For ages
I couldn't figure out why the mirror in the bathroom was always dirty. It had strange little marks all over it, like a fine spray of, err, something.

That was until I discovered my flatmate squeezing her zits and deposting the zit juice on the mirror.

Yuk!
(Save Us All !!!, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 12:49, Reply)

My ex's
housemate/co owner was a bit of a bint.
In my first year postgrad I would often sleep in a bit and get to work late morning (now I am second year I am conscientious and get into work early and play on the net instead). This of course meant that I would be in bed past 'normal' hours.
My girlfriend at the time did proper person working hours and so would leave early.
One day her housemate had a day off work.
I didn't get out of bed until after she'd left the house to do whatever it is that dippy bint's do on their day off.

Bearing in mind that the bedroom door had been closed (as usual) and hiding my sweaty manflaps and I'd been making no noise, the bugger didn't know I was there until she saw my car outside on her way out.

"Tweeb-bird, I don't mind Tweeb staying over but I do mind when he's still in bed in mornings particularly if I have the day off." Texteth she to mine lady.

It's not like we didn't get on, and I hadn't disturbed her. Plus it wasn't exclusively her house.
Silly cow.

(I wonder if I've posted this tale of woe early enough to get on 'best'... ?)
(tweebianmonkey Should be known as Widget, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 12:45, Reply)

Just this morning...
Having spent a highly enjoyable snooze in the girlfriends bed as she had buggered of early for a job interview I reluctantly drag myself out of bed.

Quick shower and a shave I am ready to take on the world! The world, however, has different ideas.

One of the aforementioned girlfriends flatmates has deadbolted the door and I am locked in (honestly! What if there had been a fire???). After a short time hunting for a spare key (no luck) I consider my options. This brings me to the kitchen. The flat is an old council estate with a walkway running past the kitchen and front door. After a quick investigate I find that one of the windows opens fully and I can escape!

I fashion a loop of Macguyver-esque string so I can pull the latch on the window closed after my escape. I climb out and breathe the sweet, fresh air of freedom, turn around and pull the window shut. Success! The latch clicks into place and the house is once again secure. Eager to get going I turn around and walk to work with a spring in my step...

...and spring straight into the warm, welcoming arms of the wonderful, ever vigilant metropolitan police force. Arse.

Length - about half an hour of providing work, home and personal details, contact number to girlfriend, verifying my identity, emptying my bag to prove that 'no, you probably wouldn't want to steal cycling gear that smells THAT bad' and them promising to return when girlfriend + flatmates are in to ensure that I am who I am and that nothing has been stolen.

And that is the story of how I burgled my girlfriends flatmates.
(Squash, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 11:20, 8 replies)

Unhappy Wee Thing...

I have been both the giver and receiver of housemate-weirdness.

When I first moved out and into Uni halls, I knew I wouldn’t be in the greatest flat – I’d been housed off campus due to late UCAS decisions and suspected I might be with the less usual kind of students. Well, I was right.

The first night, only one of the four others turned up – another girl of my age who was utterly great – we spent the first night getting trashed and having fun (she had brought wine and one saucepan and not a lot else so this may say something about her). I thought perhaps I’d been mistaken. But silly me, I know I’m always right.

The next day a guy in his late twenties turned up with girlfriend in tow- who he would mostly be visiting in his real life at home and consequently we barely saw him. The other was a guy about 5 years older than us and seemed great at first. Then he became a bit reclusive and only left his room to cook enormous meals in the middle of the night. After which he would return to his room to eat his midnight-fry-ups and put the stereo on full blast to sing along to Coldplay. He was also huge and a bit scary and as it turns out, spiteful.

Finally that leaves us with the 40 year old Turkish man:-

Oo-fuck Tossers.

That’s phonetically spelled. Bless him, he was lovely really, but it was rather too much to take for two naïve, 18 year old girls in their first nest-leaving experience and we fled the flat (and in her case the uni).

