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This is a question House Guests

"Last week," Ungersven confesses, "I vomited over almost everything in a friend's spare room. The only thing to escape the deluge was the rather attractive (alas engaged) French girl who was sharing the bed with me." Tell us about nightmare guests or Fred West-a-like hosts.

(, Thu 6 Jan 2011, 14:20)
Pages: Popular, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

It started when she moved into our shed!
But us being the kind hearted, easily amused idiots that we are, we let her sleep on our sofa, well it was March and outside it was cold and horrible. I expressed concern to the wife, especially given that we had enough mouths to feed and were hardly bringing home a big wage packet. The biggest problem was that she was obviously preggers, but did that stop her sleeping around still? Not a bit of it. I think that she would have continued shagging until birth had she been able to and we had no idea of who the father or fathers were! We called her Lilly, but did not know her real name.

One afternoon, I came home from work and found her in a bit of a mood on the sofa, she would get up and pace up and down and the lay down on the sofa again, whining and moaning. Then she just popped one out, a little black baby, quickly followed by another!

I have never seen anything like it, I did not know what to do and cutting a cord worried me sick in case infection got in. Being a bit of a first aid appointed person though, I made sure that all went well and finally the babies lay there while she dozed and breast fed them. I made sure that she was looked after, she was exhausted after the birth and could barely lift her head. I now understand why they put towels down, our carpet looked like a murder had taken place!

When the wife came home she was stunned and took some photos, the flash going off got a bit much and Lilly started to complain, so wifey put the camera away and we made sure that there was plenty of food and drink for a completely exhausted first time mother. What we should have done was phoned some one and asked for advice or help, having her rehomed should have been a priority, but we kind of felt for her, her family had kicked her out and did not want her back, we know because when we asked them. They told us that she was dead!

Another issue that came with her was fleas, gross but there you go, sadly she gave us fleas and the new borns fleas too. This was getting too much. The new borns were shitting everywhere, they had fleas too and Lilly refused to use the flea stuff we bought. She got quite vocal and aggressive about it. In the end we had to make a stand and she got so cross that she stormed out, leaving us to look after the babies. I did not mind at first, but after half an hour I started to worry. Luckily a friend of ours had given us some powdered milk and so I had to mix it and then bottle feed them.

Lilly finally came back after about six hours and grudgingly submitted to being treated for the fleas. We cleaned her up and despite still carrying a little weight, she was actually quite beautiful. We finally managed to get her a new place to live and her kids were eventually adopted, one of them went to a friend of ours who was quite lonely and needed something to love, she did rename him though, she was not keen on the name I had chosen for him, Lucifer, so to this day he is called Smidge!

Lilly lives with some of our friends just down the road, they pretty much wait on her, but don't seem to mind, I think that they just enjoy the company that she brings, especially since losing their last cat. Helping her while she gave birth to five kittens was one of the real highlights of my life and they were adorable. Lilly though never really settled, I think that she had been treated quite badly by her previous family and she was very nervous and jumpy. However, I got the strong impression that she trusted me with her kittens, especially when she dumped them in my lap one day before she went out.
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 12:06, 6 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.
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 12:03, 5 replies)
A friend of mine is son-and-heir to a stately home.
It's an Elizabethan mansion, and almost as big as my ego.

As such, the television room is somewhere down there in the East Wing, through a maze of corridors, past the section that's not been used since American troops were billeted there during the First World War, and just opposite the former master bedroom, which hasn't been used since his father - a generally unshakable, down-to-earth and incredibly intelligent lawyer - saw the apparition of his own father appear at the foot of the bed the day he'd died hundreds of miles away.

The first time I stayed there was when I was about 14, and we stayed up late to watch, for me for the first time, The Shining.

I absolutely shat my pants - a great film, you'll agree.

We finished watching at about 2-30am, and it was then that he informed me that we had to check all the lights in the house were off and turn on the burglar alarm.

Which was in the kitchen.

In the West Wing.
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 11:43, 1 reply)
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.
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 10:35, 4 replies)
One Or The Other
Thanks to living in a grotty, rundown area, I had a pretty big house, and I'd been letting the basement flat to bring in an extra bit of cash. The guy was an aspiring musician called Noel (I know, I should have known!) and was always falling behind in his rent so he scarpered off to do some gigs and earn some dough.

His mate came round next day, saying he wanted to rent the room while Noel was away, which seemed a bit much given I didn't know the bugger from Adam, but he had the readies and I decided to let him stay on a nightly basis. (All heart, me, eh? Bloody idiot more like). That way, I thought, he couldn't do too much damage, and I could keep an eye on him.

