Stoned Barracks Life
Back in the day, before the dawn of mandatory piss tests, the US Navy was quite the frontier. Boot Camp saw 1/3 of our 80-some recruits lost at graduation, due to a wild debauche (as wild as a complete sausage-fest can be) fueled by a couple oz. of skunk & 200 hits of "purple micro-dot" acid.

Things got a little more sane at my training school, although someone really should have warned west-coast me about fireflies before firing me up and pointing me towards home on a quiet summer night. The center of an airbase is not the greatest place to freak out about 'tracers' and 'flashbacks' while stoned off your heels. Also, my roommates slipping me some MDMA was not cool, although synesthesia is pretty cool, temporarily.

However it was my first duty station that truly exposed me to wild roommates. Kenny, Denny, and Tom were all strangers, but Kenny was a local boy with serious connections to dealers. Soon, we were routinely breaking up pounds in our room, and the windows were hazy with smoke most of the time. Needless to say, this didn't pass unnoticed by the Naval Investigative Service, and we were raided.

Fortunately, none of the goods were locked up in our private areas, all of it was in the open. Since none of us would admit to anything, none of us were charged.

However, the next day all four of us moved off base, en masse. The house was in a nice area of town, at least until we moved in. Denny played rock guitar, loud, and our house-warming party resulted in the local cop (singular) coming round for a noise complaint. Cue half the party scrambling out the back door, tossing stashes everywhere on the way. The cop was mainly interested in making sure nobody tried to drive home for a while, he clearly didn't want to process the paperwork on 20+ underage drinkers.

Tom bailed, as did Kenny. Denny and I were stuck with the now very subdued crowd. 1/2 hour later, the knock on the door started another exodus, but it was just Tom, finding his way back home. That cycle continued for a few hours, as the cops never came back, but we were startled a dozen times by partiers stumbling back in.

The next morning, the back toilet was plugged. We found several dozen coke vials, and a perfectly good (well-wrapped) bag of primo stuff. Then we find a bunch of baggies in the back yard, porch, and kitchen closet. Not to mention the three teenagers in Denny's bed (note to youngsters -- learn to play guitar). Too much stuff, so we decided to have another party.

Rinse & repeat, for months on end. Sorry if I wandered off topic, I blame the drugs.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Sat 28 Feb 2009, 4:45, 3 replies)

My family (most likely long, sorry )
I still live at home (being 17), but I figured no harm done to tell you about my younger brother. He's a bit of an arse and about 6 months ago he was a total arse. He doesn't read this site and I need to get it off my chest about how much of an arse he actually is.

My younger brother is 16 months younger then I am - at the moment he is 15, but in June he will turn 16 and cause terror to pedestrians and road users alike - but I digress.

For the past couple of years my brother has slowly sinking in with a bad crowd of kids at school. He's been caught doing esky runs (where you go through a caravan park and steal as much grog as you can from people's eskies.), suspended from school three times in one year, suspended twice last year, and it all came to a head when my parents had to bail him out of the county jail last year after he got caught drunk in public, being abusive to police officers and lying to them (he'd been caught drunk before.)

Never before have I seen him so angry. He was a right dickhead at times but this was different, he was absolutely fuming. A couple of nights later my parents tried to talk to him - and he put his fist through the double glazed, fire proof glass of our wood heater, then punched the wall a few times on the way up to his room for good measure - leaving the house looking like it had been the site of a murder. I'm not kidding - there was blood everywhere and holes in the walls with blood splatters on them.

Queue two weeks down the track - he pulls a bit of glass from skin on his thumb which had turned black and necrotic - which promptly (as in within 24 hours) swelled up so large he had to go to A&E with it.

So he spent several days in hospital hating everyone and everything - it turned out he'd sliced through 70% of the tendon in his thumb.

On top of him putting my parents through so much grief they gave him the option of moving out if he was so unhappy - he forgot my mother's birthday. Me, dad and mum's best friend were the only ones who remembered. Mum had had to take my brother up to Geelong for surgery on his hand, my sisters and older brother all forgot.

He came back very sheepish and feeling sorry for himself. He has very limited movement in that thumb now and has had a lot of his freedom limited (ie - not allowed to stay overnight unless there are parents home all night at where he's staying etc), but I don't think I'm going to be able to forgive him for a long time for what he did to my mum.

She was a wreck. Tightlipped, migraines, nervous breakdown all just crashed down on her, she was really ashamed of him. I honestly think that if she'd had a choice she would have put him into foster care because he was just absolutely ruining her. Dad was going through more alcohol then he had in months (he's an alcoholic so this is saying something - instead of putting away 11 cans of midstrength beer a night it was becoming 15-20 cans a night) and so I was pretty much left to cope with everything on my own. I don't begrudge them that because everything has settled down.

But as far as I am concerned - this on top of everything else he has ever done (and there is quite a list believe me), he's a total arsehole and I can't wait to make him see that. Maybe then he'll pull his fucking head in.


Sorry for lack of funnies.
(Poppet some assembly required., Sat 28 Feb 2009, 3:28, 8 replies)

Annoying flatmate
While I was at uni, I shared a flat in student halls with 5 other guys. Its not like we all got on but by far the weirdest guy was Lekan.
He was originally from Nigeria but had lived in London for the last 10years or so (he was about 25)
Things that he did included, coming his afro all over the bathroom so we ended up with hairs all over our toothbrushes etc. That was until another housemate threw his comb out.
He used to miss the toilet and piss all over the floor. Cue our German flatmate oing ballistic at waking up with a stinking hangover and standing in Lekan's piss.
He hardly ever washed and didn't use any deodarant and I'll never forget the day when the uni cleaning lady went into his room and, in her broad scottish accent, bellowed loudly, "ach this room is stinking? Where's ma Airfreshener!?" He was out at the time but she wasn't happy.
However, possibly the weirdest thing about him was his cooking and the food he ate. He was the worst cook I've ever seen. I'm sure everyone knows someone who, having moved away from home, is a disaster in the kitchen but he took it to new levels. His diet mainly consisted of pots of rice (fair enough) but he started to get more adventurous as the year wore on. Adding whole eggs in with the rice to boil. Opening tins of sardines and just tipping them in raw with the rice. When an Italian friend, D, of mine (excellent excellent cook) quizzed him about his cooking, Lekan said he's never learnt to cook because his mother had to cook for him. D asked what if your mum is out? Lekan said his sister must cook for him and that if his mum and sister were out they must leave enough food for him in the fridge for him to eat while they are away. Bit of a throwback to a previous age eh ladies?

Apologies for length but I feel strangely better getting that off my chest. He was a total wanker to live with!
(ruud, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 2:31, Reply)

Last Year [SHORT VERSION]
One of my housemates was a twat who needed informing every time you wanted to bring someone round, else he'd "feel uncomfortable" (awww diddums) and get arsey. After I found this out I pretty much did what I wanted because he was a cunt anyway.
(zenmeban thinks the weather could be better, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 2:18, Reply)

Last Year [LONG VERSION]
LONG VERSION

Things were going okay; I lived with three other guys (ideally I'd wanted a mixed house but you don't always get what you want), and despite some differences of character there was not too much animosity, even four months in. How that was to change.

I informed my housemates my friend from the USA would be staying. I was then told that "there's no real need to tell us", obvious, since anyone who lives in a shared house kind of *expects* some company at some point, right? Ah, but I forgot to tell one of the blokes who lived upstairs, he just wasn't in the kitchen at the time, and since the others said not to worry about it, I didn't. Anyway he did the same course as another housemate and I figured the info would trickle down to him.

