Uuuhhhh...
...where to start?

This mate of mine, I'll call him "Deft," is clearly suited to this QOTW. In fact, if there was a global shortlist for this sort of thing, he'd be on it. Sort of like the Forbes list, but less dolla and more holla.

Deft stayed over a lot when he didn't have a home. Not just at mine, but I think I may have been one of the most relaxed hosts. So at mine quite a bit.

He is a top bloke, but he can be quite irritating. He is loud and unclean, and he creates mess everywhere. Little bits of food scattered everywhere, unidentifiable stains on the sofa in the living room where he slept, and the smell... unwashed I suppose one might politely call it.

There are some funnies though.

After my flatmates had decided that he had overstayed his welcome, they ordered him out. (Same happened to me not long after, but I'm saving that one for a QOTW about the biggest c**ts ever) Kindhearted/foolish me, I suggested that he come over after the flatsh*ts had gone to bed and sleep on the floor in my room. A couple of days was enough - apparently I snore but I was glad that I wouldn't have to put up with the smell any longer. Instead he took to sleeping in the bath. We had two bathrooms in our flat and he'd take a rug and lie in the bath. The others would get up, find one bog occupied and just go to the other. He would emerge after they had left for work, and so it progressed. It was about a fortnight until he was busted. Next to the bathroom he occupied was one of the c(*nt)haps rooms. One night I hear shouting, angry shouting, and it is Deft. WTF? I think. I listen in, and it seemed that he had become sick and tired of lying in the bath listening to this guy and his inflatable going at it, and had burst into this guys room, bollock naked, to protest. Needless to say, the jig was up. The bathroom was free after that though.

Anyway, several times recently he has called me up and asked if he could bring his washing to my place. I figured that it couldn't hurt. as he lived in a squat and had no washing machine. But he became more and more plaintive each time I tried to say no. So this time I refused and the whole story came out. Somewhere along the way he had contracted some form of lice/crabs/scabies stuff, and in his allergic paroxysms he had manned up enough to force his contagious self on other people (generally me). I had wondered why I had started itching so much...

The line he gave me to try to persuade me to be his host was priceless. "I performed naked aerobics with two girls on a mattress in a squat and contacted a skin disease. I then went on to bed half the women in the bar I work and they all have what I have. Now everyone thinks I am a dirty f***er and my girlfriend has dumped me and I can't have sex because everyone who knows me has told everyone else that anytime you touch Deft you are likely to catch it! Please help me, I need to wash my clothes at 90c and quarantine myself, naked except for the anti-itch cream, in your spare bedroom - I can't have sex and it is killing me, please, you gotta help me!!!"

Still not sure what to say, except a polite "I don't think so..."
(IdlePeAcEsign if trouble were my mistress, i'd send her to them, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 22:09, 3 replies)

The wanderer
When I'm really pissed I have a habit of waking in the night and staggering on autopilot to the toilet (none of these pissing in wardrobe antics for me, no siree). However once I've emptied my bladder the autopilot shuts down and abandons me to my fate. This has resulted in me waking up hours later in the toilet/bathroom/hallway/living room . . anywhere.

One night our son (aged 10) had a sleep over with 3 of his mates. Whilst they were all amusing themselves doing Wii etc in one room, the wife and I stayed in the other room getting pissed. At some point all the youngsters went to bed in the same bedroom. To facilitate this we had put a sofa bed in there on which two were sleeping.

Following so far ?

Anyway at some point in the night my piss autopilot activated and off I must have gone. The first I knew of this is when, at first light, I woke up, stark bollock naked, lying curled up at the foot of a sofa bed in which two youngsters were sleeping. I got up and retreated to my own bed.

