Fed up!
I can't even begin to remember how many times I've had to put up with my housemates letting psychos into the house.

Seriously these guys are absoloutly hurrendous, true examples of Nazis. Bragging about their latest Gypsey/Jewish bashing, or the disabled guy they threw in the shower and left to die. It's all sickening.

I just try and stay out of their way now and hide in a hidden room in the house. Don't know what they'd do if they found out I was Jewish.

Better stop typing now, I'm making quite a lot of noise.

Sincerely,
Ann Frank
(Vikingheadache, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 14:28, 1 reply)

The Ultimate Critic
Walking back to halls after lectures (well, sitting about doodling and trying to think of ingenious new ways I could get into Karen Smith's knickers), I found myself fumbling for my keys at the main entrance to the halls.

Suddenly, there's a fucking HUGE CRASH just over to my left like a terrible thunderbolt. I felt a rush of wind slap my cheek, it was that fucking close. Shocked, I look over and recognize the remains of a TV. My TV. The one I'd put in the communal kitchen for the good of one and all. I look up, see the net curtain to my kitchen flapping like a flag poking out the kitchen window way up on the fourth floor.

Too many fucking stairs later I'm stood in the kitchen and Lee, the engineering student from Kettering is smoking a roll up, looking utterly pissed off. He's still holding the TV remote control in one hand. The breeze is blowing through the wide open window and hammering round the kitchen, throwing shit in the air and off work surfaces like a fucking poltergeist.

I look at Lee as if to say: what the fuck just happened?

And he says in his thick Glaswegian accent (people from Kettering speak that way): "Aae didnae like the endin of Home and Away," he took a drag on his roll up. "Made me fuckin angrae as fuck!"
( SpankyHanky, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 14:08, 3 replies)

The curious incident of the cat in the night time.
In fairness he moved in before I did, although I agreed my tenancy with the landlord, whereas he just decided that the people there would feed him and rub his belly when he wanted, so there he would stay. The furry bastard seemingly didn't resent my presence in the house, but he still decided that he'd terrorise me, and clearly knew there was nothing I could do about it as he was loved by everyone else.

You know how these cats are, though: once they get their claws in the sofa they think they own the place. They think they can come and go as they please, and this one seemed to think that sitting on my window sill and repeatedly clawing the glass, at 3 in the cocking morning, would result in me happily flinging the window open and beckoning him in with a cheery hello. He certainly seemed not to expect the shouty angry face and the flailing arms that threatened (but never actually could) to shove him toward the bone shattering stretch of concrete below.

Then the protests started. I can't imagine what he was protesting about, but he had something to say, and he did it in the dirtiest possible manner. The first incident came early on in a relationship with a young lady I was quite keen on. She woke me up one warm, still, summer morning, and suggested quite politely that there was an unpleasant aroma wafting about the place. My gagging, sweary retort didn't put her off as it might, but she didn't seem impressed as I chased the cat out of the house with murderous intent. There really was no need for him to use the spare bed as a toilet, though.

The second wave of his assault came when a friend was staying. We'd spent the evening imbibing liberal quantities of intoxicating liquor and I vaguely remember slumping face first and fully-clothed onto my bed. I awoke with a monster jumping about inside my head and dragged my weary carcass downstairs for water and possibly some food, if my stomach would accept it. It may well have done, had it not been for the special present the cat had left on top of the recycling box. It must have festered for some hours, slowly filling the kitchen with a noxious odour that rested too long on the taste buds and encouraged the stomach to empty its contents via the unwilling face hole.

The final act occurred after I moved out. My flatmate, who, incidentally had missed the first two parts, was disturbed from a merry slumber by the most unexpected noise. It sounded not unlike a baby spitting food out from between half closed lips. But it was more than that; in accompaniment to the dribbly noise was a squirty, splatty sound, similar to spraying semolina through desk fan. The smell met his nostrils before he had a chance to open his eyes to the sight of a crouching cat passing the loosest of stool water onto the pillow next to his head. I'm led to believe that much shouting took place, and none of it came from the cat.

There's no knowing exactly why he was protesting, but he clearly thought he'd made his point as the inappropriate pooing stopped as suddenly as it started, and he reverted to obeying the basic conventions of communal living.
( Moey, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 14:06, 4 replies)