Come my friend's arrival, I had a new girl on the horizon, so I invited her round too (not for some dodgy threesome but so we could all go to a friend's party) - of course I said she could stay. So we're in the kitchen, all three of us, playing some cards, making food before going out, and two of my housemates, A and B, arrive. They settle in and soon we're all having fun. Housemate C (for CUNT), the one I forgot to inform, stayed upstairs. I thought nothing of it, maybe he's just feeling a bit off today, eh.

The next day, post-party, the three of us spent a long time in the kitchen: it was warm, there was food, A and B didn't seem to mind, and I just thought C was either weird by now, or ill ... oh well. When my friends finally left, C emerged. There were no words spoken. For a week. Finally I broke the ice and said I thought we needed to talk. He agreed, and angrily told me (a couple of nights later, because we didn't see each other a while) that "I knew what the problem was". I didn't. After a HUGE argument, in which he tried to make out that A and B were on his side (they weren't and his argument floundered), the problem emerged - he doesn't like meeting new people and because I hadn't told him of the last minute change of plan to invite new-girl-on-the-horizon he felt threatened and I should have mentioned it before. WHAT THE FUCK? So I'm not allowed to invite people round on a whim now? Or without consulting your majesty? Fuck off. I didn't know he had this problem, he never mentioned it before, the twat.

After that incident his best buddy housemate B teamed up with him and together like the little bitches they are (seriously are just awful when they are together, the amount of bitching and sniding they do) went out of their way to be nasty, in increasingly petty ways (you know the deal, not talking to me, leaving notes, talking loudly in the kitchen where they know I can hear them through the wall, etc).

Still, I don't live there any more, so fuck 'em.

(see above for short version)
(zenmeban thinks the weather could be better, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 2:18, 3 replies)

Housewarming hat trick: 1 day, 3 emergency services.
Fire brigade:

I was burning rubbish in the back garden in preparation for the house party. I look up and see a fire engine parked out side. Apparently some of the neighborhood complained that I was building an out of control inferno. When in fact it was smaller than a BBQ. fire brigade not happy about wasted time.


Ambulance:

By 11pm the house warming party was in full swing and we had our first case of alcohol poisoning. Not wanting to dampen the mood, she was propped up in the corner until the paramedics arrived by her mates so they could continue drinking. Nice one you tools.

Police.

Local nutter stops drinking long enough to attack ambulance with a sword while the crew is inside the house. Police are called and arrive sometime in the middle of a projectile vomiting competition. search for nutter hampered by inability of guests to speak. The copious drug users hid in the bathroom while the man hunt for the nutter goes on. Nutter no where to be seen so the police leave, nutter found by me in my room having sex doggy style on my bed.



Epilogue:

sheets ruined.hangover+ missing eyebrows. alcohol poisoning case made full recovery. neighborhood watch meeting called to discuss housewarming party complaints.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 1:28, 1 reply)

"thats effort and shit"
Is the sort of phrase that gets invented when you live in a house full of wasters. 'Thats effort and shit' was used to justify all sorts of piss poor housemate behavior i.e. not being arsed to act differently.

"The toilet is blocked with yellow pages, pages. Cant you buy more shit tickets?"

-"that's effort and shit man"

"theres no ashtray in the living room. I'll get it back from the kitchen"

-"effort and shit! just use the floor"


"FFS! the back door was left unlocked. All week, thives could of come in with wheelbarrows. Why cant you take keys with you when you go out?"

-"But that's effort and shit"


"sweep up your pube clippings in the bathroom!"

-"awww, but thats effort and shit"

"More watermeloning bailiffs? Pay the rent allready!"

-"pfft. effort and shit"

"you havent showered in 2 weeks, and you ahve been wearing the same clothes for 3 days now,. take a bloody shower you pikey"

-"thats effort and shit, besides the ladies love smelly man"

"there are mice livin in the pizza boxes in the bathroom, perhaps we should clean up?"

-"nah. that's effort and shit. lets just wait until the mice eat the rubbish"

Things came to a head with..

"Why the cunting fuck are you standing in your doorway, pissing onto the hall carpet? there is a toilet 10m away"

-"that's effort and shit its too far away"

I strongly suspect that the landlord also found it effort and shit when it came to paying back the deposit money.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 1:05, Reply)

I love my flatmates.
After years of living with people I didn't really get on with, I took a chance and moved in with my best friend and a friend who has since become another best friend.

As I type this, he's sitting opposite me rolling a cigarette surrounded by pizza boxes and coke cans.

Anyway, we moved in to this wonderful flat near the centre of Edinburgh at the end of summer 2006. Three bedrooms and a boxroom; sizable, with a very reasonable rental price.

My dad and stepmum went off on holiday and I borrowed their car. It was a hot summer of roadtrips with a ska-punk soundtrack.

One of our regular destinations was Ikea. We came for the hotdogs and left with crap we didn't need from the reduced to clear area.

One day, we arrived at Ikea and found a very interesting bargain sitting at the front door. Or, should I say, 2500 interesting bargains. Suddenly, our boxroom had a purpose beyond storing crap!



Oh yes.



A little 'recycled' wood, some screws and we had ourselves a fully functioning ball pool.

It doesn't stay up all year, it only comes out at party time.



Here are the gents themselves; David Candy and Paul Sleggs, you guys are the best friends and flatmates a guy could want.

It's not about the length. It's about the love.
(Generator cannot be named for legal reasons, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 0:56, 18 replies)

I
like to take photos of my female flatmates in the shower thru a hole I've made in the wall. Then I like to show my mates at work pictures of their tits and fannies. I've got loads of mates at work doing this.
(Errin C, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 0:55, 7 replies)

This is tenuous at best
However, when I moved into my first flat with my mate Howard we soon discovered the joys of the abusive relationship. Thankfully it was vicarious, the next door neighbours being complete twunts who fought, yelled, threw things and generally disturbed the peace on a regular basis. One night was to be the straw on the camel’s back. Although something of a twisted individual Howard was a real animal lover (not like Bert but he tried) and when, during a particularly violent episode, he heard a huge thump followed by yelping he begged me to do something. So.

I borrowed his cricket bat and belaboured the adjoining wall like an epileptic steam hammer. As silence descended I shouted something along the lines of “Kick that pup again and I’ll ram this hammer up your fucking arse you abusing bastard.” The fight then ceased but I wondered why we had never done anything about the beatings he’d regularly doled out to his partner. Then I remembered. She was at least twice his size and ugly in temperament and fact. And she hadn’t defended the poor pup. Nasty bint.

Anyway, the fighting didn’t stop, nor did the incessant screaming but we heard no more yelping. But this was not the end. Howard was a keen cricketer and as any fellow willow whacker will know all bats must be “knocked in”. A tradition then started that “knocking in” should only take place after midnight and could only involve real bowling (not a knocking in thingy) and the subsequent full strike against the adjoining wall. They moved out before we did. Happy daze.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Sat 28 Feb 2009, 0:54, Reply)

Not me, but some friends
from school... One of whom I went to high school with.

They once stole the door from the uptight one's bedroom and had the cops call on them, completely trashed their entire house with the goo inside glow sticks ("It evaporates!"), make every attempt to walk in on one another having sex, have gay offs (nobody wins in a gay off), one used his nakidity to kick people out of the house (the party is over when the only clothing being worn is the laptop on your crotch... some may argue that's when the party starts), one peed in a Mountain Dew bottle and stuck it back in the fridge, one left a coiled pile on the front porch, and another left their coiled pile in a tupperware and put it in the freezer.