Well, the guy kept himself to himself to begin with. Stayed in his room, quiet, didn't go out. He seemed like my total opposite in fact. (I'm quite fond of the pharmaceuticals, what can I say?). A bit straight-laced and all that. So my girlfriend thought she'd have a bit of fun with him, and fed him some magic mushrooms...

What a mistake that was! You know what it's like giving psychedelics to someone who's never taken them before? They start opening up in all kind of unexpected ways and see themselves in a totally different light. All the habits and defences they've formed over the years break down, and they get suddenly introspective. It was bloody weird. It was like he started behaving more like me. I'm hardly a role model, but it was pretty fascinating seeing him totally change he acted. My girlfriend took quite a shine to him at this point as well and tried to encourage him to break his boundaries.

Then some gangsters came and shot him/me.
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 9:25, 6 replies)
I used to lodge with a mad now-ex friend of Mrs Vagabond.
She's mad in various ways, but this pretty well sums her up:

I was just out of university, and as such poorer than a poor church mouse who's wife has run off and taken all the cheese.

As such, the offer of a large room and all bills for £50 a week was an excellent offer, particularly considering I was currently on £60pw + bills.

So I dragged together my deposit and van fees, and moved in, and thus I was once more pretty well broke. I took my last remaining £10, and did a grocery shop for the next fortnight.

I came back, and she was having a fag in the living room, doing quite an impressive imitation of a 1950s boarding house landlady.

"Hi Vagabond" she said, as I lumbered past, laden with bags, "I was thinking of having a Chinese tonight - what do you think?"

"Sounds good," I said, "Chinese is great."

"You up for it, then?" she asked, "Fancy joining me?"

"Nah mate," I responded, "I'm broke - I've treated myself to a bit of fish for tonight, and then it's skinnyville from here on in" I said, indicating my bags.

"Oh right!" she said, suddenly furious, "Thanks for thinking of ME!"
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 9:15, 1 reply)
I need a bohemian atmosphere!

(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 3:11, 6 replies)
Way back when....
I was a kid we had my cousin sleep over. My family was never super loaded and my metal frame bunk bed at the time was testament to that. Anywho my second cousin was dropped off for a one night stay while his parents went to a wedding and to him went the prized top bunk which I was never allowed.

I'll never forget waking to the sound of the metal springs stretching and flexing in the night. More shocking perhaps was the sudden release of tension in the bunk above me and the massive dark shape whoosh past me to crash in a meaty bony thunk on our milimetre thick carpet that covered the concrete floor. Amazingly enough he was fine but better still was the fact he didn't even wake just carried on snoring.
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 1:12, 5 replies)
The house guest from hell was me
Unfortunately as I believe they are also a lurking b3tan, I cant relate the story of the leech that invaded my space for a week and nearly drove me to commit murder, without giving myself away, and this sorry tale has already anonymously done the internet rounds for a while.
So i shall relate instead the tale of myself being the guilty party.
I hitched from Yorkshire to Somerset to spend a night with some friends prior to us all going off to spend a few days getting wasted at a weekend party out in the wilds.
On arrival I had a cup of tea made with ever so slightly smug free range organic milk, which was also ever so slightly off.
The following morning I'm barfing big time and can shit through the eye of a needle without splashing the sides.
My hosts being good worthy sorts did everything possible to make me comfortable, but of course they wanted to be off and me being a bag of puke told them to go and leave me to sleep it off.
So of they went, leaving me sweating and groaning under a duvet in their spare room with several huge bottles of water, lots of packs of dry biscuits, a family pack of toilet roll and 3 tin buckets.
I have no real recollection of that weekend, but when they got back the buckets were full, I was laid half clothed on the bare mattress.
The sheets, duvet and most of my clothes were hanging over the shower rail, completely soiled but I thought in my delerious state I'd managed to hand wash them in the bathroom sink :(
As they and me also had to be back to work monday morning , and me in no fit state to hitch back, it was decided that they would have to drive me back home.
Which took about 7 hours with constant stops for me to throw up, then pour my sodden remains into my flat then drive back across country to theirs.
Where they were greeted with the smell of puke and crap, threw everything into the garden, had a couple hours sleep and then had to go to work.
I didnt make it to work and funnily enough have never been invited back
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 0:14, Reply)
Didn't this qotw get done as Housemates From Hell?
Two years ago?
(, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 0:00, 4 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.
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 21:32, 13 replies)
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.
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 18:02, 8 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."
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 17:31, 5 replies)
Was at a house party a few years back
and someone who had obviously had far too much to drink decided to vomit. The only 'container' to hand was someones uggs. He then proceeded to vomit again, into the other one.
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 16:50, 5 replies)
vipros has just reminded me of a story from my uni ex
one evening when we were in third year, my then bf oswald was staying at a mate's house down in clapham. the house was owned by the parents of one of his mates, who then let the 3 other bedrooms to some friends from his course, so you can imagine the sort of state it was in with 4 dirty filthy students living there.