Then it was my turn to get a bit (well, a lot actually) melancholic and I became the weird reclusive housemate – oh how the worm turns! During the rest of first year (re-housed) I had a sink in my new room. I used to wee in it. I didn’t really eat, so pooing or venturing into the kitchen were rare horrors for me to face. I did actually go to my lectures and have some functioning friends – I just found the shared living thing totally overwhelming I suppose. Second year wasn’t much better and I had hastily moved in with three boys who seemed pretty cool. They were utterly filthy. One Physics and two engineering students and between them they still didn’t understand that PIECES OF PASTA ARE TOO BIG FOR THE KITCHEN PLUGHOLE! Gaaah!

Due to the skanky, studenty nature of this private rental, I was no longer blessed with a bedroom-wee-sink. I used to do it in a glass and chuck it out my bedroom window Victorian-style into the alleyway behind the house (maybe this explains all pissy alleyways and the tramps aren’t really to blame at all?!). Oh dear. I can’t really believe I engaged in this kind of behaviour without being sectioned.

Glad to announce I’m all better now and (almost) never wee in places I shouldn’t.
(Sinister Carp doesn't mind the gap, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 9:50, 3 replies)

My great house
I shared a huose right, with these three Page Three Models and they all had boyfriends who were drug dealers who were always impressed that i could do 50 grammes in an hour and one day I totally beat them up and then chatted up the girls despite my aspergers which the internet said I had, and they all sucked me off except that they didn't because that was their first mistake and I went off and wanked off my uncle instead.

Sorry about length.

Cheers.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 7:50, 10 replies)

Talking of sex-related lies
I was lying in bed one day and I must have started napping because my flatmate walked in and saw me asleep and she must have seen my stiffy, because she couldn't help herself - she started wanking me off and then she sat on top of it and started riding me. I woke up and was like "what the fuck" but she took off her top showing me her DD tits and I was like "wow, whatever", and she had three orgasms.

That was my best sex-related lie. Get it? Because I was lying down! And then had sex!

Apologies for length
(__, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 7:32, 3 replies)

she's fucking my neighbour ...
back in the day when i was a drug addled student, i had the dubious pleasure of sharing a house with Helen.

Now it may have been that Helen had a lovely set of DDs (of which I have always been partial) and it may have been that she had lovely dark hair and eyes (of which I have always been partial) that lead me to choose her over all other prospective housemates, but I am still going to say it was a financial arrangement pure and simple.

Helen was about to start her first year of uni and had moved down from the country to do so. Helen, being a nubile 17 year old fresh out of high school also had an array of nubile 17 year old friends who would regularly visit and sleep over, often sharing a bed. To my feverish 19 year old brain this seemed like a SURE THING.

One night when climbing through the window (which we used as a front door) I saw that Helen had a group of friends over, chief amongst them being Laurie, another dark haired, dark eyed beauty with tangled mane of dreadlocks and a hungry look in her eye. We were instantly interested in each other and spent the next few weeks flirting and finding excuses to be the last ones to go to leave the pub/go to bed/go for a walk etc

When all of the psuedo foreplay was exhausted we eventually tumbled into bed together and got down to the real foreplay and more. Laurie was a screamer and ultra enthusiastic. She was also the first girl I had ever met who swallowed. In short, a dirty, dirty girl. I suppose I should have listened to the alarm bells when she jokingly said in response to my comments about her apparent experience 'oh yeah, i'm like the local bike - jump on and have a ride *giggle*' but I was in balls deep by then and the blood had left my thinking head.

Occasionally, Laurie would spend the night in Helen's bed, which was fine with me. I mean, they close friends and friendships need to be nurtured if they are to survive right? Wrong. Turns out Helen and Laurie would make sweet lady lovin' on a regular basis and I was the meat on the side. Still, was okay by me as I was getting it regular like.

