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This is a question Housemates

Catch21 says "I go out of my way to make life hell for my shitty middle-class housemates who go running to the landlord every time I break wind". Weird housemates are the gift that keep on giving - tell us about yours.

(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 13:28)
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Weird Housemates Part 3
A few years ago I lived in Buenos Aires for 6 months in a study abroad program run house. I was the only non-American there. Pretty rapidly I struck up a relationship with a girl from New York and, because I was good friends with the girl running the house, managed to engineer it so that we had a room to ourselves. Hence a lot of sexy tiem.

Then T moved in. A whip-thin ash blond pustule from New York, he believed that he was the most street wise human being who had ever been shat out onto this planet. A copious drug taking, arrogant, graffiting, moronic crapball he made no effort whatsoever to learn any Spanish and insisted on talking loudly in English to everyone he met, on the grounds that he was from New York and that made him streetwise and so they'd know it.

One night my lady friend and I were getting close, very close indeed, when the door flew open. There stood T, smacked off his face on something, graffiti can paint smeared over his clothes and hands. We politely asked him to leave as were in mid-job, but instead he ambled over, smacked me heavily on the arse and wished me a good fuck. Then he ambled out and smeared dog shit all over the bedsheets of the gay guy he hated.

Two days later he was thrown out for threatening the gay guy with a knife. Last time I saw him was a week before he was deported from Argentina for throwing a brick through a police car window.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 20:58, Reply)
Housemate fun part 2
I now apparently live with mentalists.

All of the people described in part 1 have been dancing. To the sound of the fire alarm going off.

Literally doing some sort of crazy dance in time to the undulation of the fire alarm.

Whilst wearing catsuits.

God bless alcohol.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 20:35, 2 replies)
The three witches of Canterbury
Having described my first experiences of house-sharing at uni in the post below, as well as in a previous QOTW, I had one year of lovely, relaxed, sane housemates the following year, then insane, OCD Bavarian Estella for a neighbour in Switzerland, then Xenia, the best and maddest roommate ever in Pervland (by the time she moved back to Greece she could quote Eddie Izzard verbatim and had a voracious appetite for South Park episodes, having never seen it), then I came back to Canterbury for one last year, and ended up living four doors away from the house I'd lived in with the five freaks in my first year.

While the boys mostly kept themselves to themselves, the girls were another matter. To start with, there was Stupid Neapolitan Bint who I have mentioned before. A shit-stirring, alcoholic, cat-obsessed, backstabbing tart whose favourite pastimes were getting drunk at 1 in the afternoon, going to Ann Summers to buy vibrators and insisting we all saw them, screeching her way in from the Works (anyone who has lived in a student town, or especially Canterbury, knows the kind of people that go to Pop Ya Cherry night, and why anyone with half a brain would hate living with one of them, let alone four) where she had done the fake lesbian thing with her mates all night, at 3am, banging on all the doors in the house and yelling "PENIS!" outside each of them. She annoyed me the most by bitching about me on Facebook and a couple of other student sites (usually for some imagined slight, like she accused me of breaking her phone when she'd dropped it in a glass of rum and coke (WHEN I WAS DRUNK LOL!!) and it had lost all her numbers. It was not, in fact, the clean water that I'd used to clean the circuits, that had buggered it, but the alcohol). In spite of this, she still used to expect me to let her see my French seminar work and wake her up to go to translation class on a Thursday.

However the thing that made me seriously consider moving out (and start tearing off those little "housemate wanted" slips that materialise in student towns when people realise they're missing a housemate or that they're living with mental cases), was the way her and the other two girls ganged up on me, pretty much constantly. Mr Maladicta and I met properly in freshers' week, and started dating pretty much immediately. So far so good, thinks I; he spends a couple of nights at mine, and from then on we pretty much live at his, with me going home to get clean clothes and study and swap books around, and sleeping at his 99% of the time. Girl Housemates did not like this; sure, I'd have a cup of tea with them and catch up with them, but they didn't like me having friends outside the house, or going out with Mr Maladicta when I could be having a "house night out". Bearing in mind that our tastes in music were poles apart (they favoured R&B, house, rap and happy hardcore, whereas I'll listen to anything but and used to have to blare Judas Priest at full volume to drown out Fiddy when I was home), I wasn't really up to getting blind drunk (they believed this was the only way to truly enjoy a night out; get absolutely paralytic at home and then stagger to the club to get more drunk) and spending the night fending off the pervy old men in Baa Bars. So, I used to politely decline, saying I wasn't feeling up to it, or had work to do, or it wasn't my thing, and they never really took no for an answer, and would pester me every ten minutes right up until they left.

*knock knock*
Me: What?
SNB/whoever: We're going to the Works in an hour, are you coming?
Me: Nope. Got 1000 words to write in Italian about renewable energy by 10am tomorrow.
SNB: Boooooooooo! Boring! Come to the Works with us!! You've got just enough time to get ready!!
Me: No, I can't - this counts for 30% of my final grade, and if you think I'm pissing that up the wall to spend a few hours in a fleapit, you can fuck right off.
SNB: Still think you're boring.