What the fuck would have happened if I hadn't been the first to wake ? I can just imagine little some child going back to his dad saying "we found X's dad in bed with us and he had no clothes on"
(Bitter and Twisted, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 21:15, 1 reply)

B
i remember when i firt met B. within 5 minutes, she'd told me that her father had molested her as a child. not something i really needed to know, but she seemed pleasant enough, despite her obvious insanity. when she introduced me to her partner K, it was hate at first sight. this bellwhiff would pick his nose in front of you, then extend the same hand and try to shake yours with it. classy he was not.
i realised how universally hated he was when i attended their engagement party. apart from their insurance rep, i was the only person to show up.
when they married, K decided he was disabled and couldn't leave the house. then again, neither could B without his permission. if she took more than an hour with the shopping, he'd phone the police and report her missing. it wasn't long before she'd had enough and finally left him.
at this time, my parents were on holiday, so i invited her to stay with us. now, it might not have bothered her that her toenails resembled charred cashew nuts, but waking up to find those trotter decorations in my face was not a good start to the day.
on the fourth day, my sister and i told B that she would have to shower if she wanted to stay. we trawled our wardrobes to find her some clean clothes and underwear, before throwing her knickers into the bin.
on the sixth day, my parents arrived home. as soon as my mum caught a whiff of B, her days as a houseguest were not just numbered, but over. she was ordered to leave immediately.
2 hours later, i received a phonecall from my mate D. it seems B was now staying with her. B knew which street D lived on, but not her house number, so had walked up and down the street, wailing with increasing volume, until D came out of her house to investigate.
she stayed with D for 2 weeks before D had had enough of her. D later told me that B had refused to wash even once and, despite getting some money, continued to wear the clothes my sister and i had given her for the entire fortnight, not even letting D wash them.
last i heard, she'd shacked up with a bus driver. to him i say good luck, you'll need it.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 20:25, Reply)

One warm summers night a few years ago...
I'd been out for a meal then drinks with some friends who'd eventually faded out as the night progressed so off I went looking for adventure, or a shag, or both.

I arrived uninvited and completely pissed at a party hosted by an acquaintance (lets call him Steve), who admittedly I barely knew or associated with, (Even less so now) with the intention of spreading the love and getting hammered.

Steve is a dealer, a bit of a nutter, a fucking psycho actually. Years of abusing his brain with all manner of substances have taken a heavy toll on him. Not so long ago we had an armed response unit backed up by a helicopter searching for him after an altercation with one of his equally dangerous pals. I don't know how he got away with that one, but that is the nature of Steve. He's a proper sly cunt.

So, at this party, after a quite few drinks and some chat, I was feeling a little worse for wear. I made my way to the bathroom to "call Hugh on the big white telephone" except, for some reason I walked straight past the toilet and puked in the sink.

As I gathered my senses and what little dignity I had left the full gravity of the situation struck me. Do I abscond and risk being killed or maimed later, or do I come clean?

Steve isn't known for being house proud, nor is he known for his gentle and forgiving demeanour. I thought he'd probably object to some unknown party crasher messing up his bathroom sink.

Looking in the sink, this was no ordinary vomit. It wasn't the type you could simply rinse away, it was full of HUGE chunks and other bits of food, and it STANK. To make matters worse, a queue was forming outside. I had to think fast.

I cupped my hands together and started shovelling the vile mess into the toilet, then rinsed the sink out as best I could and washed my hands. That was the best I could manage in my inebriated state, it would have to do.

As I exited the bathroom I noticed Steve's two girlfriends (yes two!) were first in line. They went in together, no doubt to powder their collective nose.
Moments later I could hear screams of horror coming from the bathroom direction, followed by retching and that familiar splattering sound. Time to leave!
(Vinnie Strokes Got bummed on, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 19:59, 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)

His Own Boss
The proud handyman was from out-of-town and he wanted to be his own boss, for a change. He needed money, however, so I put him to work building a fountain in my back yard. The work was tedious and unfulfilling, though, so he started up a methamphetamine addiction, just to pass the time. The voices in his head eventually chased him from his apartment, however, so he started sleeping in alleys near my house. Neighborhood disdain and unacknowledged local ghosts soon led him to start sleeping on the floor of my garage (and packaging his bodily waste into tidy but smelly packets and jars that he'd stash all about).

