Are we...
Are we the baddies?
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Wed 18 Mar 2015, 22:14, Reply)

Greasy John
Filthy fucking West Australian hippy backpacker.

Slept on a fucking yoga mat.

Never bathed. Ever, as a "point of pride". He fucking smelled bad, real bad. Proud to be confrontationally filthy.

Lived in a fucking stupid oversized big heavy army surplus overcoat. (this is in Australia, mind).

He sweated a lot. A real lot. He smelled really, really bad. Lank greasy hair, long fingernails. A dirty, dirty fucking human.

Everything he owned was stored in a large black plastic garbage bag, beside his stupid fucking yoga mat. Nothing was ever washed.

Defined himself as an intellectual, a thinker, a ladies man, a free spirit in a polluted world. A refined, foppish, delivery of speech. Never had a job for the entire time he lived with us. Never pulled a single chick. Had green teeth.

Would phone his Mum for more money when he'd pissed the last of his coin up against the wall, and rent was due.

Haggled over power bills, phone bills, food, smokes, piss and any other vaguely shared expense.

Invited every fucking deadshit loser back to our house after last drinks at the pub, thereby briefly introducing a teenage junkie prostitute and the obligatory accompanying ultra violent cunt with facial tattoos called "Craigie" into our Living room, whereby they stayed for some days.


I had a big party, lots of people came, everyone witnessed his filth and his deluded worldly airs.

At the height of the party, we flung his black plastic garbage bag into the raging fireplace and prodded him with a broom, down the hallway, out into the cool evening air, slamming the door as he made to return into the house.


Never heard from him, or saw him ever again.



Greasy John. Filthy useless cunt.
( Ken Oath, Wed 18 Mar 2015, 13:39, 7 replies)

Cheers

( $$ ✅, Wed 18 Mar 2015, 8:57, 5 replies)

The smells, the smells...
It was our own fault. We had a spare bedroom and not much money. He had a job, worked shifts (which indicated that we wouldn’t see much of him) and needed somewhere to live. We were warned, it has to be said, by another friend of ours who, after sharing with him for six months or so, had resorted to leaving copies of the Evening Standard and Loot out with all relevant flatshares circled in red marker (he didn’t even notice, apparently). But we'd known him for a while and were convinced that he couldn’t be that bad. How wrong we were.

Just after he moved in I arrived home to find him sat on the toilet with the door wide open. In the broadest of Welsh accents (perhaps that should have been another tell-tale sign) he explained that he had a ‘lazy bowel’ and had to take his medication once a week to clear it. In other words, he took an enema and we had to sit there and listen to him farting and shitting for a couple of hours each week, during which time he insisted on holding conversations with us through the open door, more or less opposite the lounge.

Naturally, during this time we couldn’t use the bathroom – and neither did we want to for the next few hours, either. It only took us a couple weeks or so to realise that his lazy bowel was more likely to be due to amount of shit food that he ate – never touched either a vegetable or anything that might have been considered fibre in the most faintest of definitions.

One weekend he was massively hungover and was violently sick in the toilet. He came straight back into the lounge, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, picked up a 2-litre bottle of Coke and, after taking a huge gulping swig, offered it to the pair of us, saying ‘Want a drink?’ This would be funny if we didn’t know that there was no humour involved – he thought he was being polite.

But worst of all was the smell. We never knew exactly what caused it – he didn’t have BO and was quite fastidious about showering etc. But every time his bedroom door was open, the smell was enough to make anyone heave. It was a weird mixture of everything considered offensive – shit, vomit, old socks, pungent farts, rotting vegetation – you name it and it could be partially identified in there. It got to the point where it could even be detected when the door was shut - we had a small central landing and since all the doors were close to each other and his room was next to the lounge, it soon became completely unbearable. So when he disappeared back to Wales for his days off, one of us (usually me) would take a deep breath, throw his door open and run into his room, opening all the windows wide. Not that it made much difference.

