Cosplay House
During my final year of university I moved into a new house after a strained situation at the last place I was staying (never date a housemate). It was a grand old Victorian terrace with large rooms and just one other occupant at the time. He was John, a shall we say big-boned scouser who was rather quiet and shy. The first few weeks of it just being the two of us rattling around the large house were fine as our paths rarely crossed apart from the occasional bout of smalltalk in the kitchen. A few weeks into the term and the landlord had managed to dredge up three latecomers to fill the remaining rooms. They turned out to be three girls that had met during freshers week at the society fair (or whatever you call it) and ended up looking for somewhere together.

They seemed alright and we ended up decamping to the local pub on a few occasions. John was asked but would always have some excuse, although I think he was rather intimidated and ill at ease in the company of four rather loud and raucous females. One day they asked me if I fancied going to one of their society meetings, which turned out to be some sort of Dungeons & Dragons roleplay thing. "Oh, like the cartoon the unicorn?" I said. They never asked me again. The more into their society they got the more things around the house got weirder. I was used to hairs in the bathroom sink but now it was bright orange hairs in a sink stained Star Trek alien green. And the suggestive looks I got from the neightbours whilst hanging out my jeans on a washing line strewn with slave girl bikinis and "fuzzy britches" were not fun to endure.

The final straw came the night of the ComiCon (I forget the actual name). To the girls this was the Oscar night of their cosplay world and the weeks leading up to it were a cavalcade of hair-dyeing, sewing, scrubbing and possibly smelting. The night was to involve the usual merchandising. meet and greets and autographing that goes on at these things followed by a special night at the local nightclub, where you'd be sure to find Arthur Dent dry humping Lara Croft on the dancefloor to 'Star Trekkin'. I was working in a different nightclub at the time so I wearily returned home to a couple of revelations. 1) BY some miracle, John had been coaxed out of his room to join the other three at the event. 2) He really can't handle his drink. 3) He apparently had a crush on one of the girls (dressed as Chun Li for the occasion. 4) He REALLY can't handle his drink. So I arrived home to the sight at the top of the stairs sat outside Chun Li's room of a chubby scouse Klingon clad only in white skimpies and some heavy duty boots, tears streaming down his make-up darkened face lamenting "I've got me pants on now please let me in! I loves ya Chun Li! I did it all for you!"

The story as replayed the next day was that John had got blind drunk at the nightclub and the three of them had steer a barely conscious Klingon through the streets to home, deposit him in bed, and hit the hay themselves. After half an hour Chun Li heard her door creak open and Scouse Worf stumbled in naked (boots only), pumping away at his 'bat'leth' and making it very clear he was in the mood for some spinning bird kicks. He was never seen again and his parents turned up for his stuff a few days later.
( Ms Shenanigans put something interesting here later, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 9:31, 6 replies)

Simon and the MDMA
Simon was a plant geneticist with whom I shared a flat in 1998/9. His main interests in life were belching, wearing shorts, and going out to get off his chops on a Friday night.

The rest of the occupants of the flat and I learned that it was a good idea not to be around when he came back home. Should anyone still be awake when his taxi pulled up, we had a few moments to vacate the communal areas; but we didn't always notice the taxi. Sometimes someone would still be around when the door opened.

Now, I'm not hugely familiar with the informal pharmacopeia, but I believe that Ecstasy is supposed to be a relaxing kind of drug that makes you love your fellow human. Simon was perplexingly resistant to this effect. Indeed, MDMA had an unexpected effect on him: he got aggressive. More aggressive than he was in sober hours.

And so it was that, on one occasion early one Saturday morning - or late on Friday, depending on your perspective - Simon stumbled into what passed as a living room before the rest of the flat's occupants had had time to scarper. His small eyes fixed on Paul, and he leaned in menacingly.
"YOU LOOK AS THOUGH YOU THINK I'VE GOT A TURNIP ON MY HEAD. HAVE I GOT A TURNIP ON MY HEAD?" he bellowed.

Paul looked scared. This was justifiable: Simon was about seven times his size.
"Well, HAVE I? Have I got a FUCKING TURNIP on my head?"
"Er... no..." he offered, timidly.
"Good," hissed Simon. "'Cos if you'd said I had, I'd've fucking KILLED you!"

And with that, he wandered off to bed. Paul, meanwhile, hyperventilated in a corner.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 16:12, 3 replies)

Greasy John
Filthy fucking West Australian hippy backpacker.

Slept on a fucking yoga mat.

Never bathed. Ever, as a "point of pride". He fucking smelled bad, real bad. Proud to be confrontationally filthy.