But there was no peace on the garage floor either. The garage was my mini-lop bunny's turf, where she had free range. She'd sidle up and bite him hard with her long bunny teeth during his long, meth-fueled 24-hour-long siestas, puncturing his flesh in multiple places and reminding him who was the real boss. The handyman's relatives eventually took notice and gathered enough money to send him home, taking him away from the invisible demons and incensed rabbit and the considerable shambles that being "his own boss" had made of his life.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 18:51, Reply)

One for EastEnders fans
A former colleague had quite a complicated love (ie boning) life, which I never could quite untangle. One of her paramours (ie bonees) does stick in my mind, however. It turns out he had a bit off a problem with sleep-wazzing. If he drank too much, there was a chance he might end up weeing somewhere inappropriate. She found this out when she woke up post-bone to find him micturating into the urinal-shaped structure in the corner of the room... a cot. He was pissing all over her baby. The baby didn't cry though, so I don't know what that says about the bloodline and would rather not think about it.
(electricteeth, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 17:00, Reply)

Mr Whippy!!
As so many of these stories start out, University, 1994/95, Halls of Residence. Out of the 20 people that lived in this house that year, and the 40 or so lasses that lived next door and the endless people I have recounted this tale to - upon reading this will 1)instantly know me 2) instantly know who it's about. The rest, just read on.

4 Halls of residence in a leafy suburb of a midlands City, We'd often have house outings to the pubs and clubs, tuesdays and thursdays always being the best as the nights were student friendly and well fucking cheap! Everyone would go, even the loners, nerds and nutjobs of the house. It was great. John liked to come with us but didn't have the legs for 15 vodkas, 10 bottle of fosters, etc but would have a good go. 1 special night he was very, very drunk. We all got back safely on the free bus and everyone retired for the night.

Next morning, in the hallway, there's a stench. Takes u back to your childhood, "Smells like baby poo" someone comments. We follow the smell to the top floor, open the landing door and bosh. There it is, like a little brown trophy, just waiting to be a stood in. A perfectly shaped walnut-whip shaped turd. Wait, there's another little ball of poo, towards the... hang on, there's a tail of logs to the bathroom door! John's bedroom door is ajar, we walk to it and notice there's something stuck under the door. Another much bigger plop, squashed and squeezed between the door and carpet. Inside, it's like nothing on earth. There's poops everywhere, a pile of jeans with turd on, several piles of poop of varying sizes, some ovbiously been stood in - and skidded on back the looks of it as some of the poop piles are flat! All this between the door and the shit stained bed as well as a couple of perfect brown handprints. Amongst all this was his flat mate still fast asleep unaware of the horror he was about to awake to.

John was in the loo, pretending to be asleep we think. We never got the full story of what happened but it was pretty obvious.

So we named him after his triumphant perfectly sculpted crap we first found at the top of the stairs - Mr Whippy.

I would give names but....

Sod it. Town End Close Halls of Res, DMU, 1995.
(TheManofScience, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 16:44, Reply)

It's not a real party
unless you discover hidden bottles of spirits - invariably the brandy - hidden behind the framed picture on the fridge of you both - a few weeks later.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 15:38, 5 replies)

there are rules for a reason
My old flat was a bit weird in that it was detached and above 3 garages so I had no neighbours, subsequently it became the place that we all went back to after a night out and even though it only had 1 bedroom it wasn't unknown for there to be 16 people sleeping there.

There were not many rules, but the ones that existed were there for a reason.

1) If you're using the bathroom at night please turn the light on.

this was cos my bedroom had a door off it to the bathroom (making it vaguely en suite I guess) and therefore anyone using the bog at night would wake me up anyway, and it was way more preferable for that to be the noise of the fan than the noise of piss hitting water.

2) If you're using the bathroom at night and are having a wee, don't bother with the flush.

the flush carried on filling for ages after and made a racket to begin with.