One of the rules when losing games is that you must either sit on the couch naked for 5 minutes or doing the "naked lap" around the house.

Their neighborhood was recently bought by an expanding hospital so their end-of-year party is expected to have people kicking down doors and (drunkenly) running through walls.
(afkun, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 0:43, 2 replies)

Have you ever repulsed someone by your living conditions ?
My aunt refused to go to university because when she visited my uncle at Leeds Uni his student house was so disgusting.

Congratulations to my uncle, he and his housemates were so squalid they put someone off shared living for life.

Mind you he did slip me a fiver the first time I came home from Uni because he was proud that I hadn't given my self a stomach ulcer through excessive drinking as he did in his first term.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 0:25, 1 reply)

End of a period (thank fuck) !!!
"God, I'm parched!" I mumbled with a full mouth.

My housemates looked up as I spat the tampon onto the coffee table, the string caught on my teeth and it dangled for a bit, bobbling wetly against my chin.

Kate said: "Err, did you find that on my dresser?"

I nodded.

"Well, I've only just taken that out."

Shit!
( SpankyHanky, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 23:44, 5 replies)

You never can tell
4 storey house tenanted by an eclectic mix of people.
A couple of greebos in the basement, some stockbroker type and a chintzy Laura Ashley freak on the 1st floor
Post college unemployed me and a student on my floor.
A guy who cleaned the streets and a nurse on the top floor.
2 huge high ceilinged rooms and shared bathroom on each level.
Constantly fed up of finding our bathroom in a disgusting state and only me ever cleaning it, I often went upstairs and used theirs as it was always pristine.
I assumed it was the nurse who kept it that way, as the few times I saw into her room it was spotless and gleaming.
Anyway there comes a time when she moves out and as i knew someone who was looking for a place I gave her the landlords number.
She has a look at the big lovely clean room and deal done, arranges to move in.
On the day I offer to help and we are emptying boxes etc.
Now these rooms had a built in cupboard in the corner.
Floor to ceiling, 4 feet wide and at least 2 feet deep.
Friend opens the cupboard, stands frozen for a minute, makes a very odd sound, then leans in to take a closer look.
I heard a strangled retch and then she was puking in the kitchen sink, one hand waving at the cupboard.
I look and cant believe what I see.
3 of the 8 shelves are stacked full of used tampons.
That image will be forever burned into my retinas.
Row upon row neatly stacked, the bottom shelves are, well pretty dessicated and dont touch the underside of the shelf above.
The top shelf does.
That had to be a few years of storage.
We just couldnt figure it out.
Totally houseproud and clean in every way, but that???
Why?
And why wasnt it noticed when the room was re let?
She had to get the landlord to get someone to remove it all and sterilise and repaint inside the cupboard, and she got a months free rent.
She never used those 3 shelves though apart from bowls of pot pouri.
Just flipping weird that was
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 23:31, 5 replies)

As an expat in Moscow...
...it is common to move house frequently. I have been here for little over a year, and in that time period I have lived in no less than 4 different flats. I have also had, I'm happy to say, no less than 4 different sets of 'interesting' flatmates.

Apologies in advance for length...I have several tales to tell.

In chronological order...

1) I arrived in Moscow at roughly 4am on a freezing (-15) January morning. I was taken to my apartment, and when the driver unlocked the door we were greeted by a woman in her fifties with wild hair, wilder eyes and a 12 inch knife in her hand. I discovered that this lady, hereafter known as N, was to be my flatmate. After she informed me that if I'd been on my own and she hadn't recognised the driver I'd by that point have been celebrating my first morning in Russia on life support, she showed me my room. The next evening I asked her if she fancied going for a beer, to which she replied that she didn't drink alcohol. This turned out to be a lie as on the one occasion she left the falt without closing her door, I couldn't help but notice the MOUNTAINS of beer cans/bottles and vodka bottles that littered the place. Anyway, the next day I didn't see her. In fact, she didn't cross my path for two days. On the fourth day, I happened across her in the kitchen, when she proceeded to spend no less than an inescapable two hours telling me how much she hated Russia, how much she despised teaching, thought Seoul was so much better, and how she couldn't possibly go back to her native Canada as she was divorced and penniless and at one point was so destitute following her divorce that she was living on berries off of trees and whatever for a month. In the next few weeks several such conversations cropped up, and eventually I ended up avoiding her at all costs.

I made friends with a new girl, and we decided that it would be awesome if I moved in with her, so, I did. I made sure I did it in the middle of the night so that I didn't have to share any awkward goodbyes with crazy wench. A month later, I found out that two weeks after my departure, N had resigned. The company helped her get a flight home, and arranged to send the driver to pick her up to take her to the airport. On the day the guy turned up to drive her there, he discovered that the mad bitch had already left.

2) So, my friend. I moved in. All was fine for approximately 2 weeks, after which she decided that although our apartment was falling to pieces already, it was absolutely terrible and disgusting that if I didn't wash my dishes up immediately after eating, I was a lower lifeform than a pig. I found this ridiculous, although not as ridiculous as the fact that she washed up her things, on occasion, while she was actually cooking. WHo the fudge does that? Anyway, other things began to creep in. I had a problem and borrowed a very small amount of money off her. She didn't like the fact that I used part of said money to fund my beer appreciation, and thought it was 'disgusting' that I would buy expensive food (ie, imported cheese that DOESN'T taste of rubber as Russian cheese does)...however, that didn't stop her eating the whole fucking lot when she was drunk. She didn't appreciate the self esteem issues I do, on occasion, have, and also found fault in various other aspects of my personality which she tried to remedy by giving me endless social worker spiel and cod counselling. Things came to a head when one day she flipped at me and ranted and raved for about 15 minutes before leaving, slamming the door, leaving me there bewildered and with an urgent desire to find a new flat.

3) I did indeed do that, and found myself living in a luxury apartment with a Russian girl and a guy. The guy was awesome, no problems there. The girl however? Different story. She was a filthy pig, even filthier than me. When the kitchen bin is full? What do you do? Do you change it? Maybe. Do you at least start a new bag? Hopefully. Not her. Oh, no. What she would do, if the bin was full, was begin to craft an elaborate tower out of rubbish. I'd get home from weekends away and find some kind of cross between a modern art sculpture and a tetris board in the kitchen. She would also cook fish and leave the carcasses IN THE SINK.
he other classic moment was when we had a grand party. Many people attended, the festivities continued way into the night/morning, and eventually one of the neighbours called the militsia, aka the bribe-hungry Russian police. So, the customary manner in which to deal with a militsia appearance is to cut the music, speak in whispers, and basically ignore them until they go away. What did A. do? Stupid bitch LET THEM IN. Yes, she let them in, and then turned on the waterworks when they realised that she was the only native Russian in the whole flat and tried to shake her down for money to make them leave. Eventually my other housemate returned, shouted at them a bit, refused to bribe them and they fucked off. But still, REALLY. I had to leave...