Boiled pants
Shared a house with 4 other people, including a very attractive girlie. Came in one night to find her boiling her undies in the only pot big enough to cook pasta for all of us in. Went off pasta, and her, in that order.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 13:51, Reply)

i suck as a flatemate
when i was a little younger, i spent 6 months in new zealand seeing some friends that had used to live in bournemouth, they had moved back a few years ago.
it started really,really well. All 4 of us getting on (me, K, her sister A, and J). It was a beatiful shared house in the suburbs of Tauranga. Result!
before they had moved back to the big NZ i had been very close with K and, although not serious,we were having a bit of fun.
When i got to newzealand A and J were in a reasonably serious relationship. On one of many drunken evenings spent with a bbq and booze, J had mentioned to me he was going to propose to A.
This is where the happy times in that lovely country ends.
You see, A and K were identical twins. and on one of those aformentioned drunken summer evenings, having spent rather alot of time with K trying to rekindle the relation we had shared. Well, generally just trying to get my end away. I walked into the kitchen that evening, filled with drunken confidence and turned 'K' around and kissed her. thinking the responce would be something akin to 'ive missed you so much ChronicCPW' what i got instead was 'ive always liked you ChronicCPW, ever since K started seeing you, ive missed you'(Fuck ive kissed A!!!). As i said i was drunk. My brain did a double take... i am getting nowhere with K and A is right here dripping..... to the bedroom with you. So after 30 mins or so of drunken fun, we returned to the now small gathering of guests + K and J.
the 'Affair' lasted about another 2 weeks before we got found out, it was apparent that i was no longer welcome in the house and went about booking my return flight home :(
K is now back living in the uk and I think A is getting married soon to J... bad times

length: 27hrs on a plane full of recycled air
and no smoke break
(gingerbollocks 'happy and content' since, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:28, 1 reply)

The noisy ghost.
Two of my flatmates were playing a bit of Final fantasy on the PS2 when the first heard it.

Footsteps, loud ones. Someone was clomping around the house, when there was no one else in. They went out into the hall, only to have them stop.

Resuming gaming, they heard them again like someone was climbing the stairs.

a check of the house was done and it was assumed it was the neighbors. "stop that bloody noise" one shouted. Only for the footsteps to get louder and by the sounds of it closer to their room. Only to stop suddenly when they reached the door.

Convinced the house was haunted they were now visibly shaking. Given that the house was over 100 years old this was a real possibility to them.

Finally they opened the cupboard under the stairs while the footsteps got louder. They inched forward into the darkness and approached the hole in the floor that gave access to the drafty and low ceilinged basement.

"is...is anyone there??" said flatmate D poking his head tentatively through the hole peering into the darkness.

YEAAHHHHHGH DIE MOTHERFUCKERS I screamed as I leapt out of the hole brandishing the pool cue I had been using to knock on the underside of the floorboards.


length?
fear shriveled I assume, but a little bit of wee came out.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:27, 2 replies)

Jizz
I never figured out what would have been the most diplomatic way of approaching the people with whom I shared a flat in the summer of 2002 with the following question:

Could whoever it is that has a wank first thing every morning take a bit more care about flushing afterwards? Please?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:27, 2 replies)

Fridge
I realise that I've left it until 13 years too late for this to make any difference, but here goes anyway.

CLAIRE - writing your name on each one of your eggs does not make it any less likely that they'll be "community borrowed". Rather the opposite, in fact - especially if you dot the "i" with a little kiss.


EDIT: And I'm in a much better mood today. Thanks to all the lovely people who got in touch over the weekend.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:21, 10 replies)

Flat share
In the early OO's I was working as a Life guard (not on Mialbu beach unfortunately, but in London). I had a smallish flat on the 15th floor of a Hi-rise. Life was ok, but I thought getting someone to share with would be nice; the advert bought a few people round; one of the chorus from "Cats" (not a real cat obviously) and a black guy who cycled. Eventually I settled on this half Chinese guy called Erroll; man was he unassertive. I had to educate him in how to live amongst strangers. Still, he was useful for odd jobs, like our car boot sale, or helping me return the plough to the pub (I nicked it when I was pissed and ploughed up the graveyard; the vicar was cool about it though).
Happy days,

Vince.
(kitescreech still here, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:15, 3 replies)

The Foibles of Combat Jim
This is more of a brief encounter, really...

I’m sure somebody’s ended up with this nutjob as a housemate, and I can only thank fuck it wasn’t me...

I should’ve known things were going to turn strange when we checked into the hotel.

Jim was wearing a long trenchcoat type affair and he sidled up to me as I sorted out the roomkeys and said: “I could easily hide an AK-47 inside this coat, you know. They’re really lax on security round here.” And he looked round the lobby for threats like he was secret service and I was the fucking Queen.
“Errr, it’s a Travel Inn,” I replied, as the nice Nigerian lady behind the counter handed over our keys.

On the journey down on the train Jim tried to strike up a few conversations with me, but I really didn’t know how to respond to openers like: “Wouldn’t it be great to do what they did in The Dear Hunter with the revolver? Do you know the best way to kill a man with one hand tied behind your back? In a combat situation you can drink your own piss and survive.” I just sat opposite him, looking perplexed.

