I used to live in a brothel
For my second year at uni, me and four mates had agreed to move in together. For some reason I didn't go along to the estate agents for the viewings, but I trusted my mates judgement.

Lo and behold, they came back from the viewing beaming with pride. They'd put down the deposit for a house with 5 double bedrooms, a huge a bathroom and a full sized slate based pool table (in a room big enough for it too) which also had a cover so it could double as a decent sized dining table.

Unsurprisingly, we were all overjoyed and it soon became the 'party house' for our entire group of friends.

One thing we could never understand though was the strange responses from taxi drivers when ever we got rides home. We'd say the address and most of them would give us a knowing smile and a chuckle.

Eventually, we asked one of them why they did that and it turned out that until we moved in, it had been a brothel.

It certainly explained the gaudy decor and horrible burgandy/gold themed bathroom with giant corner tub.

The piece de resistance however came on the day we found the keys to the garage. Upon opening the door we were greeted with the usual junk you find old garages, but also, a sunbed, and lots of plastic bags full of stuff.

It turned out that they weren't just ordinary plastic bags, but police evidence bags full of porn mags, condoms and lubricant. There was even a credit card machine.

The best bit about it all was that on a few occasions really pretty girls would nervously ring the door bell and ask us 'if we were a business?', presumably because they were looking for work.

I was the first person to answer one of these calls and for reasons that I still curse to this day, I wasn't quick witted enough to invite them in for an audition.

Anyway, I haven't really talked about dodgy flatmates yet, but there was one. Well, two actually. One of them did a midnight flit and just packed his bags and left in the middle of the night without telling anyone. He turned into a bit of a cock though once he moved in, so we weren't that bothered.

The guy we got to replace him though was a right dodgy old bastard. He was from Brixton and had a very big 'crew' also from Brixton.

One Easter when we'd all gone home, he stayed and invited all his mates over. As they stayed the night and the rest of us had gone home, they just slept in our beds (without us being asked about it first). It turned out that the fucker who stayed in my room was a petty criminal, and he decided to go through my draws and copy all of my personal information off my bank statements and phone bills.

The next thing I know, I'm getting four phone bills, each for about £80, in my name, with direct debits set up from my bank account.

Cue me running to the bank to cancel them all, and ending up getting put on something called the CEFAS register which now means that whenever I apply for credit or a bank account or anything, I have to provide about 7 forms of ID.

I later heard that he got sent down for 15 years for his part in an armed diamond heist.

I hope he gets raped a lot in the showers.

(Length? hopefully more than his dishonest little asshole can take)
( HoratioFellatio Taking the the out of psychotherapist, Tue 10 Apr 2007, 0:28, Reply)