4) And now I live with one of my best friends, who isn't completely deranged. However, a new girl joined us a few weeks ago. She's not weird per-se, she just has some idiosyncracies. For example, we have shared internet, and our modem can't accept more than one cable. We need one of two things. 1) a splitter device with which we can plug both cables into the one modem, or 2) a WIFI system, which our BB company would no doubt happily set up. Anyway, after moaning about the shared cables for a week or so, she went out and bought...a new modem. Great, except for the fact that my computer operates on the Russian version of Vista, has about 10,000,000 software conflicts and won't actually accept the software for the modem. Apparently this is, however, my PERSONAL fault, and I was chastised last week for not having done something to make the software work. Considering that the only thing I could actually do to make the software work would be to buy and install Windows XP, and a proper, functioning English version (not available in this country...) at that, I think I have a good reason not to. She grudgingly accepted that I am currently powerless, before promising to call our internet company. 6 days later, it hasn't happened.
She also has the weirdest sleep pattern in the world. She claims to have about a thousand food allergies (which is the reason why my other flatmate and I were told firmly not to even contemplate touching the food she's bought that is in the fridge, because it's 'special') and that these allergies make her feel sick and tired all the time. However, I have a sneaking feeling that she may feel a lot less tired if she stopped going to bed at 5am and then getting up at 8am. Just a thought.

That's all for Moscow. However, before I cut off and go to bed, I shall tell the best of the best, which I have saved, expertly, until last.

This is from when I still lived in England, in a shared house in Hackney, London. I shared the house with 7 other people:

- A Greek guy
- Greek guy's son
- A Romanian guy
- An Italian guy
- A Japanese guy
- A Lithuanian woman
- Lithuanian woman's husband

I basically lived in the UN. Anyway. I'll rapidly mention the Romanian dude, before the best part. This guy, I forget his name, let's call him D, seemed to be the most in-debt person I've ever met in my life. EVERY DAY there would be a collector at the door from some company or other, and on one occasion I was actually knocked out of the way by some over-zealous cow trying to get to him.

Anyway, the action (as it were) lies with the Lithuanians. I used to work in a bookshop, and had every 4th Sunday off. It was beautiful. I would snooze...until about 10am. At around this time, one every single poxing day off I had, the Lithuanian couple would, without fail, have a stonking great argument. There would be raised voices, which would escalate rapidly to become full blown shouting and screaming matches. I'd hear plates being thrown, and, once or twice, the window being smashed by a flying object of some kind. After several minutes of this, I'd hear a loud 'thwack-SMACK' followed by a second of silence followed by a scream, desperate crying and the sound of the woman running up the stairs and then locking herself in the bathroom (next to my room) and crying, with heaving, racking sobs and little shouts of anguish. I'd then hear the front door slam. About 15 minutes later the woman would leave the bathroom, and return to the room she shared with her husband. I'd hear her replacing stuff that had been thrown about, and the like. A little later I'd hear the front door open, and the husband would be back. I'd hear murmers, occasionally a little bit of quiet crying, and then more murmers. Then I'd have a brief moment of silence and respite, which gave me time to grab the earplugs and prepare for the next part. This basically involved the peaceful Sunday morning being shattered by the opening bars of Nightwish's version of 'Phantom of the Opera' (goth metal, in case you're unfamiliar with their work...) and then hearing that very song several times, on loop, accompanied by the not so subtle and not so muffled sound of two fifty-something Lithuanians having noisy, rough, endless, excruciating (for me) make-up sex. Depending on my sobriety on any given morning, that would usually be the point at which I'd be unable to take anymore, grab my nearest clothes and run away, fast.

Wow, I feel so much better now. Again I apologise for the length!
(judeski walked on water and ran through fire, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 23:19, 3 replies)

Poo Cup
I have lived in many shared houses over the years and my expectations are low.

I lived in a huge house with a lot of international housemates and a few scousers

I walked in to the communal bathroom one day to see a cup with a spoon sticking out of it. I really should have known not to look but curiosity got the better of me. Some foul being had shat in a cup and then left it in the bathroom for someone else to find.
(DryGoldfish, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 23:14, 3 replies)