At this point it is probably time to bring in John our older, hairier neighbour who lived in the adjoining place and with whom I shared a common bedroom wall. John and I regularly hung out, drank beer, smoked pot, played guitar, all the worthwhile things in life. John had also been banging one of Helen's other friends Jess who, after pretty much sitting on his cock within hours of meeting him, had grown bored and hungry as only a freshly awakened 17 year old sex kitten can be. John casually commented about Laurie's vocal tendencies in the bedroom one day, which I took as friendly banter but should have realised was actually a fierce desire to pluck her freshly ripened peach. I thought no more of it until later ...

Two important things happened after this point. The first continues to haunt me til this day. I came home one night to find Laurie and Helen in my bedroom with Helen laying face down and topless on my bed. Laurie who was sitting on my bed slowly rubbing her back looked at me and asked 'do you mind if Helen sleeps in with us tonight?'. My friends, if ever you are offered a threesome, please, just say yes. Do not do what I did and say 'Um well I would prefer if she didn't'. I think at the time I was worried about sleeping with my housemate and that it would fuck up the situation. Little did I know.

Helen dutifully gathered her ample bosom and left the room and a little later Laurie and I got down to it, so I suppose the night was not a total loss (though who am I fucking kidding right?). To cut a long story short, Laurie put the hard word on me about whether we were an item, I said yes, later noticed she was flirting like crazy with neighbour John and put the hard word on her and accused her of cheating which resulted in our breakup.

This was awkward due to the fact that she was my housemates best friend/occasional lover and, in the following weeks, started fucking my neighbour.

Remember how I said we shared a wall? Well, these walls were not in a good state of repair. There was a large crack in the corner of the room that let air, light and importantly, noise through with gay abandon. Those nights of screaming passion which I had previously listened to as a participant I now listened to as an observer and my god was it hard to sleep.

Let me say that I was bitter. I had lost my nubile young 17 year old to John, tensions in the house were high and I wasn't sleeping terribly well at all.

One night I snapped. When the rhythmic pounding from the other side of the wall gradually built to orgasmic screaming I started yelling at them to shut the fuck up. I threw shoes, I pounded on the wall with my angry fists. In my blind, love-lorn desperation, however, I found the magic bullet. I started mimicking their orgasms at volume. Every time she screamed 'oh John fuck me!' I too screamed 'oh John fuck me!'. I copied every wailing crescendo, every pleasurable groan, every deeply penetrated shriek that came from her wide open mouth and, within a flaccidity-inducing space of time all was silent.

I had turned down a threesome, I had lost the girl and Helen moved out not long after. I got my sleep in the end but the sweet wine of Morpheus only tasted of ash and regret ...
(randomscrub, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 5:06, 11 replies)

Uh-oh Hoss, the Ojibway are attacking!
When I was a mere froshie, I had a housemate that was not so much crazy as trying to be interestingly eccentric. It was a failure.

She was an art student in the early '70's, so she was a walking advertisment for her various neuroses projects.

-She crocheted every dirty lost mitten she found in the filthy snow on her hat so there was a mismatched cascade of polyester down her back.

-She fucked this anaemic skinny bastard in the coat closet across from my room incessantly to the same Dylan record for months. I now have a pathological aversion to whiny rockers.

-On her day to cook, she made these appalling vegetarian messes an ox wouldn't eat. One lentil loaf was so bad, we held a funeral for it in the backyard. It was a huge waste of money the house couldn't afford.

-But the best, oho the best was in the spring when everyone was moving out. My own roommate was a Parks and Natural Resources major and did things like hunt her own dinner with bow and arrows. Hunting arrows are four razor blades set in a criss-cross pattern and "a 55 pound compound bow" doesn't refer to the price.
She picked it up, notched an arrow and started waving it around in a drug-addled haze. We all froze, afraid if she let it go, one of us would be killed. Those fuckers take down full grown bucks.
We're all talking in soothing, gentle voices, "Come on, now, just put the bow down, take the arrow out of the bow, Juanita, it's ok, you don't want to hurt anyone," etc. The arrow trembles in her grip and suddenly she decides to shoot the couch/sofa/davenport/chesterfield. Only she misses and the arrow goes through the bay window out into the street, narrowly missing some poor clown walking to class.