Lived in a fucking stupid oversized big heavy army surplus overcoat. (this is in Australia, mind).

He sweated a lot. A real lot. He smelled really, really bad. Lank greasy hair, long fingernails. A dirty, dirty fucking human.

Everything he owned was stored in a large black plastic garbage bag, beside his stupid fucking yoga mat. Nothing was ever washed.

Defined himself as an intellectual, a thinker, a ladies man, a free spirit in a polluted world. A refined, foppish, delivery of speech. Never had a job for the entire time he lived with us. Never pulled a single chick. Had green teeth.

Would phone his Mum for more money when he'd pissed the last of his coin up against the wall, and rent was due.

Haggled over power bills, phone bills, food, smokes, piss and any other vaguely shared expense.

Invited every fucking deadshit loser back to our house after last drinks at the pub, thereby briefly introducing a teenage junkie prostitute and the obligatory accompanying ultra violent cunt with facial tattoos called "Craigie" into our Living room, whereby they stayed for some days.


I had a big party, lots of people came, everyone witnessed his filth and his deluded worldly airs.

At the height of the party, we flung his black plastic garbage bag into the raging fireplace and prodded him with a broom, down the hallway, out into the cool evening air, slamming the door as he made to return into the house.


Never heard from him, or saw him ever again.



Greasy John. Filthy useless cunt.
( Ken Oath, Wed 18 Mar 2015, 13:39, 7 replies)

Knicker boiling
At university my (now) wife shared a house with a girl who thought the only way to keep her knickers clean was to boil them. Fair enough, you might think. But not if she decided to boil them in the saucepan you normally cook your pasta in, and stir them with the big wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer. And especially not if, when you challenge her about it, she tells you that she's been using that pot and spoon for months and no-one's complained about it yet.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 17:10, 10 replies)

Housemate from hell...
He was working in telesales but hated it. One weekend he decided to drown his sorrows with a catering sized bag of disco biscuits and proceed to ask his boss "why the fuck was he ringing him on a Sunday?" when he'd rung to see where he was at 11am Monday morning.

I was working at home at the time so was now lumbered with a tailspinning self destructor with the money from a payoff in his pocket. Cue much hilarity and many more of said disco biscuits which culminated in me walking back in from popping out to get some milk for a cup of tea one lunchtime, only to find him on the living room sofa, hanging out the back of the first of three ladies of questionable repute that he employed that particular day. It took me a moment to realise what was going on in which time he'd turned to me with a grin from ear to ear and winked.

The last I saw of him was handing him over to his parents early one morning so they could take him to the airport to catch a flight to Australia. He could barely walk as he'd taken it upon himself to neck the last dozen or so of his pills before going. The look of horror on their faces haunts me to this day...
(jonny_the_boy, Sat 14 Mar 2015, 6:30, 1 reply)

Ironing Board
In my first year of uni I was 'lucky' enough to get a room in one of the housing blocks close to campus. Each block had 12 rooms, toilets/showers, kitchen and a communal area with a table, chairs and a large freezer for us to share.

One dinner time we all headed toward the freezer to collect our bulk buy goodies to bang in the oven for 15-20 minutes, only to discover them defrosted and largely unfit for purpose. A few of us tried to cook as much as we could so as not to waste it and the rest was binned.

It transpired that a housemate and all round bell-end from Glasgow who I'll call Alistair (for that was his name) had decided to unplug the freezer so he could instead iron his 'pulling shirt' for a big night out at the local union bar.

After Alistair repeated this stunt another 2 times over the following 3 month period and 'laughed it off', it was decided that he wasn't taking the matter seriously enough.

We trussed him up with his beloved ironing board fixed horizontally across his chest and his hands tied together. This effectively stopped him from using a phone or even leaving the communal room to seek assistance. We left him there for the whole day while we attended lectures/the pub.

He never unplugged the freezer again.
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 15:55, 2 replies)

Knock, knock.
I think this one does deserve a proper recount. I'll leave it to you to decide who the Housemate from Hell is.
Lived in a shared house in a swanky 'burb. House was old but well kept. I lived in a 2 room granny flat off the laundry - it was great, I could come and go as I pleased and probably had easily double the space of the guy who had the master bedroom. And my own toilet.
Recently broken up with my gf of a few years so - footloose and fancy free and sowing all the wild oats I could.
Hooked up with a semi-regular fuck - chubby girl, 8/10 face and gorgeous tits the top half of which she didn't mind showing off to the rest of the world. Oh and she loved wearing fishnets - which is kinda my Kryptonite.

Housemate asks if he can hide his gf's birthday prezzie under my bed - so she won't find it. Yeah whatever.