lol
lol that reminds me of the time when me n the crew was down by the brook n tommy tinkler said ill giv u a fiver if u jump in. i jumped in n broke my ankle. then me other mate tiny tim said, oswald! u got suttin on ur foot! i looked down n i had only gone n squashed a fukin toad! dno y it was in there either. suffice 2 say, it was a bit taxin but i got out in the end n i said to tommy tinkler, ‘lets av tht fiver then buddy’ e said ‘jokin rnt ya? if i had tht much money the milky bars wud b on me ;p’ i was fukin ragin at tht point so i hit him in the shoulder n e said ‘dnt do tht’ tiny tim came up n said ‘ye es only havin a joke theres no need to fukin do tht is there now oswald’. i was fukin annoyed so i stomped off. well obv i cudnt stomp off cuz i had a broken ankle. i limped off, hearin muffled laughter behind me. on the way home i was walkin down the main road when a shop caught me eye ‘banterbox’, i walked in n saw all kinds of characters.. wel u no characters of the fat n scruffy kind. i went up to one lad n leaned over his shoulder sayin ‘wots this then’ e goes ‘its habbo hotel, its the future mate’. i said lets av a go then n e was like umm no i paid for this. i pushed im off his chair n sat down. however, e hit me bak which i jus was not expectin n bein the scrawny little scruff i am i cudnt hold me own. suffice 2 say, today werent the best of days. i went bak to the caravan site n told me brother wot this hefty cunt had done. n me brother was like well well we aint avin tht r we now oswald. i stood on the stuntpegs of his stolen bmx as he rode down there. wen we got there we went in n me brother took no prisoners jus went up to the first fat cunt e seen n said is this the lad os? i said no es over there. u shudve seen this fat boys face, it dropped as e seen me with me brother. e was abt my age (11) n me bro was 19. the fat lad jus ran str8 out of the gaff, e even left his wallet the dumb fucker lol. the pakis who owned the gaff didnt giv a fuk they was jus there 2 make a livin. so i sat down at his comp n started playin habbo on his account sixpakboy. suffice to say, me life was turned round at tht point, evry day i wud go from 9 til fukin 5 playin habbo like there was no tomorrow. once i had run out of fatties funds i jus spend each nite scroungin pennies off the local 7 n 8 yr olds n dippin in the sofa n bins n shit. this kept me habbo addiction up for a while but obv soon the lads was sick of me n flat out said no. my unchartered confidence was shattered at this point, probs by my days of playin habbo so i didnt get lippy or owt. this was where things got ugly. i wud nick stuff from me parents n sell it to the local big boys. i member floggin me mums new 19incher (tv not dick lol) for a fiver… i was well proud. awarmam blamed it on the caravan opposite to us. i jus played along. i wud use the cash i had spare to buy credits upon credits of stolen furni with a nokia 3330 i robbed off scruffy sam. soon enough i was a habbo tycoon, i had evrythin i wanted n more. i had a fit habbo gf, gd habbo mates, a whole arsenal of furni includin a wide array of rares. at this point a shady blak lad walked in one day. e said ‘the big lads at skl call me nerdy boi on campus, but u can refer to me as k0rfain’. e took me down a park down the other end of town. never had been down there before, lol. e took me under this slide where his mates was playin cards. i dno wot game i think it was 21 i dint exactly stop n ask did i lol. anyway e introduced me to them, there was davedadon, j-hab n som gimpy white lad who called imself kraifect. i dint like kraifect cuz e was a fukin div but the rest were ok. they called themselves the ghetto reunion n i was an honorary member. i cudnt believe it, i had never felt so fukin honored in me life! anyway the next day i came down to the hangout n j-hab was there tryna smoke banana peels. we hit up a conversation n he told me all abt habbo fake logins. i was enticed, me, later i rushed str8 to the internet cafe n got bizy with the fizzy, so 2 speak. so ye, i had made a fake login n by the next day i had fuckin accounts all over the fukin gaff. i was so excited the paki in the shop was like ‘u ok boy? u lk like u had my uncle sanjibs special vindaloo ;p’ lol. i went on all these accts n stole the furni. leavin ‘ghetto reunion’ in their mottos. this went on for days n days till i came 2 somethin of a peak. i knew i had to take a step up the ladder. a new idea came to me when we was all in j-habs habbo room. i saw all his thrones… e had way more than me lol, i felt fukin small. it was at this point i thought up a plan. i made a new email service, fukin professional n evrythin, i sold a bit of the furni (jus norms.. as if id giv up the rares rofl) n paid som lass called Kelly Ryder to make me a pro site. she was prity tasty too, i thought i had a chance with her but wen i strted flirtin she sed ‘hands off the merchandise u lk abt 10′. i was gutted, but at least i had me new email system ere. i told the ghetto reunion lads abt it n, bein me homies so to speak, they jumped str8 on. i waited for abt a month when they had all switched their habbos emails tothe ones on my site. i was fukin delighted, this is abt the time when i first discovered wankin lol. tht nite i hid in the corner of the internet cafe when they wus closin up. when they had gon i jumped up on a comp n got str8 to work. i took all their accts, changed all the emails passes etc n took all the furni to a new acct. the next day the ghetto reunion lads all found out. they spoke 2 me abt it n i said ye me furnis been nicked n all (i moved mine to the new acct.. it was hard to leave all me mates behind but at least i wud have a fresh start bein rich as hell). the ghetto reunion boys rallied up a meetin under the slide. we all went there n the boys instantly started addin up the suspects. i jus agreed with wotever they said, hopin i wudnt be found out. but the next day they realised all their emails had a password recovery link. they came down to me at the internet cafe n got me to log on my email. my heart was beatin harder thn ebonic when e went in the hc girls club. they saw i didnt av the password recovery link. davedadon came str8 in me face with his b.o. n fishy breath n said, if ur furni got nicked y ent the pass recovery link ere sonny boi? i said i deleted it, but me magenta face was doin me no favors. kraifect said ‘i cnt believe this! i trusted u!’ n came at me with a limp wristed punch. k0rfain said ‘no kraifect! ghetto reunion dnt do physical violence, but if we did, itd probs be the shittest physical violence in the world’. the boyz all left, givin me dirty looks. i cudnt believe it, i was so greeedy for furniture i betrayed the ppl who got me ere in the first place. the big paki in charge said ‘eh u ok kid’ n i jus burst into tears n hugged his waist. i didnt giv a fuk tht he smelt of last weeks rogan josh. the next day i walked in the gaff with a positive mindset. i no longer had me crew, but at least i was rich as a habbo king rite? i logged into me new acct only to see me room was full. me habbo buddy ginger.kyle msged me sayin eh up lad ur rooms bein trashed. i cudnt believe it! i went fukin dizzy n i went outside to get som fresh air. when i came bak i got in to my room to see they had made an absolute fukin dogs dinner of it. i said to j-hab wot wos the fukin point. e sed ’shudnt betray the ghetto reunion son’. i was fukin ragin n i gave im a piece of my mind, tellin him hes poor n shit. tht second the disconnection notice jus popped up out of nowhere. i had a panic attack cuz i knew this cud mean som1s got their filthy bodyparts on me acct, but i calmed down tellin meself im jus bein paranoid. so i went to log on n it said incorrect password. me heart jumped like a kangaroo, but i told meself to calm down again. i typed me user n pass in slowly. incorrect pass, son, it said. i jus cudnt accept it, so i tried sendin pass to email but it said no habbo on this email, son, it did. i cudnt fukin believe it. i rushed on me old acct n searched meself up on console, n me habbo was wearin fuckin kraifects habbo clothes. KRAIFECT! if it was one ov the lads i wudnt mind as much but kraifect… imagine ur worst enemy shaggin ur girlfriend… well it was worse thn tht. i messaged k0rfain, im bein the ghetto reunion homie i was closest to, spillin out me emotion, sayin how sorry i am. e msged back sayin ‘its too late t’apologize’ n removed me from his list. i felt absolutely gutted. i knew i shudnt of tried to betray the ghetto reunion, they ent no small potatoes. i figured ok, basically me life is fucked but at least everythin is ok I.R.L. (in real life). u wud think tht wudnt u big boy.. but no, to add insult to injury when i got home me mum said ‘it was u who flogged r fukin stuff’ she slaped me n threw me out by me fukin tailbone. i went round tommy tinklers house hopin he still had a soft spot for me in his heart, but e said, sorry oswald awarmum will only let us av one person sleepin over. i said ‘who?’ n then.. to my absolute petrification, there she was, in all er glory, me habbo girlfriend, jus as she looked like on cam. FUCK i shouted n ran off. i still ad the ol nokia 3330, so i rang tiny tim n said ‘ask ur mum if i can sleep round urs.’ n e said ’sory mate busy’ n i said’ u wot?’ then i heard a voice sayin ‘u aint so tiny, tiny tim’ i recognized the voice… no.. fukin joka.. it WAS MY SISTER! SHIT! i was fukin steamin out the ears ere so i threw the nokia on the floor n stamped on it. woops, well done oswald u aint got no fukin belongings now, on habbo or I.R.L. (in real life). i walked down to the ol brook and it had started raining. shit, i thuoght, cud things get any worse. then i saw the big lads silhouettedin the distance. fucker! i thought, they ran up n started hittin me n laughin, no reason wot so ever. got any money? they said. i said no. phone? no. anything? no. then one lked at the others n said: ‘giz ur top’. i was like wot u gay or suttin. i jus got a kik in the chin for tht, i did. they took me top off. then strted laughin their heds off, nickin the rest of me clothes. i was left naked, cryin, cold, wet, hungry.. fuk it i thought i gotta think about the positive ere. i walked up to the brook n membered jumpin in all those yrs back. i thought ‘i wonder if i cud go bak in time if i did it again’ yes. i know it was a fukin stupid thought but i was fukin desperate ere. i jumped in n felt me ankle break jus as it did last time ‘OMG IS IT WORKIN’ i thought, but as me other foot landed it cracked rite up, then i fell on me knee n felt a crack in tht n all. so there i was, bottom of the brook, fukin crippled, cold, sad, lonely, fuckin everythin. wot wud i do next? well…
(SirStromming, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 22:40, 36 replies)

Timewarp
Or how to make your flatmate think you are God.

My flatmate John shambled down into the living room after a particularly heavy night. He sat in his dressing gown, scratching his bollocks, yawning, and looking rougher than a monkeys chuff.

He glanced up at the clock absently.

"Fuckkinell, Spanky - the Cup Final's about to start!"

Strange that, quite a coincidence him getting his sweaty carcass out of bed just in time.

John shambled into the kitchen, "You want a beer, mate?" he asked. Stupid question, really.

I sorted out the TV and we sat down to watch the match. Arsenal vs Liverpool, 2001 Cup Final.

After seven minutes sipping beer and watching the match, I said: "Freddie Ljungberg's gonna score now."

"Ha! Not fucking likely!" Says John, a BIG Liverpool fan (what with him being from Kent).

And then Freddie Ljungberg scored.

John looked shocked. He took a HUGE swing from his Bud and said: "Jesus, Spanky, how the FUCK did you see that coming!?!"