(repeat ad nauseam until ten minutes before the taxi arrived)

The three girls had this insane idea in their heads that we should be The Single House, and as I was so insanely selfish as to enjoy spending time with Mr Maladicta and to want to carry on spending time with him, I was killing their buzz, or something, and they would regularly sit me down and tell me to dump him for some imagined slight "He took ten seconds too long to answer your text today, you should finish with him!", "He doesn't like us, you should dump him..." and if they had planned a "house dinner" or other house event (anything from another club night to poker), without giving me a lot of notice and then getting stroppy when I already had plans:

Witch #2: MALADICTA! What are you doing Sunday?
Me: Well... it's Mr Maladicta's nan's birthday, so we're going over to Whitstable to see her.
Witch 3#: Oh COME ON! We're all going, don't be so boring!
Me: This has been planned for ages, I've already said I'm going, I've promised him I'll be there, so I'm not backing out. Sorry.

After a few times like this, they took to having a dig every time they organised something "and of course you're invited Maladicta, if you have space in your diary, that is." Of course, I inevitably wouldn't, and spent less and less time there over the course of the months that followed just to get away from the grief I would get for having friends outside the house. I do think if they hadn't forced it so much and let me come and go as I pleased, they would have been OK to live with.

This meant, though, that they concentrated all their grief into the brief time windows when I was home. I'd come home from Mr Maladicta's, lock my door behind me, and would only have to so much as turn on my (quiet) laptop and cough and the first thing I'd find when I logged into Facebook was a message from Witch #3 saying this and never anything more:

"Are you actually home? ;)"

Perhaps I'm just a total misanthrope, but this used to rub me up the wrong way something terrible: she wanted to know if I was around, but wasn't arsed enough to leave her PC and knock, and find out instantaneously if I was home. As it was, earphones in, travel kettle boiling for tea, and studying in the tranquility I made (by blocking them all out) that kept me sane. Mr Maladicta didn't believe me at first, till he realised it was very much an ongoing problem and that they really were driving me insane. This meant he spent even less time than before at my place (he also didn't like my bed, which was too short and too narrow for him, plus sponge mattresses are never nice) and wound them up even more "Why does [Mr Maladicta] never come and visit you here? Why do you always go to his?" I literally used to have to sneak ninja-like (silently, making sure no one was about at all) out of the house if I was going anywhere with friends... and even then if someone had seen me go I'd get a text (usually from Witch #3, who was probably the chief pain in the arse) saying "You rushed off today. Where were you going? When will you be back?". Gah.

EDIT: The other thing they did that convinced me they were insane was try to persuade me to finish with Mr Maladicta and go out with Creepy Dave instead, saying he was "better for you".

It got to the stage that, if they did have plans to do something and I'd feigned ignorance, I would switch off my phone, hide offline on MSN and take the laptop under the duvet just to get some peace and quiet to actually study as everything I said or did in their eyes was wrong and not how I should be acting in my final year at all (excuse me for wanting to do well and have a healthy relationship, which tends to mean spending time with the one you love). They all finished their finals before me, and spent the weeks that followed while I was trying to cram the names of Italian Camorra bosses into my head, running back and forth under my window and screeching that they were going to "get" each other with water pistols and winding me up even more.

SNB still pesters me on Facebook, as does Witch #3, but beyond "fine thanks" I don't really have anything to say to them. At first, I didn't think I knew enough about them to dislike them, but the constant nagging me to finish with someone I was happy with for their own selfish ideal really makes me angry.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 20:24, 11 replies)
The Big City
About 15 years ago,when I worked in Data Processing, I lived in a lovely flat, in the Big Smoke, with my best bud; over the corridor were 2 girls we got on really well with. The one worked in catering and loved cooking (and yes, I ended up marrying her!), so we were always popping in and free loading off her. The cook's Brother used to hang out to, and he ended up in some sort of on-off-on relationship with the other girl who lived there (Man she wsas utterly gorgeous, if a little spoilt). He had some high brow job in a museum somewhere in the city. There was also some ditzy masseuse/busker woman who wrote songs about everyday life; way better than "Seasick Steve"! In the end we all drifted apart, which was sad, but we were together for about 10 years. We were always there for each other.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 19:48, 4 replies)
The woman, the legend: P.I.B.
This is the tale of the woman, the legend that is P.I.B.

Although I didn’t live in this crusty student abode, my ex did. At a University which held the title of ‘The Ultimate Party School’, they set up the ‘Ultimate Party House’. At the helm was a young man we called Shaggy. Shaggy liked women of all shapes, sizes and concoctions of Butterfaces, thus earning his well-deserved moniker.

After a particularly heaving party in the first week of classes, he took a fancy to a gloriously drunk young first-year maiden. Keen to show her about 3 minutes of a good time, he led her back to his room. As they got down to the slippery business at hand, she proceeded to chunder all down the side of his bed. Being the gentleman that he was, he kicked her out to the hallway outside of the bathroom.

When all the housemates woke up in the morning to shovel and bulldoze the house free of filth, her absence was noted.

In her place, mere feet from the toilet, was a box of sheets. Nested atop the linens was a large and foul coiled turd. This woman was, from that point forward, known as Poop-in-the-Box.

Which was shouted at her for the next four years until she graduated.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 19:44, 1 reply)
First, a pearoast.
In a moment, when I have composed it, I will write the story of my last cuntish housemates.

