beginning to surface from the horrible funk this event had created. So I did what any responsible mate would do: I got him dead drunk and we went out on the pull. Got to get back on the horse sometime. Or the buffalo, as it turned out.

We met up with a couple of friends: A girl with whom I was deeply besotted (Let's call her Jenny) and another girl who was deeply besotted with me and who was, charitably, a trifle overweight.

Now, I'm no Arnie myself, people, and in fact I'm partial to a slightly larger lady, but this was the kind of overweight that made the thought of her being on top an exercise in cringing terror. Images of powdered hip bones, broken bedsteads etc swim into view, even now.
We shall call her Eleanor.

So my mate and I go out to a club with Jenny and Eleanor, buy them drinks and we all roll back to my pal's place, drunk out of our skulls.
Now we're all feeling a little naughty so I suggest we play strip something. But they have no cards in the house, not even Uno.
So we play strip Jenga.
I'm pretty good at Jenga usually, and I'm even better drunk. But when each round involves losing an article of clothing, Jenga takes hours. And, curse my luck, Jenny can hold her booze. So my mate and Eleanor are naked and out of the game in reasonably short order whilst Jenny and I are mostly clothed, fighting a grim duel until about seven in the morning.
While this was happening, Eleanor and my mate toddle off to his room, starkers, hand-in-hand looking like a stick insect had made friends with a beachball.
At around 6:55, we're playing double-or-quits, just to finish the game. Jenny and I are staring each other down. Whoever loses this round will lose every article of clothing, the tower is looking mighty unstable, and it's my go.
Out slides the little block, carefully, carefully. I'm going to win! I'm going to win!
And then, from my friend's room, there is a loud scream and a creak of tortured bedsprings. My hand jumped and down went the tower, and Jenny lets out a cackle of malevolent glee. I quickly strip, but don't give Jenny time to enjoy her victory - I dash out to see what the scream was about.
Stark naked, vision blurred, head pounding I open the door to my friend's rooms. Eleanor is lying, still naked, on her back on his bed, a view that does no-one any favours. My pal is in his en-suite, chucking up violently into his basin whilst shitting violently in the toilet.
I help him clean up, give him some water and then make a quick exit.
Jenny: So, uh, what now?
Me: We never speak of this. I don't think either of them's going to remember what happened tonight. I don't think either of them should.
Jenny: Agreed. Good game, by the way.
Me: Cheers.
Jenny: You were trying to shag me weren't you?
Me: Yup.
Jenny: You know I'm queer, right?
Me: No. No, I did not know that.
Jenny: Ah. Welp, well played.
Me: You too.
And off I slunk, into the night. I'm not sure if my pal remembers what happened, but he certainly pretends he doesn't. He was walking funny for a while though.

Names changed to protect the innocent, facts changed to make me look mildly less like a horny, drunken twat.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Mon 10 Jan 2011, 10:35, 4 replies)

CSI: Student House
Many years back one of my housemates was so drunk at a house-party the other side of town, that he had to be put to bed in someone's room and left for the night to sober up.

When he turned up the next day, he was highly embarrassed. It turned out that his hosts had suffered for their hospitality. He'd had to piece things together, Forensics style, from the carnage in the room the next day, but it seems that what happened was roughly as follows:

- He woke up in the night needing the toilet
- He had no idea where he was or where the toilet was
- Still horrifically drunk, he looked for any container to relieve himself into
- Only mid-wee did he realise that an ashtray he'd placed on the bed and began to pee into wasn't going to hold it all
- Making a swift Plan B, he wiggled towards the window (presumably hoping to at least direct the stream outside) managing to keep weeing all across the room leaving a zig zag across the carpet
- Having finally got to the window just as his bladder finally emptied out onto the radiator, he headed back to the bed and went back to sleep in the urine and cigarette ash soaked bed
- ...then shat himself as a finale

He paid for a new mattress, duvet etc. I suppose you'd have to, really...
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 6 Jan 2011, 15:03, 4 replies)

Bonus story!
I've already answered this QotW, but I've been inspired by more recent stories.
A chap I know, a shy, retiring gay man, was terrified of his flatmate. He could hear him through the walls at night, muttering obscenities: You fucking fucker, I'm going to fucking kill you, I'm gonna get you all, you absolute bastard, oh no you don't, etc.