After a few more minutes I said: "I reckon the Gunners are gonna have a blatant penalty decision turned down. See that gangly fella there, that Henchoz? I've got a feeling he's gonna handball in the area... But Arsenal are gonna get fuck all..."

John, still scratching his bollocks - something he did alo when nervous - perched on the edge of the sofa staring at the screen intently.

And moments later Henchoz did, indeed, handle the ball in the penalty area. And Arsenal did, indeed, get fuck all from the ref.

John was baffled. He rolled a nice fat doobie to console himself whilst looking at me in perplexed hungover awe. I beamed a big bright smile back at him and turned my attention back to the match.

And we sat and drank and smoked and talked bollocks.

It was a tense affair on the pitch, very close. But with eighty minutes gone I said: "Don't worry, John. Your boys are gonna be ok. Michael Owen's gonna score two in the last ten minutes. Trust me, I've got a really strong feeling about it."

"I hope you're right, Spanky," John said, trying to divide his attention between the TV screen and his flatmate with the superpowers.

In due course the midget England forward, Michael Owen, slotted home two goals for the Reds, handing them the cup.

It was very moving.

John was too scared to celebrate when the final whistle went. He just stared at me, his mouth open, a joint hanging on his bottom lip. I could tell he was trying to figure out where I'd aquired my X-Men powers.

But John was a creature of habit. I realised this and knew it wouldn't be too long before he'd mumble: "I'm gonna go and get some more sleep," and fuck off back up stairs. Which is exactly what John did. When he was confused he'd invariably go to sleep.

When he'd gone back to his room and I heard the door slam shut, I leisurely went over to the clock and moved the hour hand forward a couple of hours to the correct time. Then I opened the TV cabinet and turned off the tape of the match I'd just sat through twice in the past few hours; the first time when it was shown live when John was still in bed, the second time when I played it back with John in the room after I'd recorded it.

John treated me like a God for weeks after that.

Though he did keep asking me for the Lottery numbers, which started to get right on my tits after a while.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 22:26, 3 replies)

I used to be in a band
Our vocalist was a really weird one.
We all decided one day to move in with each other, due to us having very little money.

It wasn't a very big house and I had a shotgun that we kept loaded.

Anyway, one day, I went to the house on my own assuming no-one was there for a quick wank.

To my horror, I found our Vocalist had shot himself in the head with my Shotgun, so I took photos of the corpse, and later on it got used as a bootleg album cover

I got stabbed to death a couple of years later by my Bassist

Yours,
Øystein Aarseth
(Maccy Divided by 0 on, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 21:02, 2 replies)

Onion sunburn solution
One housemate, James, who was decidedly up his own arse, pinched my sunlamp without asking one day (I had it to sort out a bit of eczema).

Now, he knew that I only used it for 5 to 10 minutes under medical instruction, but clearly I was a wimp and he should be totally fine for 30 to 45 minutes.

He burst into my room, screaming "Look at my fucking face! Fucking look at it!" and I pissed myself laughing at the red-and-white panda in front of me. He wasn't badly burnt, just comedy burnt.

However, James was pretty vain, and certainly didn't want to be seen like this and was all ears for ANY solution to his predicament.

"Err... lemon might help?" I ventured. "You know, like you put in your hair in the summer?"

"Yeah, that's right" pipes up my other housemate. "And onion's pretty good for it as well"

We share a look, and try not to snigger.

"Do you think both at once will be ok?" says James.

We both nod in the affirmative, and spend the next 30 minutes trying to keep a straight face whilst James mashes chopped-up lemon and onion in to his face, going "I think it's working boys, I think it's working".

Well, of course it fucking didn't, and in his vanity he wouldn't admit to his own screw-up to anyone else, and told his braying cock-about-town buddies that I'd done it to him by throwing lumps of radium and americium at him during our physics practicals, giving him radiation burns; which explained why they all shot me filthy looks for the next few days.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 20:46, 2 replies)

The tale of the musician turned actor
In my last year at college I moved house and ended up sharing a very large flat with an assorted bunch of people.

There was Rachel and Sarah, two sisters (the eldest of whom, Sarah, I'd been in the same class at school with) who shared the largest room in the house; Rachel also happened to be in my year studying graphics. There was Cocky (see previous post), a scary-looking but really soft-as-shite mega Goth with a pet rat. There was my mate Sean, who had fallen a bit on hard times and who was lying on a mattress in my room (the smallest in the bloody flat; I had to climb over him if I needed a piss in the night).

And upstairs, there was Rob, and his then gf.

Rob was a talented bass player in a local band that was cited by NME to be the next big thing. Probably the pinnacle of their career was supporting Fugazi at Newcastle's Riverside (RIP), along with Stick the Pig. His band were pretty good, to be honest, but things fell apart not long after. I eventually moved out, and never saw Rob again.

Until one Christmas day, when, full to bursting point, the family sat around the telly waiting for the festive (read *miserable*) edition of Eastenders. My exe's family were big soap fans, and as we were guests who had just been rather splendidly fed, we didn't argue.

This was around the time that poor old gullible Arthur Fowler had been royally set up by his supposed best mate and convicted of fraud. Following the Christmas club incident, who, frankly, could have blamed the rozzers? Certainly not the scriptwriters.

We sat, transfixed as poor Arthur got to grips with life in a prison cell on Christmas day, complaining bitterly about his lot in life.

His cell mate wasn't impressed. And then it dawned. Despite the fact that his cell mate was facing the wall, his voice was eerily familar... then he turned over.

"Fuck me! It's Rob" me and my ex exclaimed in perfect unison.

"I used to live with him", I explained, semi-proudly. Who'd have thought?

He turned up a few months later as a wrong 'un on The Bill.

It seems that he got fed up with the rapid typecasting as a Geordie con, and returned to his home town to resume a career as a music teacher. And I bump into him from time to time.

He still hasn't lived the 'Arthur Fowler's cell mate' tag down though.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 27 Feb 2009, 20:13, 3 replies)

The Terrible Toliet-triffid Trumpet from the House of Mould

The residential area favoured by students of Queen's University, Belfast, rejoices under the handle 'The Holy Land' thanks to the theme of the street names. Big Jonty, the two Martys, Sean, Paul and Ugly Dave lived on Jerusalem Street.

The house they shared with 4 other culchie (NI for 'hick') guys had an unusual layout as a result of its former incarnation as two adjacent terraces. Internal walls had been pulled down to create a smelly, labyrinthine student drug-den, but no real renovation had taken place. The basement kitchen was consequently two mirror-image kitchens with a sort of gutter down the middle where the wall had once been. All the fittings remained unchanged, so they had two sinks. This is an important fact to note.

On the way home one night, after drinking cider and smoking weed in the nearby Botanic Gardens until 3am, the boys passed a front garden in which a large, ugly, cement water feature had recently been installed.

'Let's steal it!'

'Steal wha?'

'Water-fuckin-fountain.'

'How-the-fuck? Ye can't steal a fucking wishing well.'

'Aye ye can, there's a spade an' pick over yonder by the garage'

'Oh aye….
….. alright then.'

Took them until 5am to dig it up and man-handle it home, where they installed it on the draining surface of one of the sinks. And plumbed it in.

The finished product was a lumpen panorama of cracked, algae-slimed cement with a sort of windmill shaped wishing well canting drunkenly out the top and half a gnome. It sprayed everything within ten feet with a fine mist of cold, dank-smelling water. Predictably, every surface within ten feet of the 'display' was permanently covered with crud-encrusted plates, bits of pizza and rancid cups of tea.