In my first year of uni I lived with four, well, eventually five of the biggest wankers I've ever met (well, nearly, my final year housemates were cuntish for a different reason)).

Matt If he had one more brain cell it would have been lonely. The archetypal jock who thinks he's hard and hilarious and everyone wants him. He did a good impression of the Incredible Hulk having let himself go for Halloween, complete with monobrow and insane quantities of body hair. Considering his attitude, I reckon he had an extra Y chromosome in there somewhere. To add to his stupidity, he hated everyone else's taste in music, even if it was identical to his own, and would willingly beat the ever-loving crap out of anyone who pissed him off; he punched things when pissed off and hated to be beaten on the Xbox... especially by a girl (after I beat him at Soul Calibur five times in a row he threw down his controller and told me to get the fuck out). He joined the American football team just to look hard and get girls. Despite communicating in Grunt, he ended up falling madly in love with the girl from two doors down and shagging her all night in the room above me for nine months. Gah.

Tim "TIMMAYYYYY!" is too nice a way of describing him as he was terminally, pants-on-head retarded. He was the opposite of Matt to look at (weedy and bald) but still thought he was God's gift. To this effect, he walked around at least shirtless at all times, even in the depth of winter (walking into the kitchen one morning and finding Tim in nothing but his boxers was most unsettling as he looked like an Ethiopian child). His four loves in life were his car, which he once went home for the day to drive, Grand Feft (he was from Chichester and that is how he said it), (he pre-ordered San Andreas for the day it came out, threw a strop when it hadn't arrived by 10am and skipped lectures to go out and buy it), porn (mostly college girls flicking the bean, we found it in his system files) and "people getting killed" (read: Tarantino films, war films and not much else). After the acquisition of Grand Feft, he could regularly be heard yelling "that's fuckin' bullshit!!" at his PS2 on a Sunday morning when the game killed him. I have a theory he had never had any sexytiem ever: when asked how many girls he had slept with, pondered and then ventured, "um, free?" (which, when you consider the entire household gave me grief for not having had any sexytiem at that time, is pretty hypocritical). His style of dancing was much like the old Bud Light ad for Mr Really Really Really Bad Dancer (look it up).
EDIT: He now lives in Ashford as well. There is no God.

Katie - There is no other word to describe her: bitch. She had a 30-a-day nicotine habit and the attitude problem to match (usually caused by having to go an hour without a fag, much to the annoyance of the rest of the house since she had to keep the back door open to flick the ash out). In addition to the awful stench of nicotine that followed her around, her physique was somewhere between Mr Creosote and Rik Waller and her jeans and tops never quite met over the girth. She was taking Film Studies and considered herself to be the authority on any film ever made (although she didn't take kindly to having it explained to her that Van Helsing was meant to look bad, as it was a homage to 1940s horror films and if you're such a smartarse shouldn't you know that?) To make her even more unbearable, she was spoilt rotten by her divorced parents (did she have a clue how to use her brand new 40GB iPod that was a guilt present from Daddy? Did she fuck, she left it in the kitchen and it would have served her right if it had gone walkies). The iPod was a waste anyway, as her taste in music centred around McFly. It was officially the end of the world as we knew it if she missed The OC or Hollyoaks and in between she would regale us with the boring adventures of her hundreds of male friends (who all wanted to shag her, of course.)

Faye Part-time model and all-round domestic goddess (insisted on cooking every night and if you cut her she'd probably bleed Jif) whose mascara overkill made her eyelashes look like spiders' legs. She was meant to be bestest best fwiends with Katie (from about five minutes after they met) but they bitched about one another pretty much continuously. Having said that, Faye was about the nicest of the bunch if you could get her away from the others and in fairness she did apologise to me for their cuntishness before she moved out. She listened to endless crap R&B, mostly when pining after her boyfriend in Devon, whose name was Brad and who was a bodybuilder.

Spud Matt's delightful girlfriend, and also willing to introduce herself to people as Spud. Two reasons why she was clinically insane. She moved into the house after falling out with her own housemates and slept (although not much) in Matt's bed every night. Quite early on, she became a cheerleader with Faye, and when she got her pompoms paraded endlessly round the house dancing and endlessly doing the cheer from Bring it On for what felt like weeks and making me want to cunt her in the fuck even more than I normally did. She did suit the cheerleading, however, since she then became exactly like cheerleaders are in American teen films: "Hey, look at me, I'm so hot... I'm getting all the sex I'm entitled to, and your share as well, peasant". However, her living with Matt wasn't much better than her standing outside his window (and mine, since I was below him) at 7 every morning bleating "Maaaaaatt! Maaaaaatt!" until he woke up. This was OK on days when I had to get up for lectures, but on a Saturday, she nearly got spanged in the face by my alarm clock. She pissed me off the most, however, when she stayed in the house over Easter and never washed up once as she seemed to want to cultivate a mould farm, and I came back to find every single piece of crockery and every pan I owned coated in green furry mould, in a pile on the kitchen table where the cleaners had refused to go near it. She then had the cheek to give me grief for leaving one plate out "which Faye had to wash up, which isn't fair on her. You should do it yourself in future, is that cool?". No. It is not.