I’d been sent down to Brighton for a week by my company to teach the people in the office there how to use a new computer system. I was the sales bod, and Jim was the fella who put the system together. What I didn’t realise was we’d be sharing a room on account of my employers being tighter than a virgin clams’ growler saving herself for her wedding night.

So, we go up to the room and unpack. But before I can find somewhere to put my case Jim starts scanning the room, rubbing his hands over the furniture, tapping the surfaces and peering about like a meerkat on drugs. After a short while Jim breathes out a sigh and says: “It’s ok. We’re ok.” And the tension seems to drain from him momentarily.

Jim opens his case, lays all his cloths out on his bed. He’d tied his socks into a neat bundle with string, and his shirts, and his trousers, even his pants. He then systematically put these items away in his wardrobe in order of size. I, on the other hand, flung open my case, got out the Lynx, had a quick icy spray under the arms for the Jack Frost effect, and lobbed my case in the wardrobe. Packing finished. “Fancy going for a pint?” I asked.

Jim looked at me like I was insane. “We’ve got work tomorrow!”

“Errr, its two in the afternoon. ..”

Jim shook his head firmly. “I need to prepare myself... Mentally.”

I felt like saying: “Have you had a head trauma recently?” But instead I shrugged and fucked off to find a pub.

On the way out Jim offered me something. It was small, black, cylindrical. “What’s this, Jim?”

He beamed at me: “Rape alarm.”

Well, I wasn’t planning on getting raped. I chuckled and said: “Jim, if I get into a rape situation its usually me doing the raping...”

He didn’t think that was funny. He just stared and I could almost visualise his anus puckering up in fear.

“You need to know death isn’t a stranger to me,” Jim said with a strange calm zen expression on his beady little face.

I shrugged and went out.

I came back later that evening, about half eleven. It was Sunday night and I was in work the next day, I’d got talking to a few Brighton fans in this pub and we were talking about football and drinking beerskis. Nice peaceful Sunday in my church the pub getting ever-so-slightly sloshed with the other parishoners.

And when I returned to the Travel Inn I waved at the receptionist, wished her a good evening, and ventured up to the room. And found it locked. I tried my key again. It was still locked. I looked at the gap under the door. It was dark in the room. I thought Jim had gone to sleep and really didn’t want to wake him. I wandered back down to reception and asked if they could come up and have a look. I’m a complete thick twat when it comes to those key card things in hotels. I usually end up trying to swipe my Blockbusters card twenty-odd times before sleeping in a broom cupboard. The receptionist tried the lock a few times. No joy. So I knocked lightly on the door.

Jim answered before I’d even finished knocking. “You’re late!”

“Sorry, Jim,” I replied. And I went into the room to settle down for the night. I went to turn the light on.

“No!!! Leave it off!!!”

Fair enough. I felt bad for getting Jim out of bed. I fumbled round in the dark and slipped into bed. As my eyes adjusted to the light I noticed Jim’s bed was still made and empty. I scanned the room and saw a shape sitting in the chair, motionless.

“Errr, what are you doing?”

Jim whispered: “Have you seen Leon...? Well -”

I’d had just about enough of this mental patient in waiting. I slapped the light on and saw him sitting in the chair, staring at me. There was a small coffee table beside him. On the coffee table was something rather large, shiny and menacing looking.

“Right, I’m off,” I said, and got dressed, found my suitcase, and went down to the reception to sort myself out with a new room.

The next morning we’re in the Brighton office. I’m showing a load of people how to use the computer system and the sales patter they need to use in conjunction with it. I hadn’t seen Jim so far that day – he was off doing whatever it was he had to do. I’d found my own way into the Brighton office with the aid of this fabulous invention named a taxi, I’m sure they’ll take off one day and soon every town and city in the UK, possibly the world, might have them.

The fact I had avoided Jim was fine by me, the fucking lunatic.

During a break the office manager who I knew quite well pulled me to one side.

“Spanky, we’ve had a complaint,” she said gravely.

“Ohh? Is this about the joke I told in the icebreaker? Sorry, I’m not too PC sometimes but the mental image of a penguin holding up Tony Blair’s severed head really is-“

“No! Tony Blair??? No. It’s about James,” she continued. “He says you hurt his feelings...”

My response wasn’t the most professional, “ He thinks he’s in Combat 18!!! And I hurt his FEELINGS???” I was pretty pissed off.

She sighed, “He was so upset he hasn’t come in today. If you have to share a living space with someone even for a short while you really must learn to make allowances for their foibles...”

Foibles???? Fucking FOIBLES???

Which probably explains why I now live with a group of practicing Satanists. They’re pussy cats really, and the smell of sacrificial blood is ok after a while... but the endless fucking chanting!!! Fuck me!!!