The Moulds blossomed swiftly.

The grey stipple-mould, already indigenous to their kitchen ceiling, advanced dramatically to encompass kitchen units, doors and floor as well. Greeny fluff-moulds bloomed and decayed across the festering landscape like trees on a zombie model-railway. Brown curly things crept wetly up the woodwork and damp-loving fauna moved into the cornflakes-cupboard.

The air was so full of spores that the kitchen looked as if it was haunted by a solid embodiment of stench.

And then something really disgusting grew out of the adjacent hall toilet.

It began as a slick, brownish encrustation, emanating from under the rim at the back of the bowl, but then, almost overnight, produced a magnificent, 8 inch, vomit-orange toilet fungus in the shape of a gramophone horn. This impressively repugnant fruiting body was lovingly christened HMB (His Master’s Bum) and baptised daily with the piss of lads who had come from as far as Strabane to view the monster.

Tragically, the Toilet Triffid was short-lived. He melted into a slurry of repugnant orange effluent: gone from our lives as suddenly as he appeared. The lads were bereft. It was like the end of The Snowman as it would have been had The Snowman been a Tim Burton/Pooflake collaboration*.


And then………..



IT GREW BACK!

HMB’s rancid renaissance came in the form of a sweeping bridal bouquet of bum-blossoms and allied arse-mushrooms: each a minature version of their dear old Papa. Ugly Dave may just have shed a happy tear, it’s hard to say; one’s eyes tended to water in there anyway.


That house was truly rank, but yet the mould forest possessed a rare, raw kind of beauty in its awesome rottenness.

Like the Chelsea Flower Show. Only not.




*Respect where it’s due: dedicated to the master of the alliterative toilet tale: Mr Tim Burton.
(HaHa!Snakes! was last seen on, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 18:53, 10 replies)

House party
Back in 1988, second year of college and nursing a broken heart, I pleaded with my mum to let me move out of the halls of residence after two weeks and move into a rented house. My reasoning being that it would help me to become more responsible and all that shite, but really it was because I couldn't stand being in the same confines of my ex. Oh, and also because all the really good people from last year had left and their places had become populated by a bunch of Bros and Kylie obsessed 16 year olds.

Who frankly were a pain in the arse to be around. I mean, I was 17 by that point - the gulf in maturity between us was cosmic in size. They'd sit in the common room reading Smash Hits; meanwhile, I'd snort derisively at them over my Batman comics, smouldering enigmatically under my wide-brimmed hat.

See what I mean? Bloody kids the lot of 'em.

And so, my loving mother reluctantly agreed to let me move in with Phil and Rob. Phil had been a resident the year before but not allowed back; Rob was a fellow returnee who was equally as pissed off as I was. The three of us could not be more different; Phil was a 6 foot tall hippy with a gut you could balance a full pint glass on (and we did, frequently), Rob was a normal guy with a dry sense of humour and a love of rap, and there was me... the love child of Andrew Eldritch and Robert Smith; small, skinny, and with a propensity to sit in the dark moping (if the poster drawn by our mate Gaz Death was to be believed anyway).

We settled into our new found lifestyle with surprising ease, our lives based around college, pizza and the pub. Life was good. Until the day we pissed the neighbours off. We decided to have a house warming party, and proceeded to draw up tickets for distributing around our mates. And then, genius struck...

"Let's get a live band in", someone suggested in a moment of extreme madness. And so we enlisted the aid of Cocky, who had a band (appealingly named 'Random Felch'). Fortunately for us they couldn't do it, but Cocky was free and offered to pull something together (Cocky ended up being a housemate the next year even though he only lived in the next village 2 miles down the road - more on him later). Thus, it was with pleasure that we unveiled the entertainment for the night - the equally splendidly named for-one-night-only... The Necrophiles. Who proceeded to amuse us with half arsed renditions of Iron Man and other classics of rawk. Badly, it turned out, as they had only reheased for an hour that night before arriving.

The speakers pulsed, the floor shook, Phil disappeared for a spliff and the opportunity to get off with a very pretty girl who ultimately cunted him in the fuck a year later. Meanwhile, I was carted off to hospital following an incident with a bathroom wall and a bloody nose thanks to some pissed up and severely tripping friends who thought I was dying...

I returned a few hours later, having been discharged, to find Phil standing at the door, stoned off his tits and arguing with the neighbours about the noise levels. Phil never argued with anyone. "It's only midnight" he was heard to exclaim indignantly. "HAVE YOU NEVER BEEN YOUNG???"

I slipped passed them and into the sanctity of the carnage that was ensuing in the living room.

"More beer?" asked Rob, as the band (minus Cocky, who had accompanied me to the accident and emergency department, tripping wildly) stumbled shambolically around us. I thought for a moment.

"Aye, go on then. There's now't left after they pumped me out, I've got to start all over again".

Cracking blokes the pair of them. I wonder where they ended up?
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 27 Feb 2009, 17:58, 2 replies)

Used to have loads of house mates
then I stopped listening to shit like Cream Greatest Club Anthems Ever Part Twelve, got a taste in music, and now I hang round with my metal mates instead.

Its much nicer. More hair. But fewer twats.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:55, 5 replies)

"What a piece of work is a man!"
My housemate was an enormous alcoholic out of work actor. To be fair, so was I.

He was always railing about life’s injustices in between swigging whatever booze there was available. It was a particularly bad time for us in the fair city of London and we felt that we had to get out. So we went to Cumbria and had an interesting time and then came back

Then my fortune changed and we had to go our different paths.

However I do miss him very much.

‘I’
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:41, 7 replies)

Communal Living
I was born and brought up in a commune, and let me tell you, there were some seriously strange people there. I wasn't allowed out to school, but had to stay and work for the commune, so it was only much later that I realised quite how strange my situation was. There was one woman (let's call her Liz) who had somehow managed to get herself into position as the 'boss' of the commune. She was big and fat. No, she was huge. She had never been formally chosen as the leader, but she was so charismatic and manipulative that somehow she could always get anyone to do whatever she wanted. She didn't do any work (all the rest of us had to), we had to prepare all her meals and clear up after her. She even made a rule that everyone in the commune would practice celibacy (except for her of course). Everyone was totally under her power. You don't realize it at the time, but living in a place like that can totally destroy your spirit. It was a huge effort for me to leave, but at last I have, and now I'm working hard at making a new life for myself without that controlling influence. The only thing I really miss is the honey.
(Mystery_Machine, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:28, 15 replies)

I lived with a small chap when a student.
Who:

Had breath that generally smelt like a dead hedgehog (probably due to the classic morning routine of 1.Wake up 2. Put on same clothes as last 10 days 3. Leave house - no toothbrushing, nothing)

Was extrememly tight with money even though by far the most wealthy of the household (wearing swimming trunks designed for 9-12 year olds* as underwear when pants had gone past wearable point, rather than ever buying new underwear.) We'd all been buying drinks for him out our overdrafts for 2 years before realising he was a rich little sod.

Hid his porn on discs labelled as various indie bands albums - I only wanted to listen to Blur and got an eyeful of anal insertions instead. Ah well.

He had a tea towel from his primary school days where all the kids would draw a picture of themselves, and then the school would get it all printed on a lovely souvenir tea-towel for parents to purchase. We were 98% sure he was using this to wipe his cock after masturbation, possibly a bit weird.

Had awesome lengthy noisy sex with his similarily pasty girlfiend who made the noises of an uninspired car alarm.