And they loved one another sooooo much. To the point that when I moved in the next day they weren't taking anyone else into their select little club and spent the next year making me feel as unwelcome as possible (mostly for the aforemetioned reason of me still having my V-plates at the time when clearly my mission in life before uni should have been "fuck everything in sight".)

And if any of you read b3ta, I'm not sorry. You were cunts, and I enjoyed stealing your milk, backwashing your £5-a-bottle real ale, playing music to piss the shaggers off and writing "WANKERS" in magnetic letters on the fridge.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 19:36, 1 reply)
Embarassing bodily functions
My now ex-girlfriend lived with a very strange flatmate in her first year of uni. After moving in with 5 other into a mixed flat, everybody was still nervous around each other (as you'd expect) and so they decided to get pissed and get to know each other. Unfortunately, one of the flatmates, Andrew, was one of those clever types who left school at 16 and had gone straight to uni. He had very, very little experience when it came to drinking alcohol compared to his other 17/18 year old housemates and he was also incredibly shy aroun them because they were all much older. However, my ex said that he decided he would drink as much, if not more than them to prove he was "hard and grownup" or something like that.
Not heeding the other flatmates advice he started downing shot after shot after shot of vodka and mixing it with cheap beer and cider. Everybody else said they found this highly amusing until he got completely bungalowed (to borrow a Michael McIntryre expression) and lay down in the corner crying and begging for his mother.
Eventually, Andrew passed out and they continued drinking. That is until he started vomitting up that nights Chinese and all the alcohol he'd consumed. It gets worse tho... My ex said that he not only pissed himself but shat himself also!
I can only imagine his embarassment when he woke up with his first major hangover, in unfamiliar surroundings, lying in a pool of his own vomit, saturated jeans covered in piss and shit all at the tender age of 16.
My ex claims they bullied him mercilessly about this episode for the rest of the year until they all moved out.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 19:18, Reply)
When I was a student at Bristol Poly, second year was spent in a nice room in a shared house in downtown Bristol. The small upstairs garret was inhabited by a strange homunculus we called Mick the Builder (for he was on a building HnD).

Eventually, he managed to score a girlfriend (Rachel, as I recall), and she seemed quite nice. Apparently, she was on a building degree course. Very early one morning, I went to the bog for a slash and to fetch some post-coital bogroll for the missus (and, the house being dark and quiet, I went totally commando).

The bathroom door directly faced the stairs to the garret. As I opened the door to head back to bed, I was confronted by - at eye level - Rachel's pudenda, with an enormous wodge of toilet paper crammed into her crack. She was heading down to the bog, presumably to pump ship. She had the densest, thickest bush of dark fur I had ever seen. With the bogroll, it looked like an upside down furry ice cream cone.

We caught one anothers' eye; muttered "evening" and passed like spunky ships in the night. Although she and I never mentioned it again, she was forever known as "Amazon" in our shared house.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 19:13, 2 replies)
I've had some shite housemates
None of them were excessively appalling, but they all made living with them rather, er, difficult.

1- The Scottish twunt. Weighed about seven stone more than me, feasted on frozen Irn Bru and Mars Bars (throwing my food out the freezer to do so) and then sent me abusive emails calling me morbidly obese.
Refused to have any household bills in my name so I "didn't exist" if I tried to get any sort of credit.
2- Pissfruit. Skinny bastard with the face of Shakespeare, the body of a twelve year old and a Strongbow problem i.e. the ability to drink copious amounts of the swill. Thought he could play the guitar and proceeded to do so almost 24 hours a day, very badly. Imagine a man with no arms thinking he was better than the guitarist from Dragonforce (his actual claim).

But by far the worst, number 3. "The Coach".

This is the boy who has been fired from every job he's ever had (including one where he told recovering smack heads on mental health act sections how great smack was...) and thrown out of everywhere he's ever lived. Including his parents, five times. Before he was 18.

He would sit in the living room chewing his toenails. He had a VERY sticky big chest o' porn. He would dance around the flat at 3am singing Westlife songs in a falsetto Scottish accent. He refused to pay more than 10% of the water bill on account of the fact he "rarely, if ever, washes".

He rang me on New Year's Eve while I was in another country to announce that his friends had graffiti'd all our internal walls - "but it's OK cos I asked them to." You did, did you? When I got back four days later I found two broken windows, and a broken front door, because he had whiteyed out of his NYE party and refused to give up the key, so his thirty-odd guests had to break out to go home.

I chucked him out and demanded a hundred quid for the broken windows and door. He responded by removing the front door on principal of "if you break it, it's yours".

When I moved out he returned to the flat, removed the new front door, put his old one on and squatted there for six months. Before being evicted by a massive bailiff who, apparently, puked when entering the house on account of the smell.

All in all, three lovely blokes.