Fucking FOIBLES!!!
( SpankyHanky, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 12:06, 6 replies)

Leave Mrs. B alone!
One of the places I used to live in Southampton was a bikers chapterhouse (basically a house that was the headquarters for a biker gang).
When people think of biker gangs they think of drug taking, kneecapping, granny beating antichrists.

Some are, lots are not.

I moved in about 2 months after the house was taken over. There were lots of big, smelly, scary bikers living there.

The area was a huge blue rinse zone and it didn't take too long for them to realise that we weren't what we appeared.

Before long I'd be wandering down the road in cut offs, long hair, three days growth and generally looking quite scary.

More often than not I'd have a little old lady coming up to me at the pedestrian crossing and asking me to help them cross the road (deary).

In the back garden we had about 15-20 apple trees. They were all cookers and there was a little old lady next door that came round to ask, as we weren't using them, if she could use them to make pies.

We had no problem with this what so ever, infact we'd pick them when they became ripe and take them round to her and she'd bring us vast quantities of homemade apple pies
. Everyone loved Mrs. B.

One day about twenty of us are lounging around smoking herbal cigarettes and there's a shout from the driveway.

A biker runs in and shouts, 'They're mugging Mrs. B.'

We all run out. Fuck with Mrs. B and you fuck with us!

We get into the road and there's two guys (obviously pissed off as Chavs haven't been invented and yet to find a way of defining themselves).

I still to this day feel sorry for them. Textbook granny mugging and they hear from behind, 'OI! LEAVE MRS. B ALONE!!!'

They had the living shite kicked out of them, even Mrs. B put a dainty boot in.

The police did turn up and talk to Mrs. B and said, 'So they fell over then.'

We never had any problems with the police after that and they pretty much relied on us to keep an eye on the granny fraternity afterwards.

Sod Help The Aged. You need more bikers.
( riverghost servicing your mum since, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:47, 14 replies)

Bindun?
I moved in with a girl I met in a cafe called Daisy, we pretended to be married so we could get a place together. We got a really nice house, but our alcoholic landlady who sounded a bit like Janet Street Porter was a pain. The conceptual artist who lived downstairs was a bit odd too, he had an on off relationship with the landlady.

Later on my mate Mike who got kicked out of the T.A. for stealing a tank moved in. We had all sorts of fun including paintballing, going clubbing and playing Resident Evil all night whilst on speed.

Cheers,

Tim Bisley
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:47, 12 replies)

DIY Sauna
If your flat is small enough, and you can match each hob with a suitably sized pot, then you too can emulate the experience of the Finland sauna!

Equipment

- 1 oven, with a minimum of 4 hobs.
- 4 suitably sized pots.
- 1 kettle.


Instructions

1. Start by closing all the doors and windows in your flat. This is important to prevent any steam escaping. You can take your shirt off at this stage to expose your rippling abs, but I prefer to wait until later.

2. Fill four pots with cold water, fire up four hobs (maximum temperature) and bring them all to boil.

3. Fill up the kettle and set it to boil.

4. When the kettle is done, top up the hobs with boiling water where necessary.

5. Repeat steps 3 and 4 until...

6. Sauna!

7. Remove your shirt to expose your rippling abs (Optional).


Remember! There's nothing more heterosexual than four grown men sitting around in their own sweat, shirts off, guts abs out, watching Bonnie Tyler count down the greatest power ballads of all time.
(slotbadger, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:26, 1 reply)

Extortionate girlfriend.
Short one.

1) Best mate/flatmate goes out with girl.
2) Best mate/flatmate gets newish girlfriend preggers.
3) Best mate/flatmate and newish girlfriend decide to have an abortion.
4) Best mate/flatmate finds little black book in her handbag.
5) Best mate/flatmate finds list of all the men she's shagged, claimed being preggers and how much she got of each of them.
6) Newish girlfriend being turfed out.
7) Best mate/flatmate appologising to me for the straiined friendship/housemateship as I said I didn't trust her from when he first went out with her.
( riverghost servicing your mum since, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:24, 6 replies)

House party
Once long ago in a galaxy far, far away (Southampton) we decided to have a house party.
I was living with my landlord who as a lovely guy but bit of a geek and his lodgers were all considered 'the cool crowd' at the time.

The house party was great. We had about 50-80 people turning up and everything was going swimmingly.
Unfortunately my landlord's ex also found out that the party was afoot and sneaked in an elderly tramp and his crack addict 'girlfriend'.

They proceeded to get wasted and pass out in the TV room where girlfriend lay sprawled, minishirted, knickerless and (to put politely) very evidently on her monthly bicycle with the evidence slowly making it's way down her legs.

The memory still haunts me to this day.
( riverghost servicing your mum since, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:18, Reply)

Chinese Oppression of Germany
Ok, not actually a housemate, but we nearly moved her in.