Bring Fishnets home. She's flashing lots of cleavage and told me over dinner at the pub that under her short skirt she's sporting her stockings and nothing else. I had to wash my hands a few times during that meal.
We've got home and I've ripped a hole in the fishnets - a kink we both found we enjoyed and I'm happily sipping from the furry cup. I hear some housemates arrive home - vaguely remember that it's someone's birthday, but meh too busy right now. Anyway - on with the show. I've turned her over and she's bent over my bed as I go to work. I'm getting there but nowhere near the vinegar strokes.

Housemate, his gf and a couple of their friends burst through my door to come and get her birthday present. They're met by the sight of me kneeling behind Fishnets, my pants around my ankles and my hirsute arse madly pumping away into her. Bent over my bed. The bed under which housemates gf's gift is hidden. "SURPRI...." he started to shout to his gf. Oh and it was.
They exited, post haste. We tidied ourselves up and I solemnly took the gift out to waiting housemate. Fishnets bailed as quickly as she could out my back door (not a euphemism) and that was that. Had many more fun times with her but strangely she always wanted to go back to hers after that.

Tl;dr: If you live in a shared house it's always a good idea to knock on your housemate's door prior to entering.
(shitposter from the anals of posteriority on, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 23:50, 7 replies)

AL-coholic
On the Monday after a particularly heavy weekend, Alistair was not having a good one. I came back home from work to find an upended can of beans, with some carefully placed bread triangles around. "Al, what is that?", I asked. "It's for the birds!", he said as he ate his muesli from a saucepan.
(bowlax, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 21:17, 6 replies)

When I was a lodger
My landlord and his girlfriend went out with their different sets of mates one night. He went out to the pub with his buddies and she went dancing with her friends.

He came back at midnight, drunk, and went to sleep on the sofa knowing she'd come back and chuck him out of bed for being drunk, which he was right about, but it's still a bit hypocritical because she came back a couple of hours later, steaming drunk, went into the lounge, and apparently threw the kettle at him (I was in bed in another room, but I', guessing this is what happened based on his cry of "Don't throw the fucking kettle at me you bitch!"

I tried to ignore the noise, but in the end I had to go into the lounge because she was screaming for the police. They were both on their knees on the floor, him trying to grab her arms whilst she had taken a high-heel shoe off and was now hitting him with the heel and drawing blood.

I calmed them down, he slept in the lounge, she slept in the bed, and then the next day they asked me to move out because I'd "escalated the situation" by intervening.

I live alone now. I'm so fucking glad sometimes.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 13:42, Reply)

I shared a flat with Joel Veitch once
He wasted loads of electricity because he couldn't sleep without the fan heater on and once dismembered a rabbit in the kitchen and left a bloody message on the walls, "clean the kitchen you scummy bastards."

However I rather liked him and encouraged him to behave very badly indeed which means we were probably the housemates from hell to the other guy there. Sorry Kevin.
( rob, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 11:55, 3 replies)

Something something coming and going at all times of day or night
Something doesn't have a job something something lazy as fuck something something shits in the corner of the kitchen and expects me to clean it up something something turns out he's a cat
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 16:20, 16 replies)

I had two housemates
Both lived upstairs from me.

One of them rarely emerged from his room except to answer the door to the Pizza Hut delivery man and scoot back to his room with his trophy.

He didn't even leave his room to use the bathroom -- he collected enormous empty orange squash bottles and pissed in them.

I finally managed to get him to talk to me long enough to ask why. Apparently he was scared to come out of his room because he was scared of the other upstairs housemate's (admittedly very loud and indistinguishable from roars of pain) sneezes.

He lived with me for a year and spent 364 of those days unemployed, the 365th being spent working at a Christmas pudding packing factory which he refused to return to because he claimed nobody else spoke English there.

And despite only being 21 or so he had a collection of pipes that would have put a 1970s geography teacher with leather elbow patches to shame.
(Rise and Fall of the Atomic Cabbage Haven't you heard of suspension of disbelief?, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 3:46, Reply)

I once lived in a house owned by another medical student known to everyone as 'Psycho Will', a nice bloke but a little difficult to live with due to his extreme impulsive behaviour and sexual deviancy.
He was responsible for several ludicrously costly, messy and obscene but well-attended house parties including a naked bouncy castle party, a naked hot-tub party, a sex-toy themed fancy dress orgy and a mud wrestling party where he sourced large amounts of compost from a local garden centre, tipped them into a giant paddling pool full of freezing water and then forced his guests to strip off and do battle. Inevitably the cleaning up would be left to me and his long-suffering girlfriend.
His favourite party trick was to pull his knob out and hit girls in the face with it, which he called 'binking'. He had a couple of moderately attractive lesbian friends who seemed quite willing to do his bidding, whether it was trying to seduce his friends or performing sex acts on each other for his viewing pleasure.