Was best friends with someone who come to think of it looked a lot like the 'man who looks like a thumb' - who shows his 'skills' of eating about 6 double cheeseburgers in under a minute. Sweaty Manboobs indeed.

*Swimming trunks were his own from when he was 9-12 years old, I was not implying he stole childrens underwear for his own sick purposes. he wasn't that bad.

He had a good heart, He was just a bit of a fucking geek.
(Pat_Gash, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:11, 1 reply)

Blackmail Me
Still makes me feel violated, this one...

I've been wondering whether to confess to this, but confessing and Catholics have a similar symbiotic relationship as lemmings and cliffs.

So here goes.

When I first moved to London I secured a room in a shared house in Hackney. I was there for about a month before I hastily packed my bags and legged it without telling anyone. I literally ran away in shame.

The people I shared with were ok. Everyone pretty much kept themselves to themselves. There were a few Quentin and Saffron types, you know, the sort who would snort at me when I got out a loaf of Hovis. One time a girl who lived there said: "Haven't you ever heard of focaccia?" In a pitying tone. I responded with: "fuck-at-ya?" And this girl looked at me like I was a walking turd, she stormed out the kitchen in a bit of a period-tit-lip, but left me alone after that which was fine by me.

Basically, there was nothing I couldn't handle. Nice house, nice base to make my plans for world domination.

The only people I really got on with were the couple who shared the room next to mine.

He was an office-type bod, very middle of the road, a bit doughy but a nice enough fella. She was nice too. Rather heavy set, big fucking butchers hands and a bit of a tash, but she seemed like a nice enough person. When I first moved in she introduced herself, Anne, she said she was a photography student and invited me out for a drink that evening.

The three of us, Anne, her boyfriend, and I ventured out to the local and sank a few jars. We made small talk and came home.

We did this several times over the next few weeks. It was nice. At the time I was working really long days, I'd be the first out the house in the morning and the last back. So it was great to just unwind with a couple of normal people over a pint or two.

About a week before I did a runner, the tubes were on strike and being a thick twat who can't drive, I found myself stranded in the house. My boss decided I could work from home. Result!

So when Anne came into the kitchen in her dressing gown and saw me quite happily munching at my sugar puffs, she was quite surprised.

"Spanky! Aren't you supposed to be working?" She asked, looking rather too fucking pleased to see me.

I explained that my job involved travelling all round London, and because of the tube strike I was effectively fucked.

"Oh, I just need to phone someone - I'll be right back!" And she waddled out the room in a bit of a fluster. I remember thinking she was smiling a little too much.

Oh, fuck! I could almost see where this was leading...

Moments later Anne returned, still in her dressing gown.

"Spanky - I've been meaning to ask you something..."

"Oh?" I replied, feeling that sinking feeling inside. I really didn't fancy complicating my living situation by fucking the girl who lived with her boyfriend in the room next door. Besides, she was a fucking whale.

But it wasn't what I thought at all. Not in the slightest.

Anne went on to explain she really, really, REALLY needed my help. She was DESPERATE. She said she was failing her photography course and had left it until the last minute to sort out her coursework.

It took a fair bit of fumbling round the subject, but eventually by the time I'd started my second cup of coffee she'd managed to let me know what she wanted from me...

I took a moment to think it through. "Sure," I said. "Why the fuck not?"

I had a shower, chucked some clothes on.

And then I went to Anne's room.

I'd never been in there before. It was quite a lot bigger than my room. Bit of a tip, but Anne was a student and her boyfriend was working most of the time. Thankfully he wasn't here now, that would've been weird.

Anne posed me and took some photos with a compact camera.

"Err, have you got a better camera than that? I mean, what with you being a photography student and all?" I asked as I stood waving back at her, as she'd posed me, feeling like a grade A plum.

Anne peered over the top of the camera. "No, Spanky - this is the best equipment money can buy! Its small because its so incredibly sophisticated."

Fair enough. I'm hardly Mr Technical, so I let it slide.

After a few minutes of this Anne offers me a drink, a proper drink, some God-awful ouzo she'd picked up on holiday. I was feeling ever-so-slightly freaked out, so accepted the drink. We stopped the photo session to have a fag and took the bottle of booze with us. Then we went back to her room to continue the photo shoot.

I felt good. I was nice and warm and tingly with the booze and the fact I was really helping out a new housemate with her studies.

"Spanky," said Anne, blushing a little. "Would you do me a REALLY HUGE favour? Would you, erm, mind unbuttoning your top."

"This is a t-shirt," I said, the warning sirens started again, but were pretty dull now what with the ouzo I'd quickly necked and my own smug feeling of being such a helpful fucking cunt to a new friend.

"Well, just take that off instead," Anne smiled shyly and hid her face back behind the camera.

Well... Don't get me wrong, I don't usually have a problem with getting my kit off. But this just didn't seem right. I mean, I'd only just the night before been sat in the pub with this girl and her boyfriend. They were the only people in the house who'd give me the time of day.

So, I took my t-shirt off. What can I say, I'm a bit of an attention whore.

Anne was onto her third memory card before the jeans came off.

I was onto the bottle of scotch she plied me with before the pants came down. I really could hardly stand.

The warning sirens, by this time, had a very large Out Of Order sign nailed to them.

"Oh, Spanky," Anne giggled. "You're even more drunk than me! Why don't you have a lay down?" And she indicated her bed. All the time the camera was going.

Anne passed me the rest of the bottle of scotch and started explaining to me that she really wanted to capture something base and male in photo, she wanted to record an incredibly animal and dynamic act, she wanted to-

"I want to see you masturbate, Spanky."

Fuck... or rather, fuck - why not! I'm shit faced!

And so I did. While she took photos. I splurted a nice sizable load over my stomach and chest, staggered to my feet, shrugged my clothes on, and left, feeling just a little bit groggy and incredibly strange.

"Thanks, Spanky!" said Anne, as I saw her rush over to her computer to download the shoot.

I was so drunk I slept the rest of the day. The only thing I remember was hearing the door slam about fifteen minutes after we'd finished. Must've been Anne going out somewhere. That evening I got up and went into the kitchen to fix some food. Anne's boyfriend was there, I couldn't look him in the eye.

I just mumbled hello and sat at the kitchen table. We both heard the front door go and looked up to see Anne. She saw me and froze. She was wearing a fucking suit! A really expensive looking suit. I'd never been in the house at this time of day before on a week day, it just occured to me then, I had no idea what these people got up to for most of the day because I worked such stupid hours.

"Hello, darling - How was work?" asked Anne's boyfriend.

"Work?" I mumbled. "Aren't you a student?"

"No, Spanky," said Anne's boyfriend with swelling pride. "Anne works in the city. PR. Very clever girl, our Anne."

Anne shot me a look as if to say: 'please don't tell!'

And I didn't. I just sat there and pieced it all together. I realised that earlier in the day when Anne had seen me muunching my sugar puffs, she'd rushed out to phone her work to say she was going to be in later, much later. I realised she hadn't actually been drinking much if anything at all. And I also realised she definately wasn't a photography student, just some weird, strange, manipulative perv who wanted nudie photos of me pulling the pud.

"You fancy going for a pint in a bit, Spanky?" asked Anne's boyfriend.

"Nah, you're alright," I replied.

So...

If anyone's aware of any naked photos of my good self doing the rounds on this here internet thing, maybe even some of the choice ones of me squirting a nice thick load, please feel free to blackmail me... sorry, I mean email me with the details...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 16:10, 14 replies)