It was me, playing online games with my headset on. In my defence, I wasn't talking that loud, the walls are just made of paper.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Tue 11 Jan 2011, 10:18, 5 replies)

Religious experience
Back when I was 15, a friend of my mum's came to stay at our house for a weekend. She was called Carol, raven-haired, mid forties, and was what we'd now refer to as a MILF. At the time I think I just made that "phwoar" sound that comprises 46% of the script of the original On The Buses movie.

Carol was in the spare room next to the bathroom. My folks kept their books, nick-nacks and the souvenirs from their care-free, pre-sprog travels in there. In pride of place was a brass statuette of Buddha which the olds bought in Bangkok, en route to Oz for a holiday.

Late that night, as I returned from what the Americans call a comfort break and I call a piss, I noticed the door to the spare room was a tiny bit ajar. So of course I slowed and peeped. Lying on the bed was Carol, naked apart from her socks. She was frigging herself off at impressive speed using Buddha, the Supreme Teacher of Gods and Men as a big shiny makeshift dildo.

Carol, I saw, had an impressively huge growler, and the image of the Serene One's face appearing and disappearing into that bush has stayed with me, clear as you like, these intervening years. In fact I had an uncanny flashback not long ago watching Michael Mcintyre pogoing about enthusiastically under his mop of hair at the Apollo.

Carol never saw me and a, "hey, big boy. Why don't you join me" scenario never happened. You wouldn't have believed me anyway.

On Sunday evening, after Carol had left, I went in to the spare room. The Buddha was back in the centre of the shelf, looking calm and benevolent as always. I gave him a good sniff. Alas he just smelt of brass.
(judgetheobscure used to sweep in butchers' shops., Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:37, 10 replies)

Ungrateful sod
Ive got a houseguest who's a complete nightmare. Will happily sleep during the day if he feels like it but thinks nothing of screaming his head off at 3am to demand food. He's also a dirty bugger, I've lost count of the number of times he's shat or pissed himself and muggins here is expected to clean up.

Bloody geordies. Last time I let one stay.
(Chizomsk, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 10:48, 4 replies)

Look at this useless parasite.


Go on, look at him. Look at him. Look at the little one. Who's dat? Who's dat den? Awwwwww.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 15:19, 21 replies)

the dealer
we had an acquaintance back in reading who was for a long while, the man you spoke to for illicit sundries and a bit of smoke. he would come round to our house, which having as it did some six bedrooms plus sundry guests, all people who liked to party, was always a source of reasonable size orders. at first, he came when asked. then, he came when he had stock to give us first dibs. he was nice enough, a bit mashed, not the sharpest peanut in the turd, and somewhat defcient in the personal hygeine stakes.
so one time when he came round unannounced, and asked if he could grab a shower before getting back to his wife (not ALL his female clients paid cash, which in itself was a mind boggling horror) we were actually quite happy to loan him an old towel and a turn in the bathroom.
then it happened again
and again
then he started coming round to say hi, count and bag up his wares into smaller portions.. this would have met with more firm refusal if it weren't for the fact the leftovers, pill dust/fragments, weed that didn't mke a full draw etc got consumed (mostly by me, i was the only student so in during the days a lot more)
then he brought his 5yr old ADHD whirlwind son round
then he did the same but left him with us for a few hours.
the last straw was the time he came round the night before a major handin, a weeknight. sold us 30 odd pills, and then realising he'd sold his stash, proceeded to buy ten back at a significantly increased rate and promptly took the fucking lot in one mouthful, and went 'SHIT! i only meant to eat three! i wasn't concentrating!
after five hours of him half-naked on the couch, howling like a banshee, with his bare feet hanging out of the window waving at passers by, pounding on the floor like a man posessed and sweating like a rapist, i came through from the other room a shouted at him to shut the fuck up or leave. his response was poetic. he rose to his feet with a beatific smile, lurched towards me, lurched away again, looked bewildered, then pissed himself with great gusto, fell backwards over the couch, and slept soundly for about 12 hours. i woke to find him in the kitchen naked rinsing his trousers in the washing up bowl.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 15:24, 3 replies)