Apologies for length: first post. No apologies for girth of course.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 19:07, 3 replies)
actually he was called something else. He liked the nickname, happily oblivious to the fact that we called him that as in some places its another word for cock, or knob. He was age 28 at the time, and worked at the same place my mate did. Being a couple of years older than us, we thought he may be a bit more wise to the ways of the world than us. yeah right.
On a night out, despite our complaints, he'd go out in a red knitted cardigan that really showed off his beer gut. Any more than four pints and he'd turn into the biggest, most embarrassing knobhead in the world; One of those blokes that tries to pull every single girl in the club regardless of size, weight, race, or pulse.
His girlfriends got bigger and wider until he ended up with one who had to walk through doors sideways and wore size 28 clothes. I kipped in the room beneath his and when she was round it sounded like godzilla was walking around upstairs.
Back home he could often be found eating pasta shells and vindaloo sauce mixed with bisto. Most other days he'd exist on curry, not any curry though, always had to be a lamb tikka vindaloo, even after it gave him gastro-entritis.
I could do another couple of paragraphs about him not putting anything away ever or forgetting to pay bills but that's not weird, just fucking irritating, specially when he's fucked off for the week and the fucking tv licence bailiffs came knocking.
apologies for length and rantitude
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 19:04, Reply)
I had a flatmate called Sy
He was a pathological liar.

I wrote some of his exploits on a blog.


Read. If you enjoy, click.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 18:53, 2 replies)
It's me...
I feel I am half way to becoming my housemates' own 'housemate from hell'. Will happily bitch loudly about the state of the kitchen and more often than not have to sort it out myself yet my room looks like a bad day in Baghdad. I've been criticised for leaving pubes in the shower (sharing with girls leaves you open to this, particularly the stuff about leaving the toilet seat up, although that's rarely me).

My other crimes? Coming in pissed and singing loudly, watching DVD's too loudly, having sex too loudly, late-night onanism, antagonising neighbours when I've had a bad day at work....and so on. On the plus side, I made dinner for everyone on Tuesday night (the girlfriend was round and I'd made too much again), I do contribute to bills on time, will buy milk, toilet paper etc. and have only taken up half a kitchen cupboard with my food.

I feel a total bastard about the kitchen thing, particularly as I usually take it out on the person in the house with the meekest personality because I know she won't shout back. As I type this I can hear the rattling of crockery as she cleans the dishes (about fucking time). I feel like an absolutely massive wanker. But it does the trick.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 18:33, 1 reply)
Our House
I lived in a house in Wezzy Kezzy with 2/3 other people for approximately 2 years. It became quite the party house and on THIS night


New Years eve 06/07, there were about 120 people there; the lounge had decks in, and there was music all night long until the floor started to flex out like a bendy floor. It was pretty silly.

I dont live there any more, I live at home with my mum now, which is cleaner and more relaxing. I do miss it though, essentially it was like sharing a house with everyone all 3/4 of us knew, because all sorts of people were there at any time. So much skunk smoke....
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 18:27, 1 reply)
Suspicious mode
Considering that this won the qotw last week, I think we may have pissed someone off a little. They're now retaliating with the other great hatred of B3tans - unnecessary repetition... Just so that they can say "I told you so".

(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:53, Reply)
Thieving bastard
Never, ever live with a guy called Jason Pope (real name)... He's a thieving fuck (robbed my videos, porn, food etc) and my mates vinyl decks and mixer. He denied it all and played mr nice guy, but we sussed him (when i found MY stuff in his room)...

Revenge was quite sweet and up to now is the only person on this planet who unwittingly drank my urine.

Oh and i climbed on the roof and disconnected his satellite dish (well i kicked it off and denied all knowledge).

Honestly, he's a right tit and a thief and a liar.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:52, 3 replies)
Housemate fun part 1
Gotta love them.

This is gonna be a part pearoast.

I live with 5 girls. Being the only male permanently in the house means if something goes wrong mechanically, I get to be manly and fix it. However, this does have some major drawbacks in that if any of my housemates end up in a shit relationship and end up getting hurt, it is automatically my fault for being male and therefore a bastard. Also if they are annoyed, it automatically gets taken out on me because I'm not likely to bitch behind their back (only true 70% of the time) and because I quite frankly don't give a damn if they do yell at me or not. But this is not my story, this is just background info.

As previously mentioned in last weeks QOTW, I live with a thief, a princess and a sex maniac, all in the form of one person, who I shall call S. I'm not gonna add any more about this particular person because at the moment, she makes me rage and froth at the mouth with her mere presence.

So onto my other housemates. I'm gonna start with J1 and J2. I'm using pseudonyms because I'm not sure if J1 reads B3ta or not. Anyway, J1 is a nice girl, except she has a strange toast fetish. In that we can find her eating toast at pretty much any time, with almost anything. She also has asbestos hands, as she'll happily poke bacon about the frying pan with her bare fingers whilst sober. Has also been known to come in drunk and cook in just her underwear. Also has a strange Final Fantasy fetish, in that she only loves the even numbered ones.

J2 is a walking paradox. For starters, she's a really girly girl, who plays rugby. She hates dirt and yet will get absolutely filthy during the course of a rugby game. She also cleans everything pretty much every day cos of said aversion to dirt and uncleanliness. She also hates pain and yet plays rugby, and also has had a tattoo done on her foot, just above the arch and stretching across to the back of her ankle. J2 just confuses me. Nice arse though.

The other two housemates I tend to not mix with nowadays. One is a ginger Scouser who is taller than me and I'm over six foot and who loves a lot of metal (oh how she must have been bullied at school) and the other just keeps herself to herself a lot.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:42, 3 replies)
oh dear these stories remind me of my old houseshare days. I would get all nostalgic and have a snigger at things. HOWEVER having just moved back to the UK after 6 blissful years of living by myself i now face the grim prospect of flatmates again. Having read the excellent book "He died with a falafel in his hand" several times i am also paranoid of moving in with junkies now.