When the insurance guy came later to inspect our claim (since "arrow through window" looked a bit odd) he was disgusted and refused to pay out. "Your homeowner's insurance covers damages and theft, not goddam Indian attacks!"
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 22:52, 3 replies)

College Room Mates
When I were but a lad, I went to a Teacher Training College in the country. With the emphasis on "count", I guess. I shared a room with a lad called Geoff, from Sheffield. True Yorkshire lad, bluff and relatively humourless.

We had the loveliest tennis courts, where I once parked Geoff's Vauhhall Viva mk1, right in the centre of both courts, thereby rendering them unusable for all (both?) tennis loving students.

It took the college gardeners a week to work out how I'd managed to get the thing inside a court with only a gate wide enough for a single person.

On another occasion me and another roommate Andy (sadly no longer with us) got so fed up of Nev shagging loudly in the next room that we turfed it for him, and left a sheep inside.

Sheep get very worried in confined spaces....................
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Wed 4 Mar 2009, 20:38, 9 replies)

A tenderly roasted petit pois for le compo
Back at uni in Hatfield, I ended up living in a shared house with some mates from 1st year. It was a blinding house, made even better that the house next door was rented by 4 other mates from 1st year. By removing the fence in between the two gardens, we created one massive garden suitable for barbecues, drinking, silly games, drinking, attacking each other with BB guns, drinking and er...drinking. It was fucking brilliant.

Anyway, this story concentrates on one of my housemates, Mark. I am unsure how it started, but we got involved in a practical joke war. Always bad, especially when Mark was an equally inventive bastard as I was. Highlights included him bursting a baloon filled with pepper over my head when I was asleep (imaginitive, I give him that)and me finding his spare keys and moving his car around the corner so that he thought it had been nicked. After his latest effort of putting blue food dye in my shampoo (made me look like a fucking smurf) I decided to exact terrible revenge. I got every single alarm clock in the house, and set them to 20 minute intervals and hid them around his bedroom. The first alarm, however, was his radio. Now Mark is a bit of a music fan and had a fairly powerful speaker system which I noticed he never turned up above quarter volume (even that was enough to melt earwax). So, I set his music system to radio mode, tuned the FM dial to static noise, and turned it off, setting the volume to full.

As it happens, I was on a night shift the next day, so I was able to stay up until 3am when my master plan came into play. I could hear the static quite clearly through a 10 inch brick wall at normal conversation volume, followed by Mark's muffled screaming. After he turned it off and (I imagine) went back to sleep, the first alarm went off. This contined every half hour until 6am!

I was nearly murdered the next morning.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Wed 4 Mar 2009, 19:36, 5 replies)

House 1
Posage's horrible story reminded me of my first term at Bristol Poly. I've mentioned before that the on-campus halls are houses, with six or seven students each. I was assigned to house 1. At the beginning of the year, the Student Admissions Director put up a one-pager on the house noticeboard, introducing each student to the house.

My house had Ralph, me, Ged, Mark, Pete, and another Mark. Ralph was nice, and rarely home. He was the first to arrive in the house. Then came Ged and Pete. These two were a right pair of retards. They knew each other from before. Pete was a black gentleman, and Ged was a carrot crunching mong. Ged and Ralph were in the two downstairs bedrooms, the rest of us upstairs.

Mark 1 was the next to arrive. In his bedroom, he had a full-size Nazi flag on the wall above his bed, and a 4' poster of Maggie Thatcher on another wall. On the back of his door, a poster of Hitler giving the Nazi salute. He was blonde, blue-eyed and quite, quite mad.

Then me, and then Mark 2. Mark 2 was on my course, and we got along fine. However, things were not so good with Pete, Ged and Mark 1. Pete had seen the note on the board introducing me as a South African, and had immediately decided that I was a racist, apartheid-loving cunt (I'm not). He and Ged decided to treat me accordingly, before I even arrived. So my room - on the day of my arrival - had had the lock superglued. They formed a bizarre alliance with Mark 1 (an Aryan and a black guy?) and set out to make my life a living hell. Deliberately cooking metal to blow my microwave up; stealing my food; repeatedly supergluing my door lock; loud music at 4am up against my door; screaming at me and other bullying. It was quite unpleasant.