I lost touch with him a couple of years after medical school, but according to facebook he's now a happily married orthopaedic consultant.
( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 17:05, 5 replies)

I once shared a flat with a guy who was fucking a stripper.
Lowlights:

* The way she yelled when she came. She sounded like a butch lesbian PE instructor demanding for more effort.

* It was nice that she went about in just her knickers in the morning, but demanding you made her breakfast or gave her some of your hash just because she had tits was a bit much.

* His bed was right next to his wardrobe, which, in typical lairy student fashion, had all his empty vodka bottles on top if it. One night I heard a massive CRASH! SMASH! OOYAH FUCKER! as their shagging had toppled the bottles on top of them.

* Her calling the flat when he was out (this was way back before mobiles) and asking if he'd left any hash for her. When I said no, she asked if I could give her mine then.

* You know how on King Of The Hill, every time Boomhauer plays Dido, you know it's happening? Well, the same, but with fucking Gomez.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 14:01, 8 replies)

The phlegm cup reminds me of my former housemate Clive (name changed to protect the guilty)
I could always tell when Clive had been in the living room because there, on the sofa, would be a Clive's arse-sized space surrounded by torn bits of paper, tissue or whatever other of rubbish he saw fit to generate. Despite us owning an old pub ashtray that was the size of a dinner plate, Clive preferred to use my candleabra, though of course he never emptied the fag ends out of it. Clive took my favourite pint glass that I'd had for years to keep by his bedside, and every morning he would cough up a wad of lungbutter to spit into it until he had, in his own words, his "own personal lava lamp". Clive used to sit too far back on the flat's only toilet, which meant quite often he'd leave a little pile of poo on the back of the seat - which he was apparently incapable of cleaning up. Clive used to collect his own piss in bottles (glass beer bottles without a cap on them) and leave them in the hallway.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 12:12, 16 replies)

An actual real life event that really happened
When i was 18 years old and living in a little backward inbred town called Runcorn, imagine the Truman Show but with Jeremy Kyle as the main character. Myself and a few close knit friends would go out every weekend to one of the various dives.

At the end of the night about 2:00am if we had not managed to pull an extra from the Dark Crystal we would all pile back to my mates house, this house was an empty shell essentially. One sofa, white goods in the kitchen, shit stereo system couple of beds upstairs. It was his mum and dads house that they had not lived in for years as they now owned and ran a pub in the same town.

After doing this for weeks and weeks someone had the great drunken idea to just ask this lads mum and dad if three of us could move in, we were all working and earning and it seemed like a great idea. never in a million years did i think that they would say yes...they did.

In a day or two we were moved in, crap sofas acquired from here there and everywhere, beds built and moved in TV acquired, better stero system, table and chairs...home.

Why did i think that anything would change from the nights we used to pile back there maybe 10 - 15 of us at a time.

Some of the highlights (lowlights)

1. Coming home from work to find 7 people passed out in the living room with various items on fire in the kitchen.

2. Getting tonsilitis (severe as well) during the European Cup and my house mate deciding to throw a house party while I was dying upstairs - it went on for almost 24 hours.

3. Two brothers coming around, one on the run from the Police, turned up in mid March was still there in July and would not leave the house. Not until his older brother turned up (who i believe is a jockey now) and stabbed him in the face with a free standing lamp, removing his eyeball from his face.

But possibly the best was when I wasn't a great housemate.

Out of the three of us living there, one was a right lazy fucker. The guy whos mum and dad owned the house. He used to take his clothes every weekend in bin bags to the pub to get them washed and ironed and then he would bring them back in the same bin bags.

One night after copious amounts of mind bendingly good dope the lazy fucker was supposed to be on bin duty. Quite a lot of rubbish had been accumulating in the kitchen for a couple of weeks...(i know i know) after asking him serveral times to sort it out he didnt he just fucked off to his stinking hole of a room to masturbate to pictures of Slash. When we realised he wasnt going to come and sort it out, we went and sorted it out, took all the bin bags out to the bin in the garden. Put the wheely bin and numerous black sacks outside the gate to be taken away.

Cut to waking up to banging on my bedroom door the next morning "WHERE ARE MY FUCKING CLOTHES!!?? I NEED MY CLOTHES YOU CUNTS WHERE ARE THEY BLAH BLAH BLAH"

I asked politley where he had left them...I guess you know where.