Projectile vomits
At 15 I went for a sleepover to my mates place where we were going to the cinema. After eating a huge chicken roast dinner, we then retired to her room to drink warm vodka orange with warm sprite that she had stolen off her older sister. Drinking quietly, we thought that eating a big bag of yellowy, twisty things would cover the smell, which it must have as her mum didn't say anything when dropping us off.

This was my first time drinking and it scarred me. The movie was Beetlejuice and during the opening credits I passed out. My mate poked me awake, at which point I looked at her in a wide owly eye look, turned my head and projectile vomited over at least three rows in the cinema.

Screaming ensued. Hot chicken chunks with roast spud were flying out of my mouth like bullets out of an AK 47 hitting random targets without prejudice. I stood up, still vomiting down the stairs and made my way to the loos. I was head to toe with yellowly twisty thing, soaking wet with vodka orange and puking like a unicorn farting never ending love hearts. Girls were in the loo trying to remove hot chicken chunks from their hair, down the back of their shirts, out of their handbags, all the while trying to expunge the memory from their souls with the cheap paper towel of a cinema loo.

In the meantime the movie was stopped and they had to move everyone to any empty seat in the cinema as those rows stunk so bad and there were bucketfuls of vomit everywhere, a la Carrie (yeah, not blood, but I like the imagery).

The point of being a bad house guest is that I puked in her mum's car on the way home - several times. I remember lying in her spare room, cracking the venetians with shaky hands and looking at her mum with a hose, standing 2 metres out from her lovely surburban car and, with her hand over her mouth, hosing out that car like it was an enema party in a colonic farm.

Of course there were friends from high school sitting in the rows behind me, untouched by the demonic firehose spray of chunder, and the next day, as well as the rest of high school, I was known as "that spew girl".
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 10:16, 3 replies)

If lodgers count....
Some years ago we used to have a 'granny annex' at the end of our garden that we let out as we hardly ever used it.
The last "lodger" we had used to leave all the lights on 24/7, including in the garage pretty much for the entire summer, I only noticed when the clocks changed and it got darker earlier.
Left the hot tap running, then buggered off for three days.
Before she moved in, I said "we don't really want any pets in there as they bugger the carpet up, plus it's not really big enough etc..." At least that's what I thought came out of my mouth, what she apparently heard was, "Go and get two cats and the biggest fuck off dog you can. Oh and make sure it's the most vicious dog you can get."
It killed the little old lady's dog from next door, but not before first pushing her over and nearly ripping her to pieces.
Of course the vet's bills were huge, and somehow the little old lady from next door decided that it was my responsibility to pay up. I pointed her in the direction of the lodger. She never got a penny.
Smashed the door in when she forgot her key one night. Other nights just simply involved smashing windows.
Dishing out door keys that she'd had cut, like confetti to anyone she might nod at in the street. Some mornings I'd wake up, walk in the living room to find a group of pissed up nerds from the night before sitting in what can only be described as some sort of art project about Hurricane Katrina - no sign of her. Their response, "Oh, she gave us a key." Oh, that's ok then.
Broke the garage door, the inner door, the garage lights (eventually I think they just gave up), drove OVER the garden wall smashing it to shit, but not before before driving over the ornamental logs that we had there a few weeks earlier.
Turning electric heaters on (despite there being central heating) (along with the TV) and leaving it on whilst she went to work.
Moving every member of her extended family in to the place, so even when she wasn't there, the lights, water etc... would all be used up for no reason.
She'd let her sister's kids run riot, smashing doors closed, turning the TV up to the highest volume - whilst we'd be having a family Sunday lunch. Response, "Oh, they're just kids."
Yes, kids who are on their way to being locked up chavs in about 5-8 years time.
Her boyfriend would come round, and then stand at the door and stare at any guests I had come round as if to say "WTF are you doing in MY house?"
To be honest it was exhausting -I've barely scratched the surface.
When she eventually left, she left rent arrears (of course) and left a fortnight after she'd told me she had.