The difficulty in dealing with this was that he was actually a very nice guy. He was very kind-hearted but just seemed to have absolutely no idea of what he was doing – although I doubted that after we’d told him directly and he still claimed not to understand. He was, to be brutally honest, one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen (genuine Neanderthal features, inaccurately and unfairly nicknamed Quasimodo when we'd worked together) and had a horrendous upbringing.

We tried very hard to be understanding - but I bet that, even for the most tolerant of people, the persistent smell of shite is not one of the many personal traits that it’s possible to cope with when home-sharing.

He didn’t even leave, in the end. He was forced to move because we split up (and to this day she still partially blames his presence, although I’m not convinced) and even then he wanted to come and share a place with me. It didn’t happen.

Alt: Smelly cunt ruins domestic harmony. Not quite the way it sounds.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Wed 18 Mar 2015, 2:12, Reply)

The old guy
room smelt of sour milk. I mean wtf?
(bottle_cap, Tue 17 Mar 2015, 23:41, Reply)

Bob's epiphany.
It has been alleged that in a shared house in Birmingham there lived four people. Two were a couple (M&F) and there were two others. One was a god bothering meek type and there was Bob (name changed to protect the guilty).
Bob was a snidey little f$ck rat who quite fancied himself as a hard man as he had been allowed to go to a football match ON HIS OWN by his mummy. As the male half of the couple was a 6'7" south african Bob decided to try his hardman act on the godbotherer who, as a result, became a recluse in his room.
Bob then tried to use mindfuck tactics on the female half of the couple. Moving and hiding stuff, breaking things deliberately, ordering stuff in her name, screwing with computers etc. As I said, a really weaselly waste of blood and organs, but nothing could be proved. The shared house was empty in December and the female housemate had to go back to her parents place as this little dick was making her life miserable.
Bob then put on the heating at max and put all the hot water taps to run FOR A MONTH while everyone was away, him included. He wasn't responsible for the gas bill and tried to blame said stunt on female housemate.His excuse every fucking time was, What's the matter, can't you take a joke"?
Female housemate's dad got involved. Female housemate's dad found out that Bob's favourite film was hostel.


Bob lost control of his bodily functions when he awoke one morning cable tied to a chair (allegedly)naked with clips attached to his genitals running to a mains socket (not actually wired in but he didn't know that). The screaming and pleading was (allegedly) a sight to behold. This turned to vomit-inducing terror when a series of power tools were paraded in front of his terrified eyes by three very large masked men in bloodstained overalls(allegedly).
Left alone in the house with one light on illuminating the countdown timer attached to the cables attached to his genitalia was (allegedly) the thing which pitched him over the edge. (allegedly)After he fainted, all was put back to normal and all evidence was totally removed. He left uni and is now clinically paranoid, terrified of the dark, won't sleep unless all the lights are on and the house is locked down and checked over and over. He'll be a chain round his useless over indulgent weak twattish parents necks for the rest of their lives, with any luck he'll top himself.


Don't fuck with my daughter Bob.
(Captain Placid Spraypaint the vegetables, Fri 6 Apr 2007, 10:40, Ignore, Reply)
( The Doveston haunted by the memory of his own amnesia, Tue 17 Mar 2015, 12:51, 53 replies)

Identity theft
So my housemate was cooking something up in the kitchen. When I asked him what it was he told me he was boiling his receipts so nobody stole his credentials. We split the bills 50/50 and it was nice to know that his half was being put to good use.

He slept in the room above me on a wooden floor with a duvet for a mattress and his phone on the floor, set to loud tone, vibrate on, playing an ice cream van ringtone at 6am every morning. Didn't mind the ice cream van but I could have done without the vibrating wooden floor alarm call every morning.
(ed-z, Tue 17 Mar 2015, 11:01, Reply)

I once house shared with Bea Arthur.
Not once did she lube up.
(Roger McGough-Pipe, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 19:19, 3 replies)

House of Cunts
When I first passed through the Omnivoox and entered (ooer) your world, I was greatly confused and discombombulated, and worked for a while in a fast food establishment. You can read all about that here:

www.b3ta.com/questions/fantasists/post2298886

Whilst working there I lived in a dilapidated ramshackle Victorian slum tenemant shared hovel with half a dozen odd other cunts. From hell? I wish! The domain from which these cunts hailed made hell look like Pontins. And I include myself in that - my seventh incarnation was a complete cunt. An insane, ginger one, at that.