And guess what it was actually bin day...and in them days the bin men were early.

We had thrown out pretty much everything he owned, three big bags of clothes (posh stuff too).

Needless to say that brought to a close that tenancy agreement.
( spanishfly is so fucking sexy people impersonate him, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 11:53, 3 replies)

Natasha.
Where to begin? So some background. We’d known each other since we were 5 and we were ‘best mates’. She’d had a very troubled upbringing and taking lots of drugs in her teens didn’t help an already fragile mind. Over time she'd also developed an alcohol problem and was definitely not nice to be around when drunk. Anyway – fast forward some years, we were still friends and ended up sharing a flat.

It’s probably easier if I just list some incidents that spring to mind.

The no legged tramp.
Whilst out drunk one night, she came across a tramp with no legs in a wheelchair and decided to wheel him back to our flat. She bathed him and cut his hair (despite his protestations) and we found bits of his matted hair round the flat for weeks. He also left an oily stain on the sofa that never did go away.

Hammer time.
She was seeing a married man who was stringing her along claiming he was 'definitely going to leave his wife'. We could all see that this would never happen. She couldn’t. She finally flipped about it one night and after a blazing row with him and took a hammer to a car. Not his car…her car. And then she smashed the front room windows of the flat for good measure.

Acrobat
As I mentioned, she’d had a troubled upbringing and she was always looking for validation and attention. We’d had a few friends over and everyone was pretty merry. She wasn’t the centre of attention so ran off to her room. She came back dressed in a bikini and a raincoat and proceeded to do cartwheels through the living room....straight through a glass door and straight to A&E.

Pepper spray
I’m not entirely sure why she had pepper spray or where it came from, but one night after a few drinks she decided to try it out by spraying it in a room with closed windows.
Needless to say we were all puking and crying within minutes. That stuff is horrific. If that wasn’t bad enough – when we’d recovered she did it again ‘just to make sure’.

Pissing
I don’t know whether it was alcohol related or if she had a weak bladder, but she was forever pissing herself. In her bed, on the sofa and once on the kitchen floor.

Sleepovers
She joined the Socialist Workers Party and decided that when they were having national conventions in London - our flat was a great place for loads of out of town people to stay. Except she didn’t tell me or our other flatmate. She didn’t seem to understand that we’d be a bit annoyed waking up to 15 people in our living room furious at us for making noise in the morning (making a cup of tea).

Toffee cake
As I mentioned, she’d crave attention and do weird things to get it. She’d been out for the night and brought a couple of her male colleagues back. We were sitting round chatting and she obviously wasn’t getting the attention she wanted. So she went into the kitchen and got a Sara Lee Toffee cake out of the fridge, and proceeded to pull down her knickers and stuff the cake into her muff shouting 'I love cake'. What bothers me most about this whole thing is that one of the guys slept with her that night. Cakey cock.
(Nanny Pat vote for me, Thu 19 Mar 2015, 14:22, Reply)

The smells, the smells...
It was our own fault. We had a spare bedroom and not much money. He had a job, worked shifts (which indicated that we wouldn’t see much of him) and needed somewhere to live. We were warned, it has to be said, by another friend of ours who, after sharing with him for six months or so, had resorted to leaving copies of the Evening Standard and Loot out with all relevant flatshares circled in red marker (he didn’t even notice, apparently). But we'd known him for a while and were convinced that he couldn’t be that bad. How wrong we were.

Just after he moved in I arrived home to find him sat on the toilet with the door wide open. In the broadest of Welsh accents (perhaps that should have been another tell-tale sign) he explained that he had a ‘lazy bowel’ and had to take his medication once a week to clear it. In other words, he took an enema and we had to sit there and listen to him farting and shitting for a couple of hours each week, during which time he insisted on holding conversations with us through the open door, more or less opposite the lounge.

Naturally, during this time we couldn’t use the bathroom – and neither did we want to for the next few hours, either. It only took us a couple weeks or so to realise that his lazy bowel was more likely to be due to amount of shit food that he ate – never touched either a vegetable or anything that might have been considered fibre in the most faintest of definitions.

One weekend he was massively hungover and was violently sick in the toilet. He came straight back into the lounge, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, picked up a 2-litre bottle of Coke and, after taking a huge gulping swig, offered it to the pair of us, saying ‘Want a drink?’ This would be funny if we didn’t know that there was no humour involved – he thought he was being polite.