Last September, we found ourselves in need of a flatmate and, in the pro-active manner common to all students left it far too late, such that we were forced to plaster the interweb with adverts reading "Housemate needed URGENTLY. Hoping to fill room in SE London by end of week, etc..."

We got a flattering number of responses. One of them was a German girl who, from the tone of her emails, seemed desperate to get out of her current flat. She was sharing a flat with a Chinese girl and it sounded like things weren't going very well between them.

Eventually I got an email from her which asked me:
"What is the atmosphere like in your house?" - relaxed, friendly. We like to vegetate in the living room and we all drink more than is good for us.

Then:
"What are your policies with guests in the house?" - that's fine, we have friends and other halves coming over to visit quite frequently. As long as you're not going to clog up the house with your own miniature detachment of the 4th Reich then we don't mind.

And then:
"Do you all have the same rights?"
This question threw me. What did she mean by rights? Was this perhaps a language issue?
I wrote back to ask: "I'm not sure what you mean by rights. Everybody is free to come and go as they please, everyone can use the kitchen, bathroom and living room freely - as long as they pay the rent on time, of course!"

She soon elucidated:
"Actually, that is what I meant by rights. My current flatmate seems to be convinced that she has a greater ownership of the flat and so I am forbidden to go in the living room."

The same night I'd received that email, we picked a housemate who'd come round to see it and just clicked with us. So when I wrote the emails to tell everybody else, "I'm sorry but the room's already been taken," I did genuinely feel quite sorry to have to disappoint this German lass. I really hope she found somewhere else to live without being oppressed...
(LongJohnBaldry, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 11:11, 4 replies)

Mental housemate. No not 'haha you're mental you.' Mental housemate.
I lived in Southampton about fifteen years ago. One of my flat mates, lets called him Loony McNutter, was a real headcase. I hadn't moved in with him. He was a flatmate's 'mate' and he moved in afterwards.

This guys was seriously mental although when he wasn't being doolally he was a rather nice guy.

I know he was on antidepressants as he used to share them around quite generously but he had a quite impressive mental past.

This included: Being in the French Foreign Legion (twice), being up in court for kicking the shite out of four policemen all in one go, discharging himself from hospital after eating a beer can.

This can quite easily be dismissed as bizarre boasting but I'd heard it these from a number of sources, some that had known him for a long time.

However this last tale convinced me that these were true. We were all very hard up in this household and one day Mr. McNutter had bought a sack of potatoes cheaply and planned to subsist on them to save money for drugs and booze.

Living with us in this house was his brother who was equally screwed but in nonviolent ways.
Looney M. started getting very angry as his potatoes were going missing. In the end his suspicion fell on me.

To cut a very long story short not only did I need to move out of the house, to be on the safe side I relocated to Bournemouth.
It turned out it was his own brother, and I'm not surprised, was the tatty teef and all was forgiven.
I'm not the smallest person in the world and won't back out of a fight if it completly neccessery but you could tell just by looking at the bloke that not only would you lose but you'd better count your limbs with afterwards.

To finish on an interesting point about his brother, I can't for the life of me remember his name but this is they guy that wanted a haircut like Kieth from the Prodigy (circa 1996). So haved the top of his head but not the bottom he proceeded to walk round in public looking like he had badly shaved male pattern balding.
( riverghost servicing your mum since, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 10:54, 1 reply)

Surviving in Halls
First year was absolutely terrible for the sheer amount of abuse pulled on each other. It all kicked off when Kev arrived back after christmas, 24 packets of Bachelor's finest Super Noodles in tow. This was unacceptable. The first time poor Kevin came to whip up a batch, he found that his loving housemates affectionally poured copious amounts of salt and sugar over the noodles, effectively ruining what would be a delicious meal. Four packets later, Kev gave up, and the house became a much less comfortable place to live in from that point on. So, for your convenience, here are a list of rules and guidelines to living in a student flat:


* Always keep your keys on you at all times. Where possible, hold them tightly in your palm. This is important, as if someone steals them from the soap-holder while you're showering, you will be wearing your towel until they return for the day.

* Keep your room LOCKED at all times. If you fail to acknowledge this rule and happen to be away from the flat, the ramifications are dire. They may include having your entire room packed away as if you were never there, your entire room moved piece by piece to the top floor of the block of flats, or your entire room being neatly compacted into the shower cubicle. If you happen to be IN the flat, perhaps watching TV in the front room with your keys left in your door, then the consequences are still somewhat unfortunate. Be prepared for three sweaty men to barricade themselves in your room and spend the next 12 hours or so eating your entire box of Space Raiders and watching Disney films.

* If it's past bedtime, should some slumbering oaf leave their keys lying around, it is your responsibility to place them into a plastic tupperware container. Now, fill this container with water and simply add it to the freezer. Do not put them in the oven.