3) If you're using the bathroom at night and are having a shit, please flush.

cos if you don't, it makes my room stink of your poo.

Most people got this but some people got it horribly wrong, being woken up by the sound of someone shitting in your bedroom (it was a small flat and the bathroom door had a gap under it) and then leaving it is possibly the worst introduction to a hungover state imaginable...

I don't live there any more and the main culprit who didn't ever manage to grasp the rules is the brother of my ex so I'm unlikely to ever experience anything like it again but it still makes me feel ill when I think back to having to drag my arse out of bed to pull the flush and turn the fan on for a bit.
(Ross McBingobangobongo bingobangobongo, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 15:33, Reply)

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)

Pleasantly surprised it wasn't my problem
A friend (Moe) was staying with us after a horriffic tour of duty in one of the desert countries we're currently "liberating".

Obviously he hadn't had a drink in a fair while having just returned, so I was dreading the worst when we went out for a pint that night.

Mainly I was concerned about what kind of stain he'd leave on my couch, but I guessed I'd just have to wait and see. And a heavy night it was. We were knocking back the harder stuff from a German-themed ale house. Suddenly remembering some sort of responsibility, I ducked out about 2am to escort my gf home.

I woke up in bed about 6am (as I often do) and jumped up. I better check Moe came home. . . . . Nope. No sign of him on the couch.

A few frantic phonecalls to his mobile were met with no response. Normally I'd just put it down to the fact that he'd got lucky. But he'd been through a lot recently so we'd all been worried about his wellbeing.

Eventually, at about 8am I got through to his mobile, only to be greeted by an unknown Irish girl. Relief!

She seemed in good spirits despite the fact that Moe had pissed on her bedroom floor twice.

The second time she even caught him in the act and asked him if he was indeed pissing on her floor. He'd sleepily looked over his shoulder mid-flow and casually remarked: "No".

I got the full story from her. After everyone else had headed home the previous night Moe had been the last man standing and had continued clubbing until about half 3.

Having walked home at about 4am he must have been just yards from my front door when he met the Irish girl. They got chatting and within five minutes she'd talked him into stealing a crate of bananas off the back of a delivery van down the street before they made a run for it back to hers.

Classy lady. She caught a guy pissing on her floor twice and still shagged him.

The following evening Moe was staying with another friend and about 2 in the morning he walked into the kitchen, dropped his keks and pished into them before curling up to sleep right there on the floor.

The host, knowing Moe all too well, just chuckled and put the pissy clothes in the wash.

Moe got over it all though. It seems the desert life wreaks havoc with your body and metabolism in general.

He's mellowed now but I'm sure he's still got plenty more floors to rinse. He once told me he pished the bed . . . . .from across the room. Now that's an achievement.

Moe, I salute you!
(Barry Subchimp, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 14:22, 2 replies)

Something has been nagging me here
I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I think I got it.

Was trying to think of the wierdest people I have shared a place with. I can't really come up with any decent answers, which leads me to think . . .

I am the wierdest person I have ever lived with.
( Not Pineapple anymore, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 14:12, 5 replies)

Skittles Vodka...
You can probably tell where this is heading.

Last summer a couple of friends had been in America for 3 or 4 months and when they returned they decided the best way to catch up with everyone was to have them round to their house and get completely smashed. As the night went on, one guy we'll call him Matt (for that is his name) decided to bring out his vodka, which he had been dissolving skittles in for the past few days, this was after polishing off a whole crate of Old Speckled Hen. So skittles vodka shots all around! everyone lined up with their shot and down the hatch... and in the case of Matt, straight back up the hatch and on to the kitchen floor followed by the speckled hen. After we got him outside with a bucket the clean up operation began, and by the time we finished he had disappeared from the back doorstep deeper into the garden. Someone found him wandering around by the pond, where he had just thrown up again.