But worst of all was the smell. We never knew exactly what caused it – he didn’t have BO and was quite fastidious about showering etc. But every time his bedroom door was open, the smell was enough to make anyone heave. It was a weird mixture of everything considered offensive – shit, vomit, old socks, pungent farts, rotting vegetation – you name it and it could be partially identified in there. It got to the point where it could even be detected when the door was shut - we had a small central landing and since all the doors were close to each other and his room was next to the lounge, it soon became completely unbearable. So when he disappeared back to Wales for his days off, one of us (usually me) would take a deep breath, throw his door open and run into his room, opening all the windows wide. Not that it made much difference.

The difficulty in dealing with this was that he was actually a very nice guy. He was very kind-hearted but just seemed to have absolutely no idea of what he was doing – although I doubted that after we’d told him directly and he still claimed not to understand. He was, to be brutally honest, one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen (genuine Neanderthal features, inaccurately and unfairly nicknamed Quasimodo when we'd worked together) and had a horrendous upbringing.

We tried very hard to be understanding - but I bet that, even for the most tolerant of people, the persistent smell of shite is not one of the many personal traits that it’s possible to cope with when home-sharing.

He didn’t even leave, in the end. He was forced to move because we split up (and to this day she still partially blames his presence, although I’m not convinced) and even then he wanted to come and share a place with me. It didn’t happen.

Alt: Smelly cunt ruins domestic harmony. Not quite the way it sounds.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Wed 18 Mar 2015, 2:12, Reply)

House of Cunts
When I first passed through the Omnivoox and entered (ooer) your world, I was greatly confused and discombombulated, and worked for a while in a fast food establishment. You can read all about that here:

www.b3ta.com/questions/fantasists/post2298886

Whilst working there I lived in a dilapidated ramshackle Victorian slum tenemant shared hovel with half a dozen odd other cunts. From hell? I wish! The domain from which these cunts hailed made hell look like Pontins. And I include myself in that - my seventh incarnation was a complete cunt. An insane, ginger one, at that.

The other cunts in that House of Cunts, as far as I can recall through those omnivoox-addled early years, were:

Mahab Mahan Masturbhatta: A slim young dark skinned fellow who lived to masturbate. All he did was wank! You'd go downstairs in the morning to see him naked and pumping his greased cock over a video of Annabel Chong being fucked by hundreds of blokes. Or you'd find cum-caked copies of Oriental Anal in the bog. Sometimes he'd go mad and leap naked around the house masturbating, shrieking 'WANKAAAA! WANKAAAA! WANKAAAA! WANKAAAAGHHHH!' and then ejaculating over the wallpaper, saucepans, cat etc. He never cleaned his room or changed his bedsheets, and the smell was indescribable. Indescribable.

Tipp-A-Tapp the Clown: A clown. Never found out his real name, but he went by the 'professional' name of Tipp-A-Tapp. His clown costume was made of rubber and he wore an enormous sombrero. His 'act' involved creeping up on women and exposing himself. Fair enough, but when in the house he would play 'Initial Success' by B.A. Robinson over and over again and an intolerable volume. To this day I can't hear 'Kool in the Kaftan' without breaking out in hives.

Ruth: I think she was a prostitute, but I never saw money change hands. Again, never knew her real name, I just called her Ruth cos she looked like Ruth Madoc. Only had one leg and smoked endless cigarettes (very rare those). Yes, I fucked her, more than once - many times. I dind't care how infected she was. More fool me as I ended up with galloping knobb rot and all green stuff came out of the end of my cock and it was so bad I almost regenerated.

Partley Parsons: an alcoholic, out of work actor. Never sober, he would regularly descend into shrieking fits of self-loathing during which he would strip naked, smear himself in his own shitt, then run after you and try to hug you whilst screaming: 'WHYYY does nobody love me?' Seems to be doing OK now though, saw him in Wolf Hall the other week.

Giggly Gus: A small, thin, bespectacled guy, who would just giggle and giggle. And giggle and giggle. And giggle and giggle. And giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle.

Bhougremious Fpoon: An Irasian (?) man in his 50s who was convinced he had invented a supercomputer which he had built in his room but it was really only a massive pile of junk, shopping trollies, calculators, televisions, prams, tampons, cereal packets etc which smelt almost as bad as Mahab Mahan Masturbhatta's room. His cuntery involved him always talking in an extremely loud voice, and never flushing the bog after having a big shit.

Sir Doggly Satanblaster: He SAID he was a priest, but he looked like Jeff Wode/Meatloaf. He was in a metal band called FUCKAKUNT who would practice in the living room. Nice chap, actually - except for his habit of painting tiny faces onto Rice Krispies and leaving them on the stairs for you to tread on and crush - upon which he would kick the living shit out of you. I always used to use the drainpipe to get to my room to avoid this. He was great friends with Tipp-A-Tapp, they bonded over B.A. Robertson.