The other cunts in that House of Cunts, as far as I can recall through those omnivoox-addled early years, were:

Mahab Mahan Masturbhatta: A slim young dark skinned fellow who lived to masturbate. All he did was wank! You'd go downstairs in the morning to see him naked and pumping his greased cock over a video of Annabel Chong being fucked by hundreds of blokes. Or you'd find cum-caked copies of Oriental Anal in the bog. Sometimes he'd go mad and leap naked around the house masturbating, shrieking 'WANKAAAA! WANKAAAA! WANKAAAA! WANKAAAAGHHHH!' and then ejaculating over the wallpaper, saucepans, cat etc. He never cleaned his room or changed his bedsheets, and the smell was indescribable. Indescribable.

Tipp-A-Tapp the Clown: A clown. Never found out his real name, but he went by the 'professional' name of Tipp-A-Tapp. His clown costume was made of rubber and he wore an enormous sombrero. His 'act' involved creeping up on women and exposing himself. Fair enough, but when in the house he would play 'Initial Success' by B.A. Robinson over and over again and an intolerable volume. To this day I can't hear 'Kool in the Kaftan' without breaking out in hives.

Ruth: I think she was a prostitute, but I never saw money change hands. Again, never knew her real name, I just called her Ruth cos she looked like Ruth Madoc. Only had one leg and smoked endless cigarettes (very rare those). Yes, I fucked her, more than once - many times. I dind't care how infected she was. More fool me as I ended up with galloping knobb rot and all green stuff came out of the end of my cock and it was so bad I almost regenerated.

Partley Parsons: an alcoholic, out of work actor. Never sober, he would regularly descend into shrieking fits of self-loathing during which he would strip naked, smear himself in his own shitt, then run after you and try to hug you whilst screaming: 'WHYYY does nobody love me?' Seems to be doing OK now though, saw him in Wolf Hall the other week.

Giggly Gus: A small, thin, bespectacled guy, who would just giggle and giggle. And giggle and giggle. And giggle and giggle. And giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle.

Bhougremious Fpoon: An Irasian (?) man in his 50s who was convinced he had invented a supercomputer which he had built in his room but it was really only a massive pile of junk, shopping trollies, calculators, televisions, prams, tampons, cereal packets etc which smelt almost as bad as Mahab Mahan Masturbhatta's room. His cuntery involved him always talking in an extremely loud voice, and never flushing the bog after having a big shit.

Sir Doggly Satanblaster: He SAID he was a priest, but he looked like Jeff Wode/Meatloaf. He was in a metal band called FUCKAKUNT who would practice in the living room. Nice chap, actually - except for his habit of painting tiny faces onto Rice Krispies and leaving them on the stairs for you to tread on and crush - upon which he would kick the living shit out of you. I always used to use the drainpipe to get to my room to avoid this. He was great friends with Tipp-A-Tapp, they bonded over B.A. Robertson.

Katie Hopkins. Enough said!

Anyway, after a couple of months there I'd had enough so I got my revenge one night. I burnt it down! And they all died! IN A FIRE!*

(*Except Hopkins unfortunateley)

LAIGH8TERZ SWEEETIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESZZZZZZZZZ!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 18:48, 9 replies)

Knicker boiling
At university my (now) wife shared a house with a girl who thought the only way to keep her knickers clean was to boil them. Fair enough, you might think. But not if she decided to boil them in the saucepan you normally cook your pasta in, and stir them with the big wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer. And especially not if, when you challenge her about it, she tells you that she's been using that pot and spoon for months and no-one's complained about it yet.
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 17:10, 10 replies)

Something something coming and going at all times of day or night
Something doesn't have a job something something lazy as fuck something something shits in the corner of the kitchen and expects me to clean it up something something turns out he's a cat
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 16:20, 16 replies)

Ironing Board
In my first year of uni I was 'lucky' enough to get a room in one of the housing blocks close to campus. Each block had 12 rooms, toilets/showers, kitchen and a communal area with a table, chairs and a large freezer for us to share.