I have saturday penciled in to meet the freaks in my search for a home.
Anyone looking for a flatmate in the Brighton area??
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:41, 2 replies)
this is actually really true.
There was a guy who was friends with the people I knew at uni housing, who because he admired Plato and Marx, had changed his name to Platonet Marx.

This is a completely brilliant idea, and I'll thank you to address me as Morrissey Batman from now on.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:39, 1 reply)
Student house
I lived in a student house in Clapham, it was infact 3 houses joined together. It comprised 15 bedrooms, 4 or 5 bathrooms, and a basement floor with 2 massive "reception rooms" and 1 massive kitchen.

When me and my 2 mates moved in, we were told by the people already living there that there was a cleaning rota and that as noobs it was our turn to clean the kitchen. We did it. It took ages, it was a revolting job but after a few hours the kitchen looked functional.

A few days later it was back to its usual state: not one pan, plate, cup or fork that wasn't festering in the clogged sinks and that's how it remained for the entire year.

We pretty quickly learnt that there was no point putting any food in the cupboards as it would get nicked within hours. The only food that was to be found in the cupboards had been there for some time, we're talking a 10 year old bag of flour, a bag of sugar turned into a solid lump, that type of thing.

One morning, I went in the kitchen to find a tramp in there who had wandered in via our side gate and back door both left wide open as you do in South London.

"Err, can I help you?" I asked him.

"No you can't, there's nothing worth eating in here, it's fucking disgusting!" He said as he walked back out of the door.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:36, 1 reply)
I remember another time....
...when I shared a house with 4 guys. They formed whilst busking, then the other 2 joined in. Eventually, they split. One of them went on to become a famous DJ....

Oh hang on, that's "The Housemartins"......
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:36, Reply)
I shared a house with 4 guys.
One night, 3 of them came back from the pub drunk and one of them had pulled.

"Excuse me, gents! I'm just going to show Tracey, here, the ceiling of my bedroom!"

Off they went to his room....

After about 5 minutes, he came storming down the stairs and started turning the room upside down.

"Where are they?!"

"Where's what?" I asked, knowing full well what he wanted.

"The communal condoms!"

I let him sweat a little before I said "Under the carriage clock".

He picked them up and ran off.

Yes, those were our "House-mates".....
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:34, 1 reply)
Sinus Bread
I had the best housemates ever.

I decided not to go to university one day because I felt a bit ill with flu. I thought, I know what will cheer me up, a big wank!

So I set myself up all proper with all the necessary accoutrements.

Box of tissues – Check, mansized…(alright!)
Baby lotion – Check, possibly not necessary, but just in case.
A few tickle mags – check, and open at beaver central
Vacuum cleaner – check
A pint glass half stuffed with half microwaved mince meat – check, and nicely warm.
Special wanking dressing gown – worn and open.
Atari 2600 joystick – check, just the right size!
Small callipers – check, nice and bitey

Unfortunately getting all of these things ready had tired me out and as I sat in the living room having prepared ‘the tools’, I fell asleep.

I woke up to lots of hooting. There were *a lot* of people in the living room. They were dancing around and looking very excited. My head was covered in flour which I had inhaled. I felt bread forming in my sinuses. I also had 6 cigarettes up my nose. My willy had a liquorice allsort balanced on it.

My housemates had come home and found me dressed to kill, decided to invite lots of other people around in a ‘flash party’, and had taken lots of pictures of me. They had hurled flour at me. They had laughed at the ridiculously small size of my penis and my ludicrously shaped inflated testes.

Shame I had to gas them all because of that.

Incidentally I was honking up nose bread for days afterwards. It was a handy snack on one occasion actually.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:28, 5 replies)
Weird Housemates Part 2
After moving out of the house which I shared, unfortunately, with Igor (see Part 1), I moved in with two randoms.

Tarquin (not his real name, but entirely apt) and Jemima (again not her real name, but entirely apt) were both extremely, awfully posh. I fully admit that I am a paid up member of the shiftless middleclass, as raised in a comfortable home as the next person, but in comparison to these two I felt like shit on the soles of their shoes.

Tarquin was very much into hunting. He wore tweed or hunting gear as much as possible. He made inappropriate jokes about Jews infront of my Jewish Russian friend V (again see Part 1), he had dinner parties with his chinless inbred eupatrid hunting friends 'Nobber' 'Jew Simon' 'Stinky' 'Pipe Jim' and 'Quorn Henry'. They would buy a whole case of wine glasses, sit around in our manky student living room in their dinner jackets, get very drunk, go outside and smash the glasses against the wall, then piss on the bikes locked up against the back wall. They also enjoyed blowing the hunting horn Tarquin had for hours, singing Jerusalem, and playing patriotic British music as loud as possible. The place would be wrecked when they were finished. I came down one morning to discover that the fresh pack of butter I had bought the day before had 5 or 6 cigars stubbed out in it.