Unfortunately in the past year the few times I've met him for a drink he has always ended the night with the technicolour yawn.
(eggs and spam *insert witty sig here*, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 14:08, 2 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)

the Housepest
Well over a year ago the eldest had a girlfreind. She came around the beginning of May with her elder sister, and the sister gave this story about how they and their father were being evicted from their private rented accomodation.
So a couple of days later we met the father, He has a form of MS, so he's wheelchair bound, We met him in town for a coffee and he seemed ok, someone who was down on his luck and at the mercy of a heartless landord.
We talked it over and and offerd him a place to stay for a couple of days till he found somwhere else to live. We made arrangments for our daughter to sleep in with the boys and for him to have daughters room.
The problems started as soon as he moved in, daughters bed was too small!
So we offerd him our bedrom....after all it was only for a couple of days.
We were wrong. He ensconced himself in the bedroom with his computer and that was it. I ferried him around to the council, to shelter, we filled in all his paperwork for benefits, I took him to the co op so he could buy rich tea buiscuits-all he lived on, He turned his nose up at our offers of a cooked dinner, as solid food hurt his teeth.
We didnt ask for a penny.
And of course we were getting handtied, so we were busy organsing that as well.
He establised a routine, he would stagger downstairs, drink tea, smoke rollups and bullshit me, about his time in the CIA. No Really he was a Ex CIA operative!!!
And this went on not for days but for weeks, Me and the missues (with her back problems were sleeping in the living room on inflatable matresses) her back was getting worse and her temper getting shorter with this leech shorter.
In the middle of this we went and got handtied...returnng to our home to find the sink full of dishes, the house stinking (as no doors had been opend for 4 days). And him ensconsed in bed...he was having a "bad day" so he didn't even congratulate us.
After that I had a word. He grudgingy gave up the bedroom, Which we had to clean thoughly. And at the time I noticed my books-private stuff I keep in my bedside drawes. Had been distiurbed.
He became quite creepy after that....not to me but to the Missus, and said a few off coulor things.
We called social serives again and politley explaiend to them he was staying with us free of charge, and it had been 6 weeks now, the house was overcrowded, there were 2 disabled people in it one of whom had a operation booked for couple of weeks and 4 children. And we had had enough.
A day later the SS came round and found him somewhere to live. He moved out less than a week later, full of bluster and promises to stay in touch.
Needless to say the relationship between his daughter and our son didnt last much longer after that.

Thing is it makes you very wary of offering a helping hand to anyone else.
(Gru being trolled since 1998, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 13:35, 5 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)

My first housemate
Was a bit weird. She used to take my worn knickers out of my dirty basket and wear them, and I used to find them on her bedroom floor. She's now married with a baby on the way, god help them.
(natakins, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 12:23, 6 replies)

Our
last houseguests ate anything they could get their teeth into, fucked, pissed, shat, and gave birth wherever they felt like it.


Mind you, they were rats.
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 12:03, 4 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)

(probably too long but....) I had a new years eve party many moons ago,
but it wasn't the guests that were the problem, oh no it was the residents.

I lived with 3 girls at the time, they were students while I worked within the Uni charity. They were all very nice and loved helping me out with the charity work, especially B and she was so good she became my assistant and would have taken the job on the next year when I left for England.

Through B, I met Sara and Liz (not their real names obviously) and we ended up renting a house together. They were great, all good friends and easy to get on with......on their own. When they were together the petty jealousies appeared and the underhand comments started and they bullied Sara. All 3 of them were attractive in their own way and had no reason to be so insecure, B was very curvy and girl next door type. Liz was tall and quite glam looking but it was Sara who was the gorgeous one. Sara was naturally good looking, extremely cute and she did a spot of modeling part-time.

And the other 2 hated her for it.

Anyway, at the new years eve party about 7 years ago we all invited our respective friends up and before long the house was heaving. Everyone was getting along really well....which is odd for Belfast but B decided to drink vodka straight at about 5.30pm, a good three hours before anyone arrived. As the night went on her comments were getting more and more slurred, more personal and rude. It all started to go horribly wrong when she brought up my mates ex-boyfriend, making her extremely jealous boyfriend shout at said friend on the stairs making her cry, B then went on to break another girls toe by stamping on her foot in her high heels because "She didn't like my dress".