She was the last lodger we ever had.

Never again.
(dchurch bah, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 21:32, 13 replies)

i recently convinced my parents to house a friend of mine for a while
a couple of days ago, i received a phone call from my mum. there was the usual jibber-jabber then i asked after the friend.

"oh," my mum said angrily "well, i'd expect her to hide away and not come out to see anyone for the first couple of days but its been a fortnight now. its just a bit rude."

"well, you've got to give it a bit of time, mum. she's been through a bit of an ordeal and she doesn't know anyone there."

"yes, but we're putting a roof over her head and feeding her. we're all trying our hardest to make her feel welcome. you know... at some point she's got to come out and meet everyone halfway."

"i hear she's been getting on ok with dad."

"yes... well..."

"and mum... she is a cat."
(ladyintheradiator, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 17:31, 5 replies)

do lodgers count? well, they do now, so suck it up like a good little bitch
since i bought my flat a couple of years ago, i've had a number of different friends living with me temporarily. being a spoiled cow i don't have a mortgage, so i haven't asked them for rent/formal agreements; it's just been a way of helping out friends who have just split up with partners or just moved to london etc. now in hindsight this has not always been wise, as it has led to a couple of them taking advantage. as my boss said to me, some property litigator you are swipe, you can't get any money out of them and you can't get them out!

anyway, particular highlights include:

- the head of marketing from my old law firm whom, i have just been informed by mutual friends 2 years later, could not wait one morning when i was in the shower and so rolled out some newspaper and took a dump ON MY SPARE ROOM FLOOR.

- the same girl got a bit fed up when my new bathroom took about 6 weeks to install (it has very high ceilings and i chose massive heavy stone tiles, so this was not surprising) and sent me an email saying: "everyone i have spoken to agrees that 4 weeks without a bathroom is disgusting and excessive. i am checking into a hotel until this is over." bear in mind that she could only afford the hotel because she WASN'T PAYING ME ANY RENT. we don't really speak so much these days...

- the one after her was a really lovely girl. really lovely. sweet and kind. and possibly the most irritating person on the planet. it was like living with a giant pigeon. she cooed at me every five seconds. and she must have been part deaf, because everything i said, she replied "sorry, what?" i hate that. also she never went to bed, ever ever ever, and she never never never went out. in her defence she had just moved back to the uk after 10 years working abroad, but still. i was in a busy patch at work and i would get home at about 2am. see the light on up in my lounge. find my feet slowing like they were immersed in concrete. because i knew the second i got it, it would be "oooh, how was your day?... sorry, what? ooooh, why? ... sorry, what? oooh, what's a dilapidation? .... sorry, what?"

also she used to do intensely infuriating things, like buy a butternut squash and then just LEAVE IT ON THE COUNTER UNTIL IT WENT MOULDY, or use the washing machine every single night to wash about 2 pairs of pants. one sunday afternoon she said proudly that she had found an extra-hot 4 hour cycle to clean her hockey shin pads. oh fucking marvellous, my electricity bill was thrilled at that. eventually she found a flat to buy but there was a problem with the lease. as a property lawyer, i told her to buy it anyway...

