The man downstairs...
Not sure if I ever found out his name, but the gentleman I lived directly above during one of my many-and-varied stints in university halls was a cock-end of the most insidious kind.

We first men under the most acrimonious of circumstances. His music was too loud, but it was the end of freshers week, so I would have been quite the bellend had I asked him to turn it down immediately. This was, of course, until it became obvious that the CD was skipping. It was playing the same half-second loop, over and over and over again. Knocking produces no answer. Fearing for his safety, that something bad may have happened, I get the building guy, and he enters the room, to find no dead or injured students, just a garish stereo and a scratched CD. Hardly an auspicious encounter, as it turned out that he had gone for a night out to London, and felt that top-volume was just the right level to leave his CD player at.

Rounds 2 onward began a few days later, once lectures were properly kicking in. How our little encounters would work is that he would turn on his music loudly, and I would get annoyed and sulk. If it was really too loud, and really too damn late, I go downstairs and knock on his door. The cunning rogue would never answer the door, and I would have to retreat, defeated, for another restless night. One evening, however, I was really rather peeved indeed, and decided to have a little game of "bang-on-the-floor-with-a-shoe-until-your-hand-hurts". This didn't work, music-wise (although the hand did become rather painful) and so I went outside, to try and attract his attention from the ground (he was of course, not in the same room as his stereo). This worked somewhat better, but then I had to talk to him, and faced a dilemma...

point a) he's a cock who plays his music was too loud needlessly, you must tell him
point b) he lives below you, and he could retaliate, do not anger him

Our game of verbal chess begins...
"so... mate... I live upstairs, and... well... not to be a cock or anything, but your music is a wee bit loud" (I felt the 'not-to-be-a-cock' was a nice touch, lulling him into a false sense of security)
"ok, sorry mate"
"yeah, not to be a cock, but I was at my desk, and it was rattling, and i spilt tea on my shirt"
"shit, you in the flat above yeah?"
"yes, that's right, and i was wondering if you could turn the music down.. please"(all nice and manly and forceful, not begging at all...)
"man, is it loud?"
"yes, from upstairs it is very loud"
"you from upstairs then?"

At this point, I was beginning to suspect that he may not be quite the Machiavellian evil-genius that I was giving him credit for, but our verbal tangling went on regardless for some while.

"yeah man, you know, if you want me to turn it down, just knock and I'll stop it"
"okay, but it shouldn't really be quite that loud... ever... especially if you're not.. you know... actually in the room..."
"man, this is brecon court you know blud?"

This was said with enormous gravitas, as if brecon court was some trusted bastion of party-excellence, and its very name should be treated with deference. It was clearly his trump card. The fact that they were a new building, we had lived there for maybe 9 days maximum did not seem to deter his enthusiasm.

"yes.. i live here too... i know the name"
"yeah man, but this is brecon COURT!"

At this point, as he made a gesture that even Tim Westwood would cringe at, I realised that however long I spoke to this man, I would never crack the shell of this substance-abusing simpleton, so retired defeated (well, partially: the music was now off) to my bed.

I lasted a couple more weeks, and moved to a significantly quieter end of campus.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Sat 3 Oct 2009, 8:33, 1 reply)

Ah, the new UWE halls, with their paper-thin walls...
(Vulpine or something, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 9:53, closed)