However. I'm not really one to submit to this sort of thing passively, so I took my revenge in countless small, and not so small, ways. Hope you enjoyed my cum in your potato salad, Pete. Didya like my shit in your peanut butter, Ged? Hope you all enjoyed the piss in your apple juice, you cunts. But the bullying continued, and so did the petty, stealthy revenges, along with a slow but inexorable escalation.

Pete and Ged were away one weekend, so I picked their door locks, scattered cress seeds on their carpets, watered it and locked the doors again. Mark was harder. He'd (against the rules) drilled the door and fitted another lock - one I couldn't pick quickly. So over the course of a week when he was away, I blew (using a sheet of paper and a hairdryer) about 5lbs of finely ground flour under his door. When he opened the room, everything in there was covered in a pretty white layer.

There were two bogs in the house; downstairs and upstairs. Pete didn't use the upstairs bog, because he didn't want to share a toilet with the South African (who's the racist here?).

For a painful four days, I held in my poo. My arse was groaning and I spent two days squeaking out those little poo-farts. Then I drank four pints of Guinness and skulked to the downstairs bog. I shat out the biggest, most monumental and apocalyptic turd I've ever seen in my life (I checked my arse to see if it was broken) and then left it - unflushed. I snuck back upstairs to wipe up. The smell permeated the whole downstairs, and by the time the Graf Bummelin was discovered in the morning, it needed to be broken up before it would flush. Of course, since they didn't do this immediately, they flushed and flooded the bathroom. I let it be known about campus that it was Pete's prodigious poo. The downstairs reeked for ages after that.

While this was going on, I applied for a move and got assigned to house 52 with three Indians (lovely blokes and really good cooks) and a couple of white guys. We got on like a house afire. I had one of the downstairs rooms, and a much happier life.

However, my mates decided that enough revenge had not yet been perpetrated on House 1. One of them (Spam) visited with a large number of quite potent French firecrackers. So one evening, after sitting around drinking and playing cards, Mrs LF and I set up the visiting mates with sleeping bags and went to bed. What I didn't know was that they'd decided to act.

Mrs LF and I were woken at around 3am by a distant but quite impressive "boom", followed by running feet, the front door slamming, footsteps running upstairs and then hammering on our door. I opened it to have Spam and my Welsh mate dive under our bed, alternately giggling and panting.

The next morning (after the mates had left), the director of student accomodations accused me of trying to blow up House 1 in "a racist attack". I pointed out that a) I had been in bed and had an alibi b) I didn't have any blowing up materials and c) she'd put me in a house full of Indians - without any problems at all - and therefore how could it possibly be racist?

These were all good points, and after they'd searched our rooms to find no firecrackers or anything like, the matter was dropped. A mate of the Mrs' went to look at the damage to house 1.

Turns out my mates had lit a large number of huge French firecrackers and tossed them through the letterbox. They'd exploded all at once, and then set fire to the door mat. The hallway was scorched and blackened, and I do believe that the house inmates might have done a little poo when the explosion went off.

So does that make me the bad housemate?
(lustfish, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 19:06, 2 replies)

Bukkake Flashmob
Harold arrived in my shared house in 1994. He quickly endeared himself to the populace by leaving turds of biblical proportions unflushed in the toilet bowl for us to admire and congratulate him on, and leaving hardcore dutch pornography lying around the house.