So everyone got into the habit of avoiding her and continued onwards to midnight but the shit hit the fan when Sara arrived with her new bloke. I heard a few raised voices coming from downstairs, then crying and slamming doors. A few seconds later my bedroom door is almost kicked off it's hinges and Sara is launched onto the bedroom floor face first holding her head and hysterically crying. As I look up I see B standing in the doorway holding a fistful Sara's hair, mascara running down her face, eyes wild with a look that can only be achieved with vodka and a peach schnapps mixer.

She then launched on me in a madly rambling, incoherent voice saying it's all my fault because my mum helped her move furniture one day (!?!) and that "you fucking protestant, black bastards ruin everything!!!!" and then randomly started on each of my friends as they looked on in shock. The last thing I remember about the encounter was equally screaming at her to shut her face for once and unloading about a years worth of pent up aggression at her behavior caused by what was now obvious alcoholism.

We then physically removed her to her bedroom only to find her charming chav mates were dishing out homophobic abuse to a friend, creating a second riot in the living room, and yet more people on the stairs crying. After depositing B onto her bed, she went out like a light and we set about clearing out the house and got Sara some medical help.

In the end, whoever was left relocated to my room where we saw in the new year. In some kind of weird American sitcom style ending, we all slept together in the same bed and some huddled together on the floor in sleeping bags. B continued to be sick all over her room and in the morning tried to convince us she had no memory of the previous night.

By the afternoon of New Years Day me and Sara had moved out. My mate then thanked me for the best party ever saying "You had not one but TWO girls crying on the stairs, that's almost unheard of!"

The last I heard she was getting help after a few similar incidents about 3 years ago. I hope she get's her demons sorted.
( Bamboo Steamer, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 12:01, Reply)

I
moved to London in late 1995, to start a new job as a hack for a reasonably well known publisher. However, an almighty fuck up by the owner of the flat I was renting meant that for the first two weeks I had nowhere to live, so I was obliged to crash on various people's sofas for a while. I initially started out down in Clapham, but the journey into work was simply insane, and the friend of a friend who I was staying with was a bit strait-laced for my liking. However, after a day or two an actual proper mate offered me crash space at his luxurious west Hampstead pad, and I jumped at the chance, because (a) he was a very good mate and (b) his flat was amazing.

However, I had been there about three days when Chris arrived. I'd met Chris before when I'd been over for the interview for the job that took me to London. Chris was a bit odd. He was somewhat distant, to the extent that you could talk to him for ten minutes or so without him noticing, even when you were the only other person in the room with him. And in the intervening weeks, he had become much, much odder, to the extent that he was clearly in the early stages of some sort of quite alarming mental illness.

Firstly, he'd developed the habit of smoking any and all dope in the vicinity. I had bought an ounce of rather nice skunk shortly after arriving, and was rather alarmed to realise on Chris's first night there that he's managed to work through almost a quarter of it. He still had the problem with conversation, except it had got a little more hard to tell, since he would actually mutter "yeah" and "no" occasionally and giggle. However, it soon turned out he was holding extensive discussions in his head with (oh yes) Jesus, Hitler, Buddha and Charles Manson.

Since I had already claimed the sofa, there was some debate about where Chris would go. Eventually he plumped for sleeping in the flat's very small hallway, thereby blocking access to every single room in the house while he was sleeping, including the bathroom. In the mornings, when both my friend and I were trying to get ready for work, Chris would disappear into the bathroom before either of us and remain there for long, long stretches of time. We eventually discovered that he was just sitting on the loo, with the seat cover down, having a damned good think. While doing so, he would also impart his unique goaty stench to the entire room...