Tarquin frequently had his no-brained braying girlfriend over. She had a face like a badly poached egg, watery eyes and a high pitched buzz saw voice. My room was tiny and next to theirs and I could hear them shagging to the interminable Thundercats DVDs he would play on his laptop. I even heard him shout "Thundercats HO!" at the height of sex.

I had one shelf for my food. Tarquin decided that he needed more room so put all of my food in the cellar.

Jemima was easier to live with. She didn't smoke, apparently, despite the 10 to 15 fags she got through a day. Her boyfriend would come to stay every so often and, despite being as thick as a Welshman's cock he was actually a nice guy. The major problem with her was her overbearing deeply Christian mother who came to inspect her room once every 2 or 3 weeks to check for signs of 'fornication'. Oh and the light and persistent racism.

One of my closest friends at the time was (and indeed still is) Indian. I was desperately trying to get into her pants and, in furtherance of this endeavour, she was often over in my room, smoking weed, drinking wine and watching bad movies. Once she called round when I wasn't there, and Jemima left me a note saying "Zapiola, your coloured friend has called round". They'd met her maybe 50 or 60 times, but hey, she's brown, you don't need to remember their names. Just remember the Raj.

I actually managed to get fairly far with the Indian girl but, perhaps inevitably, Tarquin stuffed it up for me. We had been out with some friends, and the Indian girl and I had got very drunk together and had sat talking and getting close, before deciding to go back to mine to smoke a joint and watch a movie.

We start watching the movie, snuggled up in bed together, smoke the joint, I start stroking her leg, and she turns her head and starts kissing me. This was like heaven for me. We were progressing towards other things when the front door opens with a huge crash, theres a braying whinneying voice saying "its at the top of the stairs" and then a rush of feet mounting the stairs. Into my room (no locks on the doors) comes one of Tarquins friends, in top hat and tails, looking queasy. He also looks surprised because this is clearly not the bathroom and there's a half naked Indian girl on top of a guy (c'est moi) on a bed in the corner. Top Hat looks at us, we look at him, Top Hat then throws up in my bin. Indian girl is horrified, especially at the noise and chanting of hunting slogans from downstairs and askes if I can walk her home.

What else? Oh Jemima had a nightout with some of her friends, somehow lost her knickers and, when walking down the stairs after washing her face shat all down the stairs. Apparently she was allergic to gin.

The whole year was very weird.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:24, 3 replies)
Fun but scary housemate
When I was living in Greece, I met this bloke in an ex-pat bar I used to drink (To excess) in. Huge guy, bodybuilder, 17 stone of muscle, 6ft8 or so. Tatoos everywhere, up his neck, back of his hands and so on. And some pretty serious scars on his neck. We got pissed, and got on like a house on fire. I promptly offered him a place in my flat. Oh my God, the guy was such a liability, but hilarious at the same time. He crashed my motorbike, when riding it home from the pub. Hit a skip, straight on. I wasn't upset, as I was on the back, and landed on him. We used to go drinking in the roughest bars down in the harbour, and get into fights, winding up the locals. He had gotten his tattoos in prison, and he explained to me how they made their own tattoo-pens. I thought I'd try to make one, but BETTER, and one day, I came home from work and found him, tattooing the local, heavily medicated, nutcase. He wanted to try the tattoo-pen out, and he said he was impressed with it. He had tattooed a huge swastica, quite wonkily, on this guys shoulder. We used to go to the gym together, and with his help, I put on a fair bit of muscle. He got in to fights, and once his hand swelled up like a baloon. He got the doctor that came for a couple of pints every lunchtime in our pub to have a look at it. The doctor pulled a tooth out of his hand.
He knocked his elbow in another scuffle, and for weeks afterwards, I had to syringe fluid out of it. He used to make me dinner, allways pasta, with tuna and sweetcorn. Good, but a bit monotonous. He claimed it was good for building muscle. He would come back late at night, with large lumps of compressed cheap Albanian grass, and we'd smoke as much as we could, just to see how stoned it was possible to get. And we'd try to drink the various bars dry. With some success. Fun days. I miss him.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:20, 1 reply)
Smell the love
When I was living with Posh John, who is terribly posh, we had a party in our flat.

It was pretty wild.

The morning after we're cleaning up, beer cans, upturned ashtrays, curry up the walls, and oddly enough a decapitated Barbie doll in the living room.

After a quick once over we move our cleaning efforts to the bathroom, looking like a couple of retards on community service, bin bags in hand.

And glued to the side of the bath we find a used condom, quietly congealing.

John glances at me and notices the look on my face as if to say 'John you dirty, dirty bastard.' His look says it all in response, 'I have no idea what the fuck I got up to last night, so it might be mine.'

In a flash John reaches down, peels the johnny from its resting place and holds it up to his nose.

And he takes a mighty sniff, his face screws up in deep analysis.

"Nah..." he says. "That's not me..."

He chucks it in the bin bag and wanders off.

Dirty, dirty, DIRTY boy.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 17:15, Reply)
Gotta love her!
I live with a blonde girl who seems to think it's totally acceptable to leave her stuff all over the place.

She walks around naked whenever the mood takes her, which on occasion makes visitors feel a little awkward!

Often during the night she'll get up and wander around the house, choosing to settle in someone else's bed too!

Just this week I was happily just drifting off to sleep about 1am having watched a dvd when I hear a knock at my door. It opens slowly and she just walks in!

