I'm a fresher at University of Edinburgh...
and was placed in a flat with four strangers for allocated accommodation this year.
Two are fantastic people and are now probably my closest friends.

The other? Well.
Just a few faults, yeah? Nothing serious.
1. Only ever eats pasta with cheese - which he overcooks to a stage where it's just a big homogenous lump
2. Has long horrrrrible greasy black hair which gets everywhere; (the plughole I can tolerate, the toaster? That bothers me...)
3. Has a horrible Belfast accent and he talks like a hybrid between a duck and Ian Paisley on helium.
There's more, but I could go on and on.
After a while, it grates, and grates.
And grates. And grates. And grates. And grates. And grates.

It's like he takes that cheesegrater of his, heats it, and pretends my scrotum is some fine Tesco Miiiiiiild Cheddar.

But that's fine - I mean a little abuse like that anyone can take right?

Anyway, we proceded to have a flatparty.
To cut a long story a little less long (apologies for length), a mixture of alcohol and drugs convinced us putting people in the shower against their will.
When it came to Luke (thats his name - just imagine saying it like you're a duck, thats what he sounds like), being a stone sober T-totaler, he gave us the run around for a bit.

Eventually, I got his arms - two guys got a leg each.

A few hours later I was in A&E.
For the greasy bastard had grabbed his penknife of his desk, and stabbed me.

Yes. He stabbed me.


Fortunately, I avoided the majority of the blade and in return the majority of the blade missed my vital organs.

He claimed it was an accident.
I never pursued the matter... something told me a blood test would have shown I was in a condition making me capable of stabbing myself without realising...

I avoid him when he grates his cheese from now on though.
(unbornchickenvoices, Thu 5 Apr 2007, 20:10, Reply)