* Should someone decide it's appropriate behaviour to wear a hat indoors, simply pluck the offending headwear from the perpetrator's peak, open any nearby window, and discard it.

* Hair Mousse is unacceptable. Fortunately, when such bottles are pierced, they will explode and pretty much cover a room. Lesson learned.

* Shaving foam is unacceptable.

* A wardrobe and a suitably placed chair make for an effective prison.

* It is important to ascertain exactly how far the shower-head can be pulled out, as it may prove to be an effective weapon.

* Always check your toothbrush for little chunks of garlic. If you find little chunks of garlic, you will almost certainly need to replace your toothbrush. Perhaps keep a spare?

* Passing out naked effectively renders your body a whiteboard.

* Before you use the microwave, check the top of it for Blu-tac. Irradiated Blu-tac does not add to the smell of a house, nor is it an acceptable condiment.

* If you're going to eat beans, do not leave half a tin in the already busy fridge unless you want the rest of the beans to taste noticably different. If you can't manage a full tin of beans, then you deserve this difference.



I'm sure there are several more, but I think that's a good start.
(slotbadger, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 10:47, 5 replies)

Shared phone
I lived in a shared house with two other blokes. One was a lovely chap who had loud conversations with himself (not a euphemism) in the shower. The other hooked up with the ugly girl who lived next door and eventually moved in with her. One evening the phone rang and when I picked it up, I could hear both sides of a conversation. It was at this point I spotted another lead coming out of the phone. 'Weird' I thought, and followed it down to a freshly drilled hole in the wall. Our freshly departed flatmate had connected 'his' phone through to his girlfriend's house. More than once I got bollocked for swearing on the phone when, after picking it up and finding it was one of their mates I had to trudge round, knock on the door and say 'it's for you.'
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 10:47, Reply)

housemates?
Hellish house, girl and I moved into a terrace, Frank the gay artist lower front room, Phil the dealer next, Leon the fool upstairs, John (and Carol) the smackheads upper rear...we took the "loft"...a barn above an old garage out the back, replete with big barn doors at level 1 opening out onto the Main Street of Paddington...Sydney, this was.
Things went fine until John brought home some puppies...we took one, him another, and the place was soon covered in dogshit, fleas, worms, and as the place deteriorated, all the responsible ones moved out, leaving the shit to appear in ever-reducing spaces in the hall.
Phil fucked my girl, I went across the road to smoke hash with the neighbour who liked my band, for six months, while the remaining tenants were progressively evicted and busted.
Twas fun watching Phil carted off in a Paddy-Wagon, the girl had long since run off to service some other loser.
Ahhh, will always remember the bucket of hash, and the spoonful every morning before cards till lunch, then a massive feast, then more hash and cards, followed by a tape-listening session, then a jam, while the place across the road was gradually condemned as the squatters moved in.
(mr locomotivator, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 10:41, Reply)

Good old Jules
We woke up on a Monday to find Jules' bed was empty. He was around the night before tripping his nut off when we went to bed so we assumed he had gone out. Imagine our surprise when we opened the small cupboard under the stairs to get out coats and realised that he was in fact inside cowering on the floor. He had been there all night and it took a good 25 minutes of coaxing to get him out.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 10:33, Reply)

A great guy from Yorkshire.
When Jon (room turfed and tent pitched) moved out of halls into a shared house one of his housemates was homosexual, and every time we saw Jon it was "... Lee, he's gay." Jon told us he got home one day to find Lee had come over all domesticated and had decided to defrost the freezer. To speed up the process he was removing the ice using a vibrator. (Jon was rather innocent at the time so a friend explained what it was.)
The time came for us to pay a visit to him and he excitedly introduced us to his housemates. "This is Fred doing Chem eng, Bert doing Zooology, and this is Lee who's g...a great guy from Yorkshire!"
(jvz, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 10:02, Reply)

Door Thievin'
First year, Richardson Road, Newcastle University. Living in a 6-man flat, where each room came with it's very own heavy-set, Yale-latch door.

Halfway through the year we discovered that the doors weren't screwed on in the traditional sense, and could in fact be lifted off their hinges. Two men could do this quite easily, and we had a few days "fun" round the flat exploiting this trick. Then we decided to band together for the good of all mankind, and use our new-found knowledge to annoy the girls in the flat above us.

Rob, by far the least mischievous of us, was the bait (A fact he was ignorant of). We found the right moment - most of the girls were out of the flat, most of their doors hadn't been locked (as usual), and Rob had just trundled up the stairs to watch a DVD with Ana & Cesca.

A quick, discrete text to Rob, and we were in the flat. Ten minutes later, and 3 out of 6 room doors were safely secured inside Rob's room.

It turns out that when girls get back from a night out they like being able to close their door. They get really, really angry when they can't. Girls like to have doors.
(slotbadger, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 9:48, 1 reply)

I think...
...that aforementioned 'internet girl' is trying to kill me, so she can have the internet in our house all to herself.