One dinner time we all headed toward the freezer to collect our bulk buy goodies to bang in the oven for 15-20 minutes, only to discover them defrosted and largely unfit for purpose. A few of us tried to cook as much as we could so as not to waste it and the rest was binned.

It transpired that a housemate and all round bell-end from Glasgow who I'll call Alistair (for that was his name) had decided to unplug the freezer so he could instead iron his 'pulling shirt' for a big night out at the local union bar.

After Alistair repeated this stunt another 2 times over the following 3 month period and 'laughed it off', it was decided that he wasn't taking the matter seriously enough.

We trussed him up with his beloved ironing board fixed horizontally across his chest and his hands tied together. This effectively stopped him from using a phone or even leaving the communal room to seek assistance. We left him there for the whole day while we attended lectures/the pub.

He never unplugged the freezer again.
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 15:55, 2 replies)

My last flatmate smashed every glass I had, shouted at 6am and threatened to stick a knife in our noisy neighbour's back
I avoid sharing my flat these days, except with guinea pigs.
(Porcupine, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 15:49, 2 replies)

Oilrigs
Sharing a cabin no bigger than a room in a halls of residence. Drives you insane. With there being no drink, no women, and no escape from the grim industrial surroundings, no wonder you end up taking refuge in chocolate and porn. (The vids being swapped are the nastiest things I've seen outside of 4chan. "Anal Acrobats" got great plaudits).
(McChinaman banned, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 15:43, 1 reply)

The guy who kept all his nail clippings in a dish and showed it to every friend I brought round
Made me shudder, that did.
(Porcupine, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 13:07, 9 replies)

The Crossbow Killer.
I lived in a shared flat in Stafford Uni's tower blocks in the early 90s. One flatmate had a liking for weapons - he had a replica of Deckard's pistol in Bladerunner, an air rifle which had double maglite sight and was uprated , several paintball guns and a blank firing desert eagle replica which he once fired in the flat and left a ringing in our ears for two days.
His prize weapon was a full-size crossbow. Moments of madness included firing it through our front door, across the hall and into the neighbours front door and the time he shot one of the doves which visited the balcony of everybody's flats. We got some right stick from the female inhabitants of the tower blocks for that. Might be because he shot it point blank through its head and left the bloodied corpse at the foot of the flats for a full day. The bolt disappeared into the council estate somewhere. We never found it.
( Jabberwoc misses D.R. and Quinch, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 10:21, Reply)

"Come on then, I've got twenty minutes," said nurse Gladys.
"Blimey, twenty, you're g-g-g-generous. I'll dump my muck in five," replied Arkwright.
Nurse Gladys pushes him on to the table and starts to kiss him. "I love the smell of stale sweat and Old Spice," she whispered. Arkwright breaks from the embrace. "Wait! What if Granville comes back?"
"He won't. You've sent him round the estate. That boy is thicker than the mould around those loaves out there."
"That's not mould that's m-m-m-maturing."
They take off their clothes and start kissing. Granville enters holding a loaf of bread.
"Eer, Mrs. Winthrope doesn't like her loaf," he notices the two embracing. "By eck!"
"G-G-G-Granville get out of here. I'm trying to bust me nut in Gladys."
"Let's make him watch. It will learn him."
"I best get back," Granville uttered.
"No, stay," Gladys fired back.
Granville studies them. He proceeds to touch himself only stopping every time Arkwright makes eye contact.
( $$ ✅, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 9:49, 8 replies)

I had two housemates
Both lived upstairs from me.

