'Where are the duvets?'...
...were the first words of our new housemate. Coming from Potter's Bar to live in Leeds he had brought one pair of trousers, two football shirts. And a football. Nothing else.

He moved into our 2nd year student house a week later than the rest of us and was shocked and appalled that 'the maid' hadn't already furnished his room and left his slippers out. At this point although guffawing inside we took pity on his naivety and I lent him a bed sheet to sleep with until he got himself sorted. He slept with that sheet the whole year, not adding to the linen collection or washing it the whole time.

He used to drive down South every Thursday to collect his weekly meals, 7 times chicken curry made by his aunt, with microwave instructions Post-ited on the top. 'Put in microwave - press High - press 1 minute TWICE - take out, WATCH OUT IT'LL BE HOT!' It was the same fucking dish every meal why did he need the instructions every single time?

No washing up, no tidying up, complete and utter rovination of the bathroom. Halfway through the year, he set up camp on the sofa because he thought there was a squirrel in his roof. He would sit with the house phone in his hand all day, never going out, and not answering it or letting us answer it unless he knew specifically it was for him.

He only ate pumpkin seeds and strew them around the house. He seldom washed and would spend hours in the only toilet. Shitting forever. One delightful weekend he moved some of his equally scummy pals from home into the flat who decided to commandeer the whole operation, and smashed up a few of our kitchen items in the confusion of preparing the chicken curry composition. When asked about who had snapped a plate, he answered 'Which one is a plate?'

It gets worse, my brain is sulking writing about him so I'll stop.
(Waspard has your wank bank account details, Sun 8 Apr 2007, 11:12, Reply)