- before this place i lived in a houseshare with 4 other girls, who changed over the course of the 5 years or so i was there. we had some proper nutcases. there was one who, during a game of triv, did not know the name of the plant that grows to over 6 feet and has bark and leaves. the one who talked to her bf like he was a toddler, including bursting into tears when he was travelling because a red golf came on the tv and apparently that was "a jamesy-wamesy car". the one who used to leave little fairy notes everywhere about cleaning but NEVER DID HER OWN WASHING UP, even by accident.





i think perhaps i am only fit to live by myself......
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 13:49, 13 replies)

Naked Poo crawl
2 friends of mine many years past (Jimmy and swingball). Both got totally smashed and Swingball being a good lad lets Jimmy stay in the spare room of his dads house. Swingball gets awoken to screams from his dad. "Swingball...get this fucking cunt outa my house nooooowww!!!!" Swingball appears in hallway to see Jimmy naked on all fours holding a shit in his hands. apparently Swingballs's dad made him crawl along the hallway under his legs to deposit said shit in the toliet while being screamed at before being swiftly removed and barred from Swingballs house.
(Peno Lives In a Coal Bunker, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 14:05, 5 replies)

Video Nasty
One night my upstairs neighbours decided to trick their hugely megacamp flatmate, lets call him Cameron.
So Cameron arrived home from work one night to find his flatmates indulging in some "mexican acid."
Having been invited to join in the tripping Cameron admits it would be his first time taking acid and he has heard a few horror stories and he is a little bit frightened of the results. So after much reassurance that everyone would take care of him and he would suffer no bad effects Cameron was coming around to the idea and it was with some trepidation that he accepted his first "mexican acid tab".
Now is perhaps a good time to point out that there was no acid it was just little squares of paper with the ubiquitous acid smiley face drawn on.
Cameron was instructed that the best was to take mexican acid was to lick the tab and stick it to his forehead, then sit back and enjoy the results. After a few minutes his flatmates started describing the wonderful array of effects this wonderdrug was having on their senses. Not to be left out Cameron started joining in and by his own admission was soon "tripping off my face".
Shortly afterwards everyone started laughing and he was told it was only a wind up at which point he flew into a rage and went to his room.
The next morning he was gone, had moved all his stuff out during the night as his flatmates slept and as a final parting gift he took a shit INSIDE the video recorder.
A slight overreaction in my opinion, but fantastically surreal also.
(Figmaus, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 8:29, 7 replies)

The Wasp Man
My shared house was a crumbling four floor Victorian relic in a provincial university town. Our front door was always open (the hinges were rusted through), so we had our share of waifs and strays come visit over the time we were there.

One of them, a fat and greasy sort of chap, Simon I think, was a regular. No one could remember who's mate he was, he'd kip on the couch for days at a time - but he had a steady supply of decent weed, so his presence was tolerated.

His personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. Once he slept on the floor when the couch was occupied - despite the fact that the entire house had recently had a haircutting session and were yet to hoover up. 'The hair will be like a mattress', I recall him saying.

One dreary afternoon, four of five of us were sitting around smoking Si's weed. We had one of those water bongs - where the weed was placed on a gauze and incinerated as the user inhaled the smoke through half a litre of water. This method was very effective. Straight to the system. And pretty soon we were all wrecked.

Trouble with the above is, the weed gets caned pretty damn quickly and Simon's stash was gone within 20 mins. 'What else is there to smoke?', he asked. Having gone through the ritual of trying banana skins and nutmeg etc in the first year, we were fresh out of ideas. But then Simon had a new one. He drifted over to the window-sill and came back with a perfectly preserved wasp corpse, held gingerly between his fingers. 'What about this?', he enquired, 'could be interesting'. We watched open mouthed as he placed the insect on the gauze and fired up his lighter.

The wasp crackled and burned instantly and Simon took a huge hit of blueish, dried-wasp smoke into his lungs. He held it indefinitely and then blew the same coloured smoke back at us. Then he jumped up and ran to the window, found two or three other carcasses, loaded them up and inhaled them too.

'Feeling anything?', we enquired excitedly as we sat in astonished wonder, genuinely thinking that some kind of metamorphosis was about to occur. And something did happen! His skin took on an odd, green pallor and suddenly he barfed into his mouth. Cheeks full, he tied to choke back his sick - and pretty much succeeded, albeit for the fair amount of drizzle that seeped between his hands.