Part of the reason my mate tolerated Chris was that he was fanatically clean, and would gladly tidy and wash the whole flat on a daily basis. This proved less fun for me, as he would often be seized by the need to clean at unlikely hours of the day and night, so I would occasionally be awoken by a noise only to find this weird smelly bloke standing over me in his underpants with a fistful of knives and giggling.

My mate eventually gave him the bum's rush when he got home from work to discover that the bin in his kitchen was full almost to overflowing with broken glass. Chris explained that he'd been working some rather dangerous magic which involved him smashing every single bottle in the kitchen into the bin in order to destroy the forces which were working against him. As I say, that didn't seem to pan out too well, since it got him chucked out of the flat.

I understand that he did subsequently seek treatment. I have no idea how it turned out.
(Wong Fei-Hung - now with added flickr.com (see profile), Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:57, Reply)

Let it snow!
I have mentioned my ex housemate Rob a few times before and while I could repost the one about him and his paper bag I have swore to myself that I will avoid reposting anything.

I remember one Saturday morning I returned home after a few days away (Due to work) to find the front garden covered in a fine layer of white. While the idea of a garden buried under a layer of white may not seem out of place this time of year it did look a little odd in when I arrived at the scene as it was the middle of summer.

On closer inspection it turned out that the layer of artificial snow was in fact a layer of rice that had solidified somehow. I opted to go inside survey the rest of the damage in the house and find out why the hell we had something that would probably be featured on the next series of weird kitchen creations by Heston Blumenthal* in our front garden.

Eventually Rob managed to rise from his room and filled me in on the situation.

Mon: Rob, what’s with the rice out front

Rob: Oh yeah that. I had Sally over Wednesday night and tried to impress her by cooking. The rice just went really hard each time I tried it so I threw it out before ordering a takeaway instead.

Mon: What…how many times did you try it and why the hell did you throw it in the front sodding garden? Theres a bin in the kitchen?

Rob: I forgot about that bin

Me: Hang on….Wednesday night? That’s been there a few days

Rob: Yeah sorry, do you wanna go play on the PS2

Me: Erm no we need to get that crap tidied up, god knows what we could have in there, I don’t want rats

Rob: Mon don’t be stupid, rats only live in large cities, this is Barnsley

(At this point my brain short circuits and I go get changed and spend some time in the front garden with Rob clearing up the mess, I swear some of the times I had to break the lumps with a spade).

I have a feeling I may be posting a few more Rob tales this week.

*I can’t remember the real name for the series it’s just the one where Blumenthal gets a number of celebs to have a dinner and amaze them by making an edible chair from sherbert and badgers foreskin etc etc.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:53, Reply)

When I were a nipper
of about 12, I was staying over a mate's house one night. As we were getting ready to hit the hay, I realized I'd left my bag of toiletries and clean undies downstairs, so off I trot to get it.

I enter the lounge to find said mate's father sat with his legs somewhat akimbo, no trousers on, a pillow over his groin, and a frozen pale look of terror on his face. I look at the tv and porn is playing.

What could I do? I mumbled something like "bag" while pointing at the carrier bag by the sofa, desperately avoiding eye contact, retrieved said bag and hastily exited. I never did tell my mate that his dad's a wanker.
( Damocles wants no part of your debauchery, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:47, 1 reply)

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)

My stepmother ...
So my stepmother decided to invite a bunch of friends over for a formal lunch at our place.

It's a Sunday, and, it being the middle of summer, it's tipping down outside.

So there we are - my two sisters and I - I'm 14, my eldest sister 17, my younger sister 16 - and we're surrounded by grown-ups being boring as all hell - talking pretty well exclusively grown-up other than asking to pass the potatoes or whatever.

Lunch comes and goes, and dessert is offered - of course people want dessert.

My step mother disappears.

Then my father.

Now - our living room borders their bedroom via an adobe wall my dad had put in a few months before - it's cardboard - you could put your fist through it.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

So there we are, sitting at the table, surrounded by all these adults we don't know, trying to make polite conversation

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

when we start to hear a noise.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

Gradually it reaches a crescendo, as the table steadily runs out of conversation

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM OH GOD! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM OH GOD! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM OH GOD! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD! OH GOD!