Katie Hopkins. Enough said!

Anyway, after a couple of months there I'd had enough so I got my revenge one night. I burnt it down! And they all died! IN A FIRE!*

(*Except Hopkins unfortunateley)

LAIGH8TERZ SWEEETIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESZZZZZZZZZ!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 18:48, 9 replies)

The Crossbow Killer.
I lived in a shared flat in Stafford Uni's tower blocks in the early 90s. One flatmate had a liking for weapons - he had a replica of Deckard's pistol in Bladerunner, an air rifle which had double maglite sight and was uprated , several paintball guns and a blank firing desert eagle replica which he once fired in the flat and left a ringing in our ears for two days.
His prize weapon was a full-size crossbow. Moments of madness included firing it through our front door, across the hall and into the neighbours front door and the time he shot one of the doves which visited the balcony of everybody's flats. We got some right stick from the female inhabitants of the tower blocks for that. Might be because he shot it point blank through its head and left the bloodied corpse at the foot of the flats for a full day. The bolt disappeared into the council estate somewhere. We never found it.
( Jabberwoc misses D.R. and Quinch, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 10:21, Reply)

Mad Joe
Never allow someone to move in if they have the prefix 'Mad' before their first name. Mad Joe was on all sorts of meds for his mental conditions. He was brought up in a very religious family. Maybe that was why. Anyway, he was a filthy gentleman and lived in absolute squalor which always encroached into our shared living spaces. The last straw was to do with his 2 kittens constantly shitting everywhere and him never cleaning it up.

I was sat on the sofa in the kitchen when one of the kittens did a shit right in front of me. I called Joe over to begrudgingly clear it up in my presence and witnessed him grabbing the washing up sponge from behind the kitchen sink, picking up the turds with the sponge and then putting the sponge back behind the taps, complete with slimy turds all over the sponge.

Needless to say we swiftly found a replacement housemate...

L
(l0bst3r, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 13:58, Reply)

Not housemates as such, but the Australian couple who lived in the flat above us in some converted shit hole on the Archway Road
Who had loud arguments and fights what seemed like all the time. We would lie in bed on Sunday mornings listening to them loudly calling each other cunts and stuff.

One morning after this fired up we could here things being smashed, basically the obvious sound of cups, mugs, and plates being thrown around the kitchen. I remember hearing the guy shouting "Stop smashing my things," at one point as the sounds of their fighting moved around above us. The weirdest thing is they were Mr and Mrs Normal by appearances, when we met on the stairs, in the street, etc. No indication they went for each other's throats with venom.

Anyway, that time they were smashing their flat up and obviously kicking the shit out of each other was a bit beyond what we were used to, and my girlfriend was rattled enough to want to call the cops. Their daughter who lived there as well must have been about eight or nine I guess, and more with her in mind I was more up for walking up the staircase and banging on their door and 'seeing if everything was alright.' We did neither, and moved out shortly afterwards. All a bit much for the cloudy judgments of a hangover.
( Harpago ¯\(°_o)/¯, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 13:58, 3 replies)

Tea Towels
As a student, living with 5 others of various levels of hygiene / alcoholism, it was not uncommon (almost every day) to find a tea towel on the sofa. I only realized towards the end of the year that one of my (female) flatmates was rather incontinent when she drank. Cue amusement turning to sheer horror the day i saw her piss herself in the pub, simply move to the next bar stool and put a towel on the piss soaked one!!!!
(Red Lemonade, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 12:53, Reply)

Almost on topic - neighbours, housemates, potato tomato
Years ago I had a client who came to see me because of a neighbour problem. He and his wife lived in a 3 bed semi, where the third room was a tiny box. Their neighbour had moved out and let his house to a rather large family. 17 of them, to be precise (I had to take his word for this, he wasn't paying me to go and count). He said that the noise was unbelievable, not helped by 4 of the teenage boys sleeping in a tent in the garden, and loud singing that started at 4am.

When they complained politely about the last part, and asked if it could be done a bit later in the morning, the father simply said, "children must pray," and closed the door. There were many complaints in a similar vein and I'm sure the family would have had plenty to say about their neighbours too, but one thing stood out as being possibly the hardest I have had to try not to laugh, even though I did sympathise, it just sounded so funny...