One of them rarely emerged from his room except to answer the door to the Pizza Hut delivery man and scoot back to his room with his trophy.

He didn't even leave his room to use the bathroom -- he collected enormous empty orange squash bottles and pissed in them.

I finally managed to get him to talk to me long enough to ask why. Apparently he was scared to come out of his room because he was scared of the other upstairs housemate's (admittedly very loud and indistinguishable from roars of pain) sneezes.

He lived with me for a year and spent 364 of those days unemployed, the 365th being spent working at a Christmas pudding packing factory which he refused to return to because he claimed nobody else spoke English there.

And despite only being 21 or so he had a collection of pipes that would have put a 1970s geography teacher with leather elbow patches to shame.
(Rise and Fall of the Atomic Cabbage Haven't you heard of suspension of disbelief?, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 3:46, Reply)

Can I just type whatever I want in here?
I've never even had a housemate and yet here I am posting, shitting up your website space.
(hieronymus bosch pcmechanic 4ver in ar harts, goodnite sweet angle, Mon 16 Mar 2015, 1:09, 1 reply)

I shared a student house with Beelzebub.

( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Sun 15 Mar 2015, 20:49, 6 replies)

I once ended up sat next to Melanie Sykes at a charity dinner
After desserts and the cheese board, a packet of posh square minty chocolates was passed round.

And that's how some eights from Mel came my way.
(localboy purveyor of pisspoor puns, Sun 15 Mar 2015, 19:16, Reply)

Housemate from hell...
He was working in telesales but hated it. One weekend he decided to drown his sorrows with a catering sized bag of disco biscuits and proceed to ask his boss "why the fuck was he ringing him on a Sunday?" when he'd rung to see where he was at 11am Monday morning.

I was working at home at the time so was now lumbered with a tailspinning self destructor with the money from a payoff in his pocket. Cue much hilarity and many more of said disco biscuits which culminated in me walking back in from popping out to get some milk for a cup of tea one lunchtime, only to find him on the living room sofa, hanging out the back of the first of three ladies of questionable repute that he employed that particular day. It took me a moment to realise what was going on in which time he'd turned to me with a grin from ear to ear and winked.

The last I saw of him was handing him over to his parents early one morning so they could take him to the airport to catch a flight to Australia. He could barely walk as he'd taken it upon himself to neck the last dozen or so of his pills before going. The look of horror on their faces haunts me to this day...
(jonny_the_boy, Sat 14 Mar 2015, 6:30, 1 reply)

Nice
If you reply to this you are a massive list making nonce
( spanishfly is so fucking sexy people impersonate him, Sat 14 Mar 2015, 1:26, 9 replies)

Knock, knock.
I think this one does deserve a proper recount. I'll leave it to you to decide who the Housemate from Hell is.
Lived in a shared house in a swanky 'burb. House was old but well kept. I lived in a 2 room granny flat off the laundry - it was great, I could come and go as I pleased and probably had easily double the space of the guy who had the master bedroom. And my own toilet.
Recently broken up with my gf of a few years so - footloose and fancy free and sowing all the wild oats I could.
Hooked up with a semi-regular fuck - chubby girl, 8/10 face and gorgeous tits the top half of which she didn't mind showing off to the rest of the world. Oh and she loved wearing fishnets - which is kinda my Kryptonite.

Housemate asks if he can hide his gf's birthday prezzie under my bed - so she won't find it. Yeah whatever.

Bring Fishnets home. She's flashing lots of cleavage and told me over dinner at the pub that under her short skirt she's sporting her stockings and nothing else. I had to wash my hands a few times during that meal.
We've got home and I've ripped a hole in the fishnets - a kink we both found we enjoyed and I'm happily sipping from the furry cup. I hear some housemates arrive home - vaguely remember that it's someone's birthday, but meh too busy right now. Anyway - on with the show. I've turned her over and she's bent over my bed as I go to work. I'm getting there but nowhere near the vinegar strokes.