now, this was pre-everybody-having-the-internet at home, so the 10 mins free soft porn on sky at midnight was a very precious commodity, esp when it changed once a week. anyway, this particular occasion, oswald and the guy who owned the house got back from the pub and oswald was given the sofa to sleep on. at about 5 mins to midnight, the first flatmate crept in without putting the light on, bog roll in hand, and looked furtively around the room. saw oswald lying on the sofa. backed straight out.

about 2 mins later, there was flatmate number two standing at the door. "yes?" oswald called out. silence. then, an embarrassed "oh never mind" from the second dejected sounding flatmate.

2 mins later, the third flatmate bounded in, sock in hand, let out a "yesssssssss!" at finding the lounge "unoccupied", sat down on the floor and turned on the tv. was pretty unimpressed when oswald made his presence known before he saw anything that scarred him for life.

see children, times were much harder back then!

also it reminded me of another friend, who let her boyfriend's younger brother crash in her lounge one weekend. when they got their SKY bill the following month, the little bugger had watched every filthy movie he could find.
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 16:27, 7 replies)
the worst thing i have ever seen at a house party, and that's saying something
i was at a house party in reading. arrived fairly early, after a long walk in the cold and needed to piss like a racehorse. bear in mind this was about half nine, before everyone really got going, so maybe ten people there? i go up to the toilet, open the door, and in front of me is a fucking HORRIFIC sight.
the guy who was supposed to be djing, passed out sitting on the toilet, covered in vomit, blissful smile on his face, legs stretched out to the left over the bathtub with trousers and skids round his ankles, out of which his longsuffering and obviously unimpressed girlfriend was hosing what looked like gallons of liquid shit out of them with the shower head. he'd performed the now-legendary double dragon after ingesting a comically large line of ketamine. the worst bit was the look on her face like 'another day, another fucked up situation'
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 15:30, 1 reply)
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.
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 15:24, 3 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......
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 13:49, 13 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".
(, Sun 9 Jan 2011, 10:16, 3 replies)
The transmogrification of Henra
Back in uni I lived in the smokers house and a fellow student called Henry would often pop round for a smoke. We called him Henra as after one spliff he would steal your soul by talking to you about things you really weren't interested in (like football). Yes we all talk crap when we smoke but Henra was not a conversationalist, you would not be able to get a word in... for hours. He would just blabber on and on at you.

One evening we were sat around smoking, when Henra popped in. He had been in the pub watching soccer (as I like to call it to piss him off). He'd had a skin full of Stella and blubbered on as he was passed a joint. We were watching a compilation of skating fails that were particularly nasty. Henra had been quiet for about 5mins (a record), he mumbled something and I looked over. He was distinctly green looking, and said "turn it over... please". We saw his pain and laughed, "it's freaking me out, turn it off please". We refused. Suddenly, quick as a flash he ran out of the room.

It was a little while later that our housemate Nellogs said "oh man, can you smell that?". As he said it the most god awful poo smell drifted into the room. I got up to investigate, (our living-room was on the first floor) at the top of the stairs the smell was horrific, and this is where the poo trail started. Down the stairs it led to the to toilet, which was covered in poo - on the walls, the floor, everywhere and my god the smell. The front-door was left a jar and there was no sign of Henra.

Back upstairs I explained my findings "basically Henra has come round, smoked a joint, freaked out, shat himself and left". Hilarious.
Then the most unbelievable thing happened. Just as we were arguing over who was going to clear up the mess the door bell went. It was Henra. He came in smiling. Sitting down in the front-room we interrogated him. He denied having just been around, shitting himself and leaving. He denied the whole thing. It was at that point that Flash pointed out he was wearing different trousers. From that day on we named him Shitra. And to this day he denies and believes his own bullshit that it didn't happen.
(, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 14:32, 4 replies)
Nose spillage.
Many a year ago I used to attend the scouts, what wasn't there to like? Knives, Fire and a lack of parents, great.
One summer camp in wales, after a spot of coracle building and ging gang goolying round a camp fire, it was time for bed.
I happened to have landed a berth with the fattest scout and the hypochondriac scout, after a bit of shuffling and psuedo-medical whining from hypochondriac scout (some bullcrap about how he once broke his jaw after passing out from CO poisoning.) sleepy time ensued.