2 nights ago I came home from work at 10pm. I tried to switch on the light in the hallway - no workie. So, I decided to try and find my room and switch on that light in an attempt to pierce the blackness of the hallway. I know the way, so I walked, blindly down the corridor. Suddenly my foot caught in something and I fell over. As my eyes adjusted to the blackness, I saw that I had just tripped over the internet connection cables that lay across the hallway. Puzzled, I opened my bedroom door and switched on the light. Two things here confuse me:

1) I didn't actually close my bedroom door that morning when I left the flat

2) In the morning when I left the flat, the cables were neatly duct-taped to the floor, thus impossible to trip over.

3) There was no lightbulb in the hall light. However, there is a pile next to the light switch that consists of roughly 8 replacement bulbs. If you're going to take the bulb out, why not finish the job?

And this is why I think she's trying to kill me.
(judeski walked on water and ran through fire, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 9:41, 1 reply)

Housemates
Well I have a lot of 'housemates' living on a cruise ship. Whilst not being able to get away from someone for six months may seem like a bad thing, most people are really easy to get on with.

However as usual there are the few exceptions. J was self-assessed bi-polar, which was his excuse for a lot of the trouble he caused everyone else. Not turning up for work and generally being abusive to anyone around were the normal.

J used to get horrendously drunk late at night and would pass out in various places - crew bar, his cabin, someone elses cabin. Usually when this occurred phones would go mental as 'J Buckaroo' was announced. Anything was used, even at one point we managed to balance a full pint on his head.

To this day he still doesnt know about it, or at least pretends he doesnt...

Length? He did a 9 month stint onboard
(sameness, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 9:28, Reply)

Easter Cress
My flatmate Richard had the audacity to leave for the easter holidays a couple of weeks early, rather than stay in our grubby campus-based flat until the actual holidays began.

That same day, strolling through Newcastle's premier indoor market, myself and another flatmate happened across some sort of shrubbery stall, seeds sat in racks, waiting to be snapped up by budding young botanists. We decided to take advantage of a generous promotion that was currently running, handing over a shiny pound coin and receiving 3 beautiful-looking packets of cress seed.

Now, the carpets in our flat were the kind that are easy to clean, which is a sensible way to go when upholstering student digs. Such material gave the ground an almost "earth-like" quality, but this begged the question: Just how earth-like is this mysterious carpet? And so it was that cress seeds in their hundreds were dispersed under Richard's door, and a strict regime of watering began. With the curtains left wide open, the cress would be basking in the warm glow of the easter sun, growing with every passing day.

Richard returned after easter, flung his door open and found his room a forest! His initial disgust and lack of humour was overpowered by the sheer beauty of mother nature, and he spent the rest of his days in the wilderness.
(slotbadger, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 9:17, 5 replies)

It could possibly be me :(
I dont have a flat mate, I do however rent one floor of a 3 storey house
The guy below me is an all round good chap, in his 50s, doesnt have many visitors and keeps himself to himself
We dont meet often , but when we do its all quite pleasant.
The woman on the ground floor seems to be hardly ever here.
We nod hello now and then.
The walls are very thin so we do try let each other know if anything is going to happen that may annoy the other.
So anyway he tells me he is going to be away this weekend.
I chilled out last night, had a few drinks, well actually more than a few.
So when I heard a door slam in the early hours assumed it was from next door or lady at the bottom of the house, and carried on with my fun.
Woke this morning to definitely hear someone leave the flat below me.
Have spent the day a bit worried.
Until I heard him come home tonight, crash around and stumble noisily up the stairs yelling drunken strangeness, lady on ground floor comes out and asks him to be quiet.
I wont say anything to embarrass him when I next see him..
As I hope he wont say anything about the rather enthusiastic phone sex I was having with someone at 2am, last night with a very noisy vibrator.
Thinking the flat below was empty :(
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 1:18, 9 replies)

First year at uni.
Now in my 3rd year at university (re doing 2nd year, whoops!) and like most I lived in student accomodation in the first year so was introduced to my new buddies for the year, my flat mates!

K - she was (still is) a totally insane Scottish lass who moved down to uni here in England. Her and her friends (who also lived with us) had their own little language that they invented and was near impossible to understand half the time. She was also an absolute piss head. One morning I stumbled into the kitchen/living room looking for breakfast and was met with the names of every house mate written on the walls... in blood, along with lots of smears. Her drunken handiwork apparantly.

The Gays - 2 really nice guys who ended up living together and going out, one once described to me how Goldfraps 'Ride on a White Horse' was the ultimate anal sex song (apparantly something to do with the beat, take note kids). A few hours later I whent to bed knowing that they where both in the same room to hear Ride on a White Horse blasting out of it. I no longer listen to that song. The other one also knocked on my door once late at night, I opened it and was greeted by the sight of him speeding his tits of, waving a giant black rubber schlong in my face and giggling.