One of the other housemates allowed a girl from his course to sleep off her Saturday night's libations on our sofa. Harold took it upon himself to ejaculate copiously over her comatose face. I was surprised one human being could produce so much ejaculate in one sitting, at least that was before I was priveliged to sit through a Peter North film.
(Vic Flange, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 18:50, Reply)

When it all goes too far...
Fortunately not my housemate but one of my coursemates...
My friend 'E' shared a room in a student house; a square room with no partition to allow any privacy, all she could really do was pretend to be asleep and pull the covers up when her room mate brought guys back for an energetic shag in the opposite bed.
Her room mate (cant remember her name now so it may as well be 'A') didnt get on with two 3rd year girls in the house, who had roomed together all the way through Uni and so a bit of a feud began. What sparked it off no one could really remember but it was possibly the long, exuberant sessions with a noisy vibrator in the communal bathroom which was situated next to their room (shaging with her roommate present was OK but wanking must have been a more personal matter?!?)
Anyway, to cut an already rambling story down to size, suffice it to say that a few rounds of tit for tat soon got out of hand.
Starting with all the bathroom products being poured down the drain (and creating an unwanted foam party behind the house), oranges being injected with ink and pickle jars with a new bleach additive, it almost ended with 'A' moving out. Unfortunately 'A' still had her front door key and used it to come back one final time and leave some not-very-fresh badger roadkill in one of the kitchen cupboards.
Rentakill had to come fully suited up to remove the poor creature and all the maggots and flies that it had spawned during its short stay.
How could this have been avoided? Follow the Golden Rule : Always get the keys back.
( ForecastMonkey, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 18:27, Reply)

Our Fluffeh Flatmate (Shameless Fluffeh-enhanced Entry)
Meet Chewbakka... mostly called "Kitteh" or "Chewie".. or "Dildo" (when kitty's being a dildo) He used to be called Edward... but that's a shit name for a cat. I wasn't allowed to call him "Elwood", Nor was I allowed to call him "Dog 1" so Chewie had to suffice.

Missus Humpty and I got him from a russian lady: he was unwanted an' un-welcome in her home. He's fully vaccinated, chipped and has no nadgers. He's also the perfect combination of softy, sloth, and a toothy and clawed ball of Pure e-bil.

Mostly though he's a bit of a mong, and likes nothing more than attacking carbon fibre rods.







We love him... and he's moving to the country with us :)
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Wed 4 Mar 2009, 18:11, 11 replies)

They're NOT flatmates
The Humpty wench and I have just bought a house. It rocks.

So we're trying to get rid of our flat...

Now those who know me well enough know that my loves for climbing and complex rope-work plus voracious appetite for good sex regularly get combined. To this end, I have 4 ring-bolts in the ceiling of the spare room each rated at 250Kg.

'Nuff Said.

Two blokes just came to look around the flat. Suited and Lisping with classic mincing motion, these guys were the idyllic poster-boys for the leather-clad doughnut-punchers hanging out at the Blue Oyster Bar.

I jokingly alluded to the ring-bolts and enjoyable acts of depravity that could be had should they be so inclined.... and received an icy stare and a "We don't live together". It was then that I realised... Sure, They may fit the stereotype, but then again so do most Swedish blokes.

Oops.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Wed 4 Mar 2009, 17:46, 7 replies)

The Pink Torpedo
The Pink Torpedo has saved me from many a fatal falw, and yes, I have many. The time he picked me up literally by wrist and ankle off my bedroom floor and put me into bed, despite me threatening to beat him when I sobered up enough to put myself in to bed. I did repay him though. We went out foir The Pink Torpedo's 30th, we were in a club of ill repute in Camden. We drank solidly until the bar shut at around 4am. I joined the cue for the coats, the Pink Torpedo sunk to the floor at my feet, filled a pint glass with sick, put on his coat, and lay down in the pouring freezing rain to sleep. The Queen then left the Torpedo in the capable hands of some very nice gay men and proceeded to the Woody Grill for some meat wrapped in flat bread, and returned sporting water chewing gum and cash (for a taxi). The Queen then proceeded to releive the Gay Gentlemen of their duty and threw the water straight into The Torpedo's groin. The Queen then bought the taxi home. Sadly The Queen and the Torpedo no longer share the sdame abode, however we still continiue our various tours of destruction every now and then.
(Randyqueen Hangin' out the back of Lady Boys, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 17:19, 3 replies)

So...
Why did the hedgehog cross the road?