But unfortunately he didn't turn into a wasp, nor did he take on any wasp-like characteristics. Which was a great shame. We didn't see him much after that. But the Wasp Man will live long in our memories.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 13:09, 4 replies)

Have a pea:
In my late teens, I started going out with a vicar's daughter, and, as the relationship developed, I was invited to the vicarage for the weekend.

While the vicar and his wife were absolutely lovely, they couldn't have made their position on our relationship more clear: my girlfriend's room was at that end of the huge long corridor, mine at the other, right next to the parent's bedroom.

While that wasn't too daunting in itself - all teenagers become adept at parent-evasion - I hadn't banked on the fact that the vicarage still had the old WWII black-out curtains in that corridor.

So at about 2am, having stayed up with my girlfriend "watching telly" and pretty well only that as it happens, I go to bed.

It is pitch black in the corridor. Like - proper, no light. She closed her door, and I was in complete darkness. Not even vague light from reflections downstairs.

OK. I know my room's at the end. I walk cautiously fowards with my hands in front, and, reaching what feels to be the end of the corridor, turn to my right and go in to the room.

Over-excited with the teenage horn, on arrival I'd basically thrown my bag on the bed and been done with it, so where the light switch is I don't know.

I start the tedious process of feeling my way around the room trying to find some form of illumination, but happily instead find the bed. I therefore strip to my shorts and get in, to be greeted by her mother screaming "WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!", her father banging the light on and the sight of myself in the mirror opposite dressed in only my shorts rapidly getting entangled in the blankets as I try desperately to run away from everything ever for all of time and the rest of my life.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 12:34, Reply)

camp kev
best houseguest i've ever had. very gay and camper than a row of pink tents, kev was an absolute scream. he asked if he could stay for a while after his boyfriend, in a drug-fueled rage, tried to hit him with a wildly-swinging steam iron. i don't like to see a grown man cry, so i said yes.
for five months, my life was turned completely upside down. kev is very much a spur of the moment kind of guy, so i'd often be woken by him bounding on my bed, saying things like "let's decorate the batroom! let's go on a picnic! let's start a dance school in the living room!" never a dull moment with kev.
i was desperately trying to lose weight at the time, so was foolishly taking speed on a daily basis. kev was not averse to the odd bomb himself, so we were both pretty hyper the whole time. kev had a bloke who really fancied him, but he didn't really like said bloke. unliked bloke would give us a lift to the supermarket and back once a week, plus about £40 for food, as kev would always plead poverty. i tried telling the bloke we didn't need his money, but he would get very offended if i tried to stop kev taking it. shopping paid for, our own money went on fags, booze and drugs.
kev was very funny on drugs. he stole my purple silk dressing gown and took to wearing it around the house, in some bizarre homage to noel coward. he bought a toy cat, which he would use to say things about people. you know, kind of like "what's that, puss? david's a wanker? you really shouldn't say things like that!"
all too soon, kev got himself another boyfriend(who he's still very happy with, 10 years later)and moved out. things were certainly a lot quieter with him gone, but i did get more sleep.
i really miss those days.
*sigh*
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 18:02, 8 replies)

in her bed and all....
Way back in the late 90's, I was living with a girlfriend, we'd been together for a couple of years, and we shared with another fella (Dave) also. I wouldn't call the relationship a fantastic one, but we were both very *used* to it, and so it just sort of.....carried on. Now I'd been overseas for a few months recently, doing the touring musician sort of thing (not very successfully, but never mind, had tons of fun) and now it was the gf's turn to have a big trip abroad - I was financially tapped out and anyway, she rather fancied a bit of an adventure. We had a relatively 'adventurous' relationship in some respects anyway, and had a nice deal that "what happens on tour stays on tour". Lovely. Off she went and it was just Dave and I in the house. Quite peaceful actually.