The wife was not a small lady. Especially in the hind quarters region. You know, one of those ladies whose bottom half seems to be moving in a different direction to the top. Apparently one day she was weeding in the garden, and some of the children started chucking things at her bottom. Turned out to be fence posts, which they had pulled up. When the husband went over to complain, they told him that they were "hunting hippopotamus".
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 8:50, 2 replies)

I had been living in a wonderful house,
But the 3 girls I was living with all got boyfriends or jobs in other cities, so the lease waa not renewed. I'd just taken a job at a cocktail bar and out of sheer luck one of the bar men there had a room free. It was cheap, and central and he seemed like a top bloke so I jumped at the chance to move in. He was a brilliant housemate, helped me move in, waived my first months rent while I got some furniture (going from furnished to unfurnished) and I settled in. It was a bit raucous there, we were young and flush on tips and worked irregular hours so it became a bit of a party house.
This was fine by me, however, the other bloke that lived there was a little odd. He was friendly enough, but mostly kept to himself, didn't moan about me and the other guy partying late, but was very adamant no one ever went in his room. Again, seems fine. However, about a month after I moved in (and as I found out only 6 weeks after Mr. "Stay out of my room" moved in) the house started to stink. We could not figure out what it was. We weren't the tidiest people, and the kitchen was far from spotless so we started with a big clean, thinking it might be some food down the back of a cupboard or a dead mouse somewhere.
Nothing, and the smell just got worse. We all 3 tried everything, we cleaned carpets, we washed curtains and even complained to the council in case it was the drains out front. We confronted neighbours and nothing did the trick.
Then, one weekend the man whose room was out of bounds went away, leaving strict instructions we were not to go in his room. Well, that weekend we had a party after work as normal, and one of the other guys asked to stay, instead of putting him on the couch we thought we'd just let him sleep in the empty room that sir "private space" had told us to stay out of. We push the door open and are suddenly all paralysed by the horrific stink. All of a sudden the source of the smell is discovered. In the corner of the room is a big pile of towels that look to be utterly soaked and slightly yellow brown. The door was quickly slammed, spare sheets were tucked under the door to keep the smell out and the party quickly petered out.

Housemate returns some point on Monday and is clearly upset as he rings the bar straight away to ask why there's a sheet tucked under his door, screaming blue murder about us trespassing and breaking trust and being terrible people. After a brief shouting match, where I tried to make the point that his make shift toilet was horrific to say the least, phones were slammed down with promises of retribution. I get home around 8 and it looks like housemate of the yellow lagoon is packing up to move out.
Turns out that his reason for doing it was that our parties were intimidating, and that he was too scared to go across the hall to the bathroom. When asked why he didn't say anything during the two weeks we all industrially cleaned the house together, he said he thought we'd be angry, and frankly he'd got used to the smell. When asked why he never cleaned it up, he said the smell was his way of getting his own back on us for having too much fun.
I saw him a couple of times after that, but he soon stopped hanging out in the places we did when the story got around.

Tl:Dr A fucking killer whale moves in and says racist stuff about your mother.
( Windy Pig I'm naturally quite suspicious about the moon., Thu 12 Mar 2015, 22:09, 6 replies)

Before the days of marriage and kids I owned my own flat.
One summer a couple of mates asked rather than come home from university and stay with their parents, if they could move in with me instead. I needed the extra cash and had the room so I agreed.
They ganged up on me.
I was the only one with a full time job. As I owned the place and owned all the pans, plates, cutlery etc I assumed it was my prerogative to do the washing up when I was fucking ready. They didn't agree. One night after and extended overtime session I came home, threw my stuff down and jumped on my bed. Instead of a nice soft landing I was greeted with incredible pain. They had put all the washing up in my bed.
A few weeks later I left them alone in the flat to attend one of the the summer festivals. When I arrived back I discovered that they had come home from the pub and drunkenly decided to cook some chicken. They put it under the grill and decided to go to bed. Once the fire alarms were going off, and eventually disturbed a neighbor, the neighbor decided to investigate. Seeing a strange shadowy figure peering in through the window at 2am the busy body across the street decided to call the police. The police arrived and promptly kicked my front door in to "rescue" my friends. They carried them out of the house in their boxers. They went in and simply turned off the grill. After a quick check by the fire brigade and an airing of the flat they went back in and went to bed. The next morning one went in to the living room to find the other eating the charred remains of the chicken and asked...

"did the fire brigade come round last night?"

I'm best man to one of them next month and I feel it my duty to mention this tale in the speech.
( Peej, Thu 12 Mar 2015, 20:07, 6 replies)

First!!
I once shared a flat with a bloke who would change his socks once a fortnight....the stink filled the flat by day 13
(spinks its only kinky the first time, Thu 12 Mar 2015, 17:46, 2 replies)