She climbs into my bed and announces she wants a cuddle! So I humour her and pull the duvet over her and give her a quick cuddle, thinking I'll just doze off and she can stay or go of her own accord.

Instead she sits up, leans over me and asks to watch CBeebies! At 1 in the bloody morning!?!?
Still she is only 2, so I'll let her off for now!
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 16:56, 12 replies)
Pedro; the most handsome man in the world.
I lived in a house with 3 other people, one of which was an Italian girl. She hooked up with this guy called Pedro.Now,I'm 100% straight but my God this guy was a dreamboat. Catalan eyes that would make the entire lions squad blush and giggle. He was a model and was a bit short on money so the italian girl let him stay in ours for a while.He drank our beer, ate our food,smoked our grass and we were delighted.The most charming guy i've probably ever met.

One day i was too hungover to go to work so i spent the day in bed. Everyone else was at uni or work so the house was empty.I heard my bedroom door open and jolted upright to see Pedro standing confused in my room '' where's P?( the italian)'' he asked. I grunted,went back to my headache and thought nothing more of it...

Later that evening i got a call from one of the other flatmates to say we've been burgled; cameras,laptops,playstation,money,jewlery,everything. Bastards.
I mentioned that i saw Pedro in my room earlier in the day, i said he was too handsome to be a thief but the italian blamed him nonetheless. He denied and denied and then caved. He admitted that he robbed us and said he'd return the loot if we didnt go the coppers.

So she went to recover our stuff and we phoned the coppers, they came around and went through the formalities.Just as they were leaving they asked if Pedro had a job. When we said 'model' they knew exactly who we were talking about and said that it was not the first time he'd done this. Same story with some other girl about two weeks previous. He stole that girl's top-of-the-range camera, moved to our house, sold it to my housemate and then stole it from him.
The way he did it was he left a window open the night before 'the heist' and seeing as usually the house would be empty during the day he figured he could help himself.And he would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't those pesky schoolnight pints.

Turns out he wasn't Spanish but in fact a Bulgarian national.Turns out he wasn't even called Pedro but rather Pedrov and it turns out that he wasn't even a model. Just a very handsome thief.

He wasn't caught but we did get our stuff back and the previous girl did get her camera back too...

Not a funny story. But a story in which i'm a crime stopping hero.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 16:53, 2 replies)
is precisely what I'd be convicted of if I ever had to share a house or flat with anyone ever again.

Even casting a casual glance over some of these stories is making me feel like going on a blood-letting rampage with a pitchfork.

Now, where did I put my application for BB '09?
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 16:51, Reply)
Penfold the Greek
Returning to the 2nd year at Uni we felt like the Kings of our little world as the new first years stumbled meekly into a world we had learnt to manipulate over the last year from our own meek beginnings....

Except this year had a profound difference... the university (a small close community of 2000 mostly stay at home students, so only 300 or so of us living on site) had somehow recruited about 50 international students... from Greece.

At the risk of offending, these unclean, unshaven, uneducated and uncommunicative throwbacks turned up bringing with them a certain pungent odour. Along with a complete lack of English language or ettiquette.

Luckily my flat got by unscathed, but my mate next door had one of the Greeks move into his flat.

If you decided to make a feature film of Danger Mouse then this chap would have played Penfold. The glasses, the eyebrows, the cheap blue suit were all spot on.

Sadly however the language barrier was to present a problem. My mate was sat in the pub telling us about an eventful situation. It seems cleanliness was not one of the ancient Greek traditions and among many nasty habits the one that caught my mate out was this. There he was, sat on the throne doing the daily ritual when he spies a small pile of neatly folded bog paper sitting on the boxed in pipework next to the loo. Curious as to why it was there he picked a bit up... to find it encrusted with shit. In fact the whole pile was like the working manuscript to an illustrative book about crap. He asked the others about it and they decided to ask Penfold about it. Turns out Penfold was baffled by the lack of sanitary bin in which to put used bog paper just as much as they were baffled as to why he didn't flush it.

The weeks went by and the flat took on an odour that even the dirtiest student might question. The penny dropped when Penfold decided to ask for help.

You'd probably assume that after a week, perhaps even a fortnight, all students work out the washing machine. There was one in every flat so it didn't even require tracking down the launderette. 8 weeks into the term and Penfold arrives in the kitchen clutching a box and a bag of laundry. He fills the machine, then asks in very broken English: "How many this?"
OK, so he needs to know how much detergent to use?
We look at the box he's holding. "Calgon. Limescale treatment".
"Two" we reply....

We figure even with just a rinse they'll smell better and at least they'll be free from limescale.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 16:47, 8 replies)
I also used to live...
...in a dingy shared house in Horfield, with students. Urgh.

On my first night in, I un-packed my stuff and then sat on my bed, beer in hand, and set about watching a DVD.

Next thing I knew, the door opened without the faintest hint of a knock. A pair of naked, hairy arse cheeks reversed themselves in and then let out the most horrific, loud and stench-ridden fart I have ever had the misfortune to bear witness to.

The door slammed shut, leaving me sat there, baffled, in a cloud of arse gas which was not of a vintage I could savor.

I didn't live there long.
(, Thu 26 Feb 2009, 16:41, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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