I awoke sometime later with a warm wet face, turns out i'd been bleeding from my nose for quite sometime. Small puddles of semi-congealed blood were strewn around me, In my panic I'd awoken my tent buddies, fat scout turned on a torch, saw blood and vomited everywhere, hypochondriac scout let forth a blood curdling scream (I wish it'd curdled the flow from my nose) and ran out of the tent to get help.

Note: Never fall asleep with your head down hill.

please be gentle, its my first.
(, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 13:14, 3 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.
(, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 10:48, 4 replies)
It's my glands
Lived in a shared house with two other blokes once. One got lucky with the next door neighbour and eventually moved in with her. This meant his room with us was free and so the neighbour kindly suggested a friend of hers who might fill it.
Fill it she did. She was 20 stone plus and broke three chairs and a toilet seat just by sitting on them. Claimed it was her glands but was spotted by my mates, going into the bakery on the way to work for six doughnuts to have for breakfast.
(, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 10:40, 3 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!
(, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 5:16, 1 reply)
I was introduced to the lad at a later date...
A few years back while I was still at uni, I ended up crashing on a mate's sofa after a reasonably heavy night out. Being the gent that he was he outfitted me with sleeping bag, and directions to toilet, kitchen and sofa.

A couple of hours later I woke up, wondering where the sleeping bag had disappeared to. Had a quick scout around living room (behind sofa,telly etc) even checking their "conservatory" and hallway, but couldn't find it.

I curled up again, tried to sleep despite shivering, but didn't really get any real zs, and just dozed a bit. Next time I woke it was to see my mate's housemate coming down the stairs. Mumbled hello and got one of the dirtiest looks ever as he walked straight past me and out of the house.

Turns out I'd gone up the stairs in my sleeping bag, dropped said sleeping bag, and then walked into this poor lad's room and asked if he had a sleeping bag I could borrow. I would've kicked the shit out of me if I was him
(, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 3:11, 2 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?
(, Sat 8 Jan 2011, 1:21, 4 replies)
and now a nice one
a few years go, my parents decided to go to spain for christmas. my sisters were both having dinner with in-laws on christmas day and i wouldn't have dinner with my brother if you paid me. i was going to have a very dull christmas.
2 days before christmas, i told my friends A and F about my solitary state. despite the fact that they'd already arranged to have dinner at A's mum's house, they insisted i stay with them. they went last-minute shopping, bought everything that was needed for a proper slap-up christmas feast. then, they invited their families to their house, came and got me from mine and proceeded to give me the best christmas i've had in a long time. we spent about 3 days getting hammered, eating good food and generally having a ball.
sometimes, being a houseguest fucking ROCKS!
(, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 23:38, 2 replies)
I was about 12 and was in the middle of a two days sitting in the back of my parents' car with my brothers as they drove us through France back to the ferry. We stopped off for the night at a crumbling old hotel in a small town. The rooms were dusty and the linen and furniture ancient.

All the dust must have set off a sneezing fit, as I was woken up in the middle of the night by nasal explosions every few seconds. I sat up in bed sneezing for a few minutes, but after a while I felt clear liquid snot escaping from my nose, so I decided to go to the bathroom to get a tissue and clean myself up.

Unfortunately, the room was pitch dark, the only light switch was by the door, and I was on the other side of the room from the bathroom. So I got out of bed, still sneezing violently every few seconds, and felt my way along the walls to the bathroom door. Upon switching on the light I saw that it wasn’t snot. The sneezing had burst a blood vessel and it was cascading out my nose with every sneeze.

After much work with wet tissues the bleeding stopped, I cleaned myself up, and I went back to sleep. Next morning my brothers and I were greeted with a pretty gruesome sight: my bed, the floor, and the walls leading to the bathroom were all covered with a fine spray of blood. It looked like a scene from Dexter.

My parents took the cowardly way out; they checked out early and left a big tip to the somewhat surprised manager. God knows what he thought had gone on when he saw the room.
(, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 22:10, Reply)

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