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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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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?'


'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………..


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.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 18:53, 10 replies)
I know of a house on Rugby Road that fitted this description a little too closely - a house where the mould was fed Smarties to make it a pleasing rainbow accompaniment to the decor in the bathroom.

I lived on Palestine Street for several years. I miss it the same way you miss a scab when it's not there to pick at any more.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 19:33, closed)
It is not outside the bounds of possibility that we got arse-faced at the same parties.
(, Sun 1 Mar 2009, 13:39, closed)
Belfast, 1994-2000.
Prior to that I was a culchie - one of the more aspirational ones. My family didn't have a) land, b) a tractor, or c) six toes per foot.
(, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 1:11, closed)
I use the term culchie with some degree o affection and tend to reserve it for one particular individual from Armagh. Who gave himself two black eyes and a broken nose in his first week at Queen's. By spinning his GAA bag in the air around his head exuberantly until he twatted himself in the face with it.

I'd type his real name but I don't know the keyboard link for 'insert symbol'.
(, Mon 2 Mar 2009, 13:33, closed)
But fuckin' splendid.

Cop for a click, dear boy.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 19:53, closed)


Was it the delight I showed in the above lavatorial horrors clouded my inherent femininity?
(, Sun 1 Mar 2009, 13:44, closed)
Sorry dear boy.
I call everybody dear boy as a matter of course.

My apologies.

Gender confusion is a hereditary trait in the Disappointed family. My Uncle Agatha was a martyr to it.
(, Sun 1 Mar 2009, 20:03, closed)
Great post
nicely done. cheers for the great read.
(, Fri 27 Feb 2009, 22:56, closed)
*doffs cap*


You are me, AICMFP

clickety woo!
(, Sat 28 Feb 2009, 10:39, closed)
*beams with pride*

Ah Pooflake, your posts have made me rinse out my sinuses with carbonated beverages in at least 5 separate episodes of 'helpless mirth while drinking beer'.

For this I thank you.

Incidently, I'm playing B3ta Bingo: This week I get points for 'most sincere type of flattery'

Next week I think I'll try for 'lowest form of wit'.
(, Sun 1 Mar 2009, 13:37, closed)

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