To see its flat mate.

Sorry...
( jim_bob can herd cats., Wed 4 Mar 2009, 17:05, 4 replies)

my flatmate
was run over by a steamroller.
(Pat_Gash, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 16:54, Reply)

Bloody Housemates (part 2)
My housemate is terrible.

She wakes up and immediately demands to be changed as she has filled her diapers. She can’t wash herself properly and needs dressing. She can’t feed herself properly and dribbles everywhere. She sits there for hours on end looking bloody miserable. She had no self respect and can’t even brush her own hair. The bloody washing machine is on non stop to take care of her bloody dirty soiled clothes.

Mind you, she is my paraplegic wife.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 16:48, 4 replies)

Not so much a housemate...
... but I lived in a tenement flat in Aberdeen and got on pretty well with the guy across the landing. Nice enough guy, always took his turn of cleaning the stairs and mowing the back garden, got shopping in for the old wifey that lived in the flat above, and generally kept an eye on the place since he was at home most of the day. He was, however, one of Aberdeen's most well-known handlers of stolen property.

Still, good fences make good neighbours.
(gordonjcp, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 16:14, 1 reply)

i used to have a flat mate called eric
really cool guy. he was rather yellow though, i always wondered if he suffered from jaundice or something.

anyway, he was quite a successful actor for a time. mainly did adverts though, and mostly for levi's i believe. you may have seen the adverts on the telly
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 15:49, 5 replies)

When I was younger
I went to stay with a friend for a few weeks.

He was a bit strange to some, but I thought he was absolutely brilliant, it was like we were on the same level. His house was awsome, it was massive, like a palace, really. He even had servants who’d bring me sandwiches and pop when I wanted. Probably the most amazing thing was all the fun stuff we’d do together, he even had fun fair rides in his garden.

Absolutely awsome!

Then one night he crawled into bed with me and asked me to touch him in his secret place...

I left the next day and sued the dirty fucker. Thankfully, we reached a settlement out of court.

Unfortunately he didn’t actually have the money he agreed to pay me, but apparently he’s announcing a new tour today, so I’m hopeful I’ll receive it soon.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 15:49, 3 replies)

Drug Dealers
I think I can honestly say I have never ever, ever met a drug dealer in any shape or form, but it appears that everyone else in the world has shared a house with one! Or else there is a tiny bit of exageration or massaging the truth going on...........
(Pork2311, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 15:43, 22 replies)

G from N London (ex Wales)
Halls of residence. London University, 1st year.

Mad Welsh guy in halls. Bizarrely an amazing chemist. Seriously intelligent but normally smacked of his tits on a mixture of acid, coke and even ketamine. Used to disappear for days and we had to check his room to make sure he had not gone for a burton. He used to accept any dare thrown at him which normally resulted in him smashing pint glasses across his head and crucnhing the glass between his teeth. I dared him to headbutt the glass cover of the fussball table. He did. Glass broke. Came round in hospital after 3 days. Oopsy
(Tequilaboy, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 14:50, 3 replies)

The Pond Incident
3 of us shared the house. All of us blokes.
Ians parents had moved out to live on a narrow boat in their retirement. He was looking for people to move in. Result. Cheap rent, all inclusive and Ian was a bit of a small time dope dealer ala Moz in Ideal. So plenty of smoke to be found.

The other lad that came to stay was Russ. Now Russ is one of the most laid back blokes I know. Was skinny as a rake. A chef during the day, and a stoned D&B bedroom DJ by night.

He moved in in early summertime, and as we had a respectable garden many BBQ's were held outback, many of which he frequented. Towards the back of the garden the level of the ground rose quite sharply and Ians parents had made a lovely 3 tier waterfall going into a nice large pond inhabited with Koi.

There was also a shed on this 'high ground' and the steps upto the shed required you to walk directly next to said waterfall.(Shed to the right water to the left)

Winter soon arrives and Russ, as usual is up at silly am to get into work. He wakes me up with his usual scampering round to get ready routine, he then comes into my room at 0530 and asks if we have got a snow shovel as its white over outside and he might struggle to get out of the street. I tell him there is one in the shed.