We can't go outside for a walk it's pissing down oh dear Christ Jesus help us what the what the WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO?!

Then suddenly they're back - not a hair out of place: "Dessert, anyone?"
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:21, 11 replies)

Busted chops
A few ripples ago in the undulations of time I shared a house with three other guys in Bethnal Green, Lahndan. Two of them were serious professional people like myself (ahem), and the third was a student from China. I forget his name, so let’s call him Herbert.

Herbert did a sterling job of dispelling the stereotype of the Asian student as quiet and hardworking, in that he was nocturnal, fetid, and bone fecking idle. He also never found the time to learn the rudiments of cooking, although he had no real reason to, since his mum turned up every fortnight or so with a whole fridge-freezer’s worth of frozen Tupperware tubs. This was cuisine from the old country as well, so it was usually drenched in a riot of unidentifiable spices.

One weekday at around 03:00, Herbert was hungry. He slunk down to the kitchen like a secret lemonade drinker and retrieved some of Mum’s best marinated pork chops from the freezer. Putting those principles of physics he had spent so long studying into action, he whacked them under the grill at maximum heat. By now the pangs of hunger in his savage breast were growing stronger so he stilled them with the soothing tones of speed garage.

Summoned from his bed by a combination of the fumes of a thousand spicy pigs burned at the stake and the collective vibration-induced departure of his fillings, my housemate stomped downstairs and proceeded to tear strips off Herbert for a good ten minutes*. The latter raced up to the relative safety of his room and left my housemate banging on the door and threatening to "throw [him] through the fucking window".

Herbert’s laziness did serve me well on one occasion: I had to have a broadband connection fitted and the only way to get to my room was through his. Had he not still been in bed at 14:00, the BT man would never have been able to route the cable. The same BT man managed to remain impressively cheerful, given that the atmosphere he had to negotiate contained about 5% oxygen and about 10% lightly fermented cum.

*Whether these strips then went under the grill, I don’t know.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:18, Reply)

No bodily fluids involved
When I was about 8 I was invited round to a mates place for dinner. All was fine until pudding arrived.
In all her wisedom, the mate's mum had decided to serve some ice cream in very expensive crystal glass bowls.

Of course, within a minute of her warning us to be careful as they were crystal glass and expensive, I'd managed to knock mine off the table and on to the floor completely shattering it.

I was mates with the guy up until secondary school so any time I visited afterwards, I was given a special brightly coloured plastic bowl with a comment about the incident from his mum.
(lilben81, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:09, 2 replies)

Laura the Stripper
Two years ago I was living in a houseshare in Hove with three girl mates and wierdo we found on the internet (but that's another story, she was a nutjob and her nickname was 'The Onion With A Wig'), when one of our close friends had a leaving do as he was moving to Mumbai. We all went out in Brighton and of course we decided to host the after party back at ours, it was only a short walk back and the house was pretty back, although we had a murderous next door neighbour but that didn't really put us off.

So as the night wears on and more gets drunk and more people turn up until we have a load of people we dont know in the living room and we are all upstairs in my room generally having a lol. A stripper named Laura turns up and is the cousin of one of our mates but she doesn't actually know us. She comes up the stairs and asks where the toilet is, I kindly offer to show her downstairs to the loo and off we go, arm in arm as we are a little merry (very merry).

So she drags me in the loo with her and sits down, does a wee and then we realise there's no bog roll. So what else to do, but she stands up, grabs my housemate's bath towel and wipes her fanny on it in front of me, puts it back and says "probably shouldn't tell anyone who lives here that I done that" and then sticks her bright pink false nail into a bag of coke, scoops some up and offers it to be OUT OF HER NAIL as a thanks you for not telling the housemates.

Didn't ever invite her back.
(natakins, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 11:07, 7 replies)