Now what happens next had happened countless times before. I good friend of mine, we'll call her K for now (you'll see why later), also a mate of the gf's, simply landed at the door 'between houses' as it were, seeking a roof for a spell. Fantastic! Not your average couch-blagging freeloader at all was K, just a bit challenged when it came to organising stability in a domestic sense. Great company, good cook, a genuine sharer of comestibles and combustibles, and Dave was happy about it too. For now.

The little cultural pond that existed about us at that time was a most cosmopolitan, hippyish, new-agey, entrepeneurial, hedonistic and definitely promiscuous one; the sort of aesthetic mini Golden Age that can spring up and survive for a few years in any welfare state with great weather and a sea view before the yuppies move in, start renovating old houses and price all the interesting people out. So seeing as how K and I had been such great mates and shared houses and indeed beds for many a year, it was rather unusual that we'd never been er, actually intimate with each other. We looked alike, (both tall dark and skinny with good Northern European noses), hung out all the time, were physically affectionate and had a standing joke about so often being mistaken for lovers and/or siblings. Yet neither of us had ever felt or expressed any sexual attraction to each other. Which for me at least was especially odd as she quite frankly is a stunner.

It's winter time, and this is a two-bedroom house, so naturally K bunks in with me. Now it's your turn. You fill in the week or so of slowly building and slightly unsettling sexual tension that ensues. Moments upon waking of each ever-so-slightly leaning in as one might start to with a lover for a kiss, the unspoken jollity of finding ourselves giggly like schoolkids and increasingly cuddly on our trips down to the cafe and so on until....

....well, apparently I was "never going to do anything about it" so K made all the moves one morning and within a few short months K became Mrs Dadadali. Going on 14 years later we're still married, even if the whole world of us has changed incredibly.

What a shit thing to do to your gf, eh? I only saw her the once after that (she didn't come to the wedding) and during that attempt at some reconciliation I managed to stoically wear a couple of glasses of water, a large glass of (quite decent) red, and the closer was half a plate of pasta. Fair enough, but I had to walk then, it was getting dangerous.

Still, housemate result!
(dadadali has hybrid vigour, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 5:16, 1 reply)

Special delivery. A bum. Were you expecting one?
Gumby was a perennial guest, although he was rarely invited anywhere. I first met him at my first ever festival, where we were sharing a tent. The first I knew of this detail was when I finally stumbled on my canvas stronghold after hours of fruitless searching to find in my sleeping bag, dead to the world and taking up every inch of available floorspace.
One day he decided to leave Manchester and head down to Gorblimey Lahndahn Taahn, where he planned to stay with our friend Clive until he found his feet. The first Clive knew of this details was when Gumby arrived on his doorstep, suitcase of marmalade sandwiches in hand and expectant look on his blotchy face (the guy looked like a drunk Roman from Asterix).
Gumby also liked a party. He was rarely invited to these either. Instead, he would crash them using his arsenal of wily Mancunian party crashing techniques. He was like a party pointer, a braque des bashments – we'd be walking home frm the pub when suddenly his neck would stiffen, his head cocked to one side, his nose a-quiver. We'd hear his familiar cry – ''Sa party over there!' – and off he'd bolt, towards the flashing lights/thudding beat/muffled conversation which had stirred his interest. One time he blagged into a house party only to find it was full of dancing midgets... sorry, how rude, what's the proper name for them? Oh yes – 14 year olds. He still gamely boogied through the confused throng, searching for illicit booze until the birthday girl's dad forcibly directed him to the exit.
His best performance came in the summer, when he picked up the faint scent of beats on the early evening air following a 'Leo Sayer'. Being too inebriated to turn on his dubious charm, instead he decided to break in through the bathroom window. Astonishingly, he managed to do it without anyone noticing. He then strode triumphantly into the main room to join... four smartly dressed metropolitan elitists, drinking wine and listening to Everything But The Girl with the volume turned up a bit. He quickly deployed the 'wrong house' defence (which to be fair was sort of true) and bolted through the front door. I'm actually quite surprised he didn't just tell them he was moving in and start raiding the fridge.
(electricteeth, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 19:08, Reply)