Me - Not quite as interesting im sure, I did however once accidently have sex to 3 Power Metal songs on repeat (Hammerfall, for the interested. It really started annoying me after a short while), had a hidden pet Tarantula for a time and managed to fuck one or two pieces of upholstry of my walls with girls and managed to get away with not paying for them to be replaced

The best however was Bolton.

Bolton was, funnily, from Bolton. A short, spherical and ginger behemoth of a girl. Within 5 minutes of meeting her I could tell she was a daddys girl spoilt closet chav and as such decided to not bother too hard to be friends with her. My other flat mates felt that they should make an effort and became closer friends with her for a while until arguments started out and her psychosis began to show.

Things began to go missing from my flat mates rooms, things like money and credit cards and phones (everyone knew everyone's pin numbers due to the "Going Tesco? Cool pick me up some fags, heres my card." thing they had going). The obvious culprit was Bolton, she refused, called everyone liars and said they hated her and were plotting against her. Eventually the police had to be called and she locked herself in her room, refusing to come out. The police actually threatened to arrest her to which she rapidly opened the door, having all of a sudden found everyones lost stuff lying around her room, she didn't know how they got there. Honest guv.

It got worse however, daddy eventually stopped throwing money at the fat, blubbery wall that was her and she dropped out of uni and failed to pay her rent. This didn't stop her living with us though, oh no. She merely locked her door all the time and pretended to not be in or hid when the people came round to get her out or ask for rent, they couldn't open the door without her permission or an emergency due to privacy reasons or some shit. So we now had a squatter in our flat and damn it, she wasn't even fit.

The finaly straw came however when... *drum roll* she became a prostitute. Yup, several times we would meet random, much much older men in our corridoor coming out of her room looking rather hot and in some cases damn right sickened at what they had just done.

I watched this all with mild amusement, having not tried to be her friend in the first place and therefore having not being one of the people who 'betrayed' her I escaped all the thieving. Joy!

Apologies for spelling and stuff, Im pretty tired :(
(Guilt wants to get in your moist confines, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 0:48, 2 replies)

Steve Sanchez
Steve Sanchez was a guy I had the fortune of living with in the second year of Uni. He got his name for an incident a few months into this year, that will (at least to my mind) be the only thing he will ever be remembered for. You see...having just got his loan payment through, Steve decided he wanted to spend it wisely and get hammered, and as a result a night on the town was demanded.

A few hours later, five obscenely drunk lads stumbled from the taxi to the house they were renting, and each went to their beds ready to nurse the obligatory hangover to come. At least, thats what myself and three others did. Steve instead (disappointed at not pulling) decided that the best course of action would be to have a drunken wank. Setting his laptop up on the desk at the side of his bed, and regaining at least enough sobrierty to negotiate his way to some half decent porn, Steve then did (what he would later describe when reccounting the tale as) the most pungeant and powerful fart of his life. He apparently decided to enjoy it, and really let rip. Proud of this most manly of feats, he got into bed and started tossing away like a safari park chimp. But the smell of the fart never went away. It absolutely stunk...of shit.

The next afternoon Steve stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, where a few of us were eating the left over pizza from the day before. That is where we saw the most sickeningly funny site that I think I will ever see. Steve had a shittache. A moustache crafted from his own turd. It turned out that his fart had unknowingly turned into a bit more than that, and that a piece of shit had flown from his arse and landed on the very top of his duvet cover. This piece of shit, had then been transferred and wiped onto his top lip when he got into bed, and remained there all night. He had managed to dirty sanchezed himself.
( Furness, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 0:25, 1 reply)

The Voice Of Experience (O RLY?)
I've been doing this for almost 10 years now, and I've learned a few things along the way:

1) Communication is paramount. Talk to each other. Don't assume: ask. If you think someone's doing something weird, ask about it.

2) People are different. They see different things, and do different things, to different schedules. Don't lose your rag if you spot mushrooms growing behind the bathtub (which really happened to me): sort it. How can they miss that? Isn't it obviously a problem? Well, yes, other people can miss things that are blindingly obvious to you - and vice versa.

3) Use English, or another common language. Don't drop hints or leave "signs": they will get missed. The only way you can be sure someone gets the message you want them to get is to tell them plainly.

4) Your flatmates are (usually) on your side. They're paying rent too. I know there are wackos, and I've met a few of those, but I've also been seen as a wacko, when I was anything but. (I did something the others didn't immediately understand, and they assumed the worst, rather than simply ask me about it.)
( bnt what, me worry?, Sun 1 Mar 2009, 23:27, 2 replies)