Housemate, his gf and a couple of their friends burst through my door to come and get her birthday present. They're met by the sight of me kneeling behind Fishnets, my pants around my ankles and my hirsute arse madly pumping away into her. Bent over my bed. The bed under which housemates gf's gift is hidden. "SURPRI...." he started to shout to his gf. Oh and it was.
They exited, post haste. We tidied ourselves up and I solemnly took the gift out to waiting housemate. Fishnets bailed as quickly as she could out my back door (not a euphemism) and that was that. Had many more fun times with her but strangely she always wanted to go back to hers after that.

Tl;dr: If you live in a shared house it's always a good idea to knock on your housemate's door prior to entering.
(shitposter from the anals of posteriority on, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 23:50, 7 replies)

AL-coholic
On the Monday after a particularly heavy weekend, Alistair was not having a good one. I came back home from work to find an upended can of beans, with some carefully placed bread triangles around. "Al, what is that?", I asked. "It's for the birds!", he said as he ate his muesli from a saucepan.
(bowlax, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 21:17, 6 replies)

I once lived in a house owned by another medical student known to everyone as 'Psycho Will', a nice bloke but a little difficult to live with due to his extreme impulsive behaviour and sexual deviancy.
He was responsible for several ludicrously costly, messy and obscene but well-attended house parties including a naked bouncy castle party, a naked hot-tub party, a sex-toy themed fancy dress orgy and a mud wrestling party where he sourced large amounts of compost from a local garden centre, tipped them into a giant paddling pool full of freezing water and then forced his guests to strip off and do battle. Inevitably the cleaning up would be left to me and his long-suffering girlfriend.
His favourite party trick was to pull his knob out and hit girls in the face with it, which he called 'binking'. He had a couple of moderately attractive lesbian friends who seemed quite willing to do his bidding, whether it was trying to seduce his friends or performing sex acts on each other for his viewing pleasure.

I lost touch with him a couple of years after medical school, but according to facebook he's now a happily married orthopaedic consultant.
( 2 Can Chunder Word to your mums, I came to prod bums, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 17:05, 5 replies)

Simon and the MDMA
Simon was a plant geneticist with whom I shared a flat in 1998/9. His main interests in life were belching, wearing shorts, and going out to get off his chops on a Friday night.

The rest of the occupants of the flat and I learned that it was a good idea not to be around when he came back home. Should anyone still be awake when his taxi pulled up, we had a few moments to vacate the communal areas; but we didn't always notice the taxi. Sometimes someone would still be around when the door opened.

Now, I'm not hugely familiar with the informal pharmacopeia, but I believe that Ecstasy is supposed to be a relaxing kind of drug that makes you love your fellow human. Simon was perplexingly resistant to this effect. Indeed, MDMA had an unexpected effect on him: he got aggressive. More aggressive than he was in sober hours.

And so it was that, on one occasion early one Saturday morning - or late on Friday, depending on your perspective - Simon stumbled into what passed as a living room before the rest of the flat's occupants had had time to scarper. His small eyes fixed on Paul, and he leaned in menacingly.
"YOU LOOK AS THOUGH YOU THINK I'VE GOT A TURNIP ON MY HEAD. HAVE I GOT A TURNIP ON MY HEAD?" he bellowed.

Paul looked scared. This was justifiable: Simon was about seven times his size.
"Well, HAVE I? Have I got a FUCKING TURNIP on my head?"
"Er... no..." he offered, timidly.
"Good," hissed Simon. "'Cos if you'd said I had, I'd've fucking KILLED you!"

And with that, he wandered off to bed. Paul, meanwhile, hyperventilated in a corner.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 16:12, 3 replies)

The Hellraiser Room
We had a spare room that had nothing in it apart from a blood stained mattress on the floor. Most guests chose to sleep on the sofa.
(Baggenfrock get fucked, Fri 13 Mar 2015, 15:27, 7 replies)