5 mins later in comes Russ back into my room, he asks "How long have we had a pond?"
It took a few seconds to register what he had done.

Dozy sod had only trudged up to the shed in the garden white over with snow. The quickest route was over teh frozen pond!!

I have never laughed so much in my entire life. The look of him standing there at the foot of my bed with both legs dripping with icy cold water and a look on his face of total bewilderment.

After I had calmed down a little, he was still silent so I casually asked, "Are the fish okay?"
"Not sure" was his reply.

Russ you are a legend mate.
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 13:49, 3 replies)

BOB
Is my flatmate.

We stay in and he makes me cum just about every night.

Its ace.

He's my battery operated boyfriend.

That is all.
(Grrrrr Tigers, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 12:49, 9 replies)

I used to live with a coke dealer
i did alot of it...alot. I don't think you can grasp the amount, and it was all paid for by cooking and cleaning. I was a bitch but that year was fucking awesome!
( SpookySpoon www.vivino.com/users/hig.func, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 12:31, 13 replies)

I decided
it would be a good idea to study in Italy, the weather would be nice, the food even better and the wine, oh yes, the wine.

I found a great flat with some folk who had an 'interesting' social life. My flatmates friends seemed nice at first and coming from the UK, i got lots of attention, which was a good thing.

It all kicked off one Halloween, i went out dressed as a vampire and had a superb time. A bit later, four of us decided to go back to the flat. We had a few reefers and some of that wine i mentioned earlier.

Things began to get a bit steamy and we headed to the room and my flatmate suggested we had a foursome. I declined as i wasn't that sort of girl, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. So they raped me and cut my throat.

Bye for now

Meredith Kercher
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 11:34, 4 replies)

one way to avoid embarrassment
in 1st year of uni i think i lived with the most disgusting students ever... ok i was just as bad!!

but rob, if you're reading this, what you did was just filthy.

we had all met at one of those "secure a home days" so we didn't really know each other. 2 years later in the 3rd year, each living in a different place rob made a confession...

turns out on the day we moved in rob was unpacking his stuff while our other house mate bren was just settling in the room next door. rob felt a rumble from previous unhealthy diets and positioned his behind to ease a nice trump.

unfortunately for rob it had followed through and now felt himself completely soiled. quickly going to the bathroom to wash him self he soon realised the dilemma he was in, he had just moved in with people he doesn't know and had shat himself! how was he gonna escape the bath room without his new house mates knowing that he shat him self!?!

*Option 1: wear the same pants when leaving and discard them later
(but defeats the purpose of washing him self)

*Options 2: carry the grotty cloth out of bathroom (but theres the risk of new housemates noticing, especially Bren in next room)

good old rob, rob being rob he went for option 3....

to hide the soiled pants in the top part of the toilet swimming around the flush valves and other mechanical stuff.

rob confessed this to us over 2 years later, when we asked if he removed it... well...

yep... you guessed right, it's probably still there now!
(sweatytramp, Wed 4 Mar 2009, 11:30, Reply)

Not so much housemates
as chaps with whom I was at boarding school. I recall a time in the upper sixth when the lads who lived in the corridor commonly known as Rugby Row for reasons self-evident, elected to engage in a new pass-time called "bog wars".

Each boy's (single) room adjoined a sort of shower-loo cupboard thing which was shared with the room next door, and bog wars consisted of trying to block each others' toilets using only bodily waste. After a while, the shit actually protruded above the level of the seat.

When the cleaners came along to do their chatting and drinking tea in the corridor, the heinous heaps of sin in the loos caused two of the three to add to the noisome mountains of arse-cake with vomit, and they refused to clean.

Eventually they had to get the hazmat people in to clean and disinfect.

Height? The biggest pile was about 1'6" at its peak.
(Omnizor Spooning bits of road for breakfast., Wed 4 Mar 2009, 11:24, 1 reply)