House 1
Posage's horrible story reminded me of my first term at Bristol Poly. I've mentioned before that the on-campus halls are houses, with six or seven students each. I was assigned to house 1. At the beginning of the year, the Student Admissions Director put up a one-pager on the house noticeboard, introducing each student to the house.

My house had Ralph, me, Ged, Mark, Pete, and another Mark. Ralph was nice, and rarely home. He was the first to arrive in the house. Then came Ged and Pete. These two were a right pair of retards. They knew each other from before. Pete was a black gentleman, and Ged was a carrot crunching mong. Ged and Ralph were in the two downstairs bedrooms, the rest of us upstairs.

Mark 1 was the next to arrive. In his bedroom, he had a full-size Nazi flag on the wall above his bed, and a 4' poster of Maggie Thatcher on another wall. On the back of his door, a poster of Hitler giving the Nazi salute. He was blonde, blue-eyed and quite, quite mad.

Then me, and then Mark 2. Mark 2 was on my course, and we got along fine. However, things were not so good with Pete, Ged and Mark 1. Pete had seen the note on the board introducing me as a South African, and had immediately decided that I was a racist, apartheid-loving cunt (I'm not). He and Ged decided to treat me accordingly, before I even arrived. So my room - on the day of my arrival - had had the lock superglued. They formed a bizarre alliance with Mark 1 (an Aryan and a black guy?) and set out to make my life a living hell. Deliberately cooking metal to blow my microwave up; stealing my food; repeatedly supergluing my door lock; loud music at 4am up against my door; screaming at me and other bullying. It was quite unpleasant.

However. I'm not really one to submit to this sort of thing passively, so I took my revenge in countless small, and not so small, ways. Hope you enjoyed my cum in your potato salad, Pete. Didya like my shit in your peanut butter, Ged? Hope you all enjoyed the piss in your apple juice, you cunts. But the bullying continued, and so did the petty, stealthy revenges, along with a slow but inexorable escalation.

Pete and Ged were away one weekend, so I picked their door locks, scattered cress seeds on their carpets, watered it and locked the doors again. Mark was harder. He'd (against the rules) drilled the door and fitted another lock - one I couldn't pick quickly. So over the course of a week when he was away, I blew (using a sheet of paper and a hairdryer) about 5lbs of finely ground flour under his door. When he opened the room, everything in there was covered in a pretty white layer.

There were two bogs in the house; downstairs and upstairs. Pete didn't use the upstairs bog, because he didn't want to share a toilet with the South African (who's the racist here?).

For a painful four days, I held in my poo. My arse was groaning and I spent two days squeaking out those little poo-farts. Then I drank four pints of Guinness and skulked to the downstairs bog. I shat out the biggest, most monumental and apocalyptic turd I've ever seen in my life (I checked my arse to see if it was broken) and then left it - unflushed. I snuck back upstairs to wipe up. The smell permeated the whole downstairs, and by the time the Graf Bummelin was discovered in the morning, it needed to be broken up before it would flush. Of course, since they didn't do this immediately, they flushed and flooded the bathroom. I let it be known about campus that it was Pete's prodigious poo. The downstairs reeked for ages after that.

While this was going on, I applied for a move and got assigned to house 52 with three Indians (lovely blokes and really good cooks) and a couple of white guys. We got on like a house afire. I had one of the downstairs rooms, and a much happier life.

However, my mates decided that enough revenge had not yet been perpetrated on House 1. One of them (Spam) visited with a large number of quite potent French firecrackers. So one evening, after sitting around drinking and playing cards, Mrs LF and I set up the visiting mates with sleeping bags and went to bed. What I didn't know was that they'd decided to act.

Mrs LF and I were woken at around 3am by a distant but quite impressive "boom", followed by running feet, the front door slamming, footsteps running upstairs and then hammering on our door. I opened it to have Spam and my Welsh mate dive under our bed, alternately giggling and panting.

The next morning (after the mates had left), the director of student accomodations accused me of trying to blow up House 1 in "a racist attack". I pointed out that a) I had been in bed and had an alibi b) I didn't have any blowing up materials and c) she'd put me in a house full of Indians - without any problems at all - and therefore how could it possibly be racist?

These were all good points, and after they'd searched our rooms to find no firecrackers or anything like, the matter was dropped. A mate of the Mrs' went to look at the damage to house 1.

Turns out my mates had lit a large number of huge French firecrackers and tossed them through the letterbox. They'd exploded all at once, and then set fire to the door mat. The hallway was scorched and blackened, and I do believe that the house inmates might have done a little poo when the explosion went off.

So does that make me the bad housemate?
(lustfish, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 19:06, 2 replies)

It might do
But your story is funny (Graf Bummelin FTW) so I'm taking your side.

Incidentally, was your arse broken? A mate of mine broke his while pooing and had a rough month for it.
(Helixdaunting, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 22:33, closed)

Arse
Thanks for the response! My arse was ok, but a little sore for a few days!
(lustfish, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 23:13, closed)