Tuesday, 21 December 2010

A Bad Smell (Part 2)

As I said in my last post, I don't know if K was guilty or not. The girl (who he referred to as his sister to me and as his cousin to my housemate on seperate occasions) withdrew her accusation for some reason and the case was dismissed through lack of evidence.

Still, this was not our problem. Our problem was that we had an extra person living with us who wasn't contributing to rent and bill payments and who often made us late to university by spending unfair amounts of time in the bathroom in the morning. For someone who stank of mould, K took a ridiculous amount of showers. Maybe he bathed in mayonnaise. About once a week, he and our housemate would argue over his infidelities with other unattractive women and he would storm out the house with a little suitcase choking back tears and claiming "this is really it, this time. I love her, you know. I LOVE her" before returning half an hour later with fried chicken and prawn crackers. Eventually we stopped hoping as it was thoroughly demoralising wiping our friend's tears to then see her pick up the phone and refer to him as "babes".

Lacking the balls to kick him out by force (I'm a pussy and the girls are girls) we decided to resort to passive aggressive behaviour. Whenever he was in the shower, for example, we would fiddle with the boiler, turning it up to maximum power for a few seconds to burn him then turning it off completely so he wouldn't be able to continue washing.

I shaved my arse, sac and gooch with his electric razor and pissed onto his toothbrush whenever it crossed my mind to do so.

But the real beauty of our campaign was the postal blockade. Any letters addressed to him were secretly confiscated, read, then torn up and disposed of. I am most proud of one from his bank which warned him that he had entered his unarranged overdraft and would be charged £15 per day until the money was paid back. Of course, not having read the warning letter, he paid the maximum £150 per month the bank could charge him and found out the hard way from the ATM which never lies. Too far? Consider it rent.

Sometimes the ends justify the means.

Sunday, 19 December 2010

A Bad Smell (Part 1)

For some reason, when there's an elephant in the room, people tend to ignore it. After all, surely there's a reason for it being there and - if there isn't - what can you do about it? It's a fucking elephant.

I spent last year living with four friends and an elephant (which, for the sake of coherency, I will hereby refer to as K). K was the boyfriend of one of my housemates and somehow managed to move into our house and live there rent-free for an entire year.

I suppose at first we just assumed he was going to be living there for a few weeks at most and we didn't kick up a fuss about it for the sake of maintaining good relations with his girlfriend, who - at the time - was a good friend of ours. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into a year.

Oh, did I mention he stank? Seriously, he smelt disgustingly of pubic sweat and cheese. The kind of smell that Creationists use as an argument for God's existence: only the almighty could create a smell this rancid. He smelt like the sweat between your penis and your balls after a hot day in the office.

I don't know why he smelt so bad, perhaps because he spent all day vegetating on the sofa watching daytime television and marinating in Cheetos dust.

I dread to think what his pubic region smelt like, but I'm going to have to because it reminds me of a story.

The girls all went to the cinema to watch Valentine's Day while I, bearing a grudge against most of the cast (seriously: Ashton Kutcher, Taylor Swift, Bradley Cooper, Jessica Alba, Emma Roberts and her cunt aunt Julia Roberts), stayed at home. The girls came home in a terrible mood, which I thought was because of the movie sucking, but it turns out K's girlfriend had received a phone call from K during the screening to say that he had been arrested. His girlfriend immediately swore he was innocent, but would not initially reveal what the crime was. As we were waiting in the living room for her to get home from the police station, we joked that he had been arrested on suspicion of something dirty like rape.

It was rape.

"But the girl is obviously lying. I know he didn't do it because - without going into too much detail - he came home to me that night and we did things that....you know....I would have been able to tell if...I mean...I would know."

I think she was talking about fellatio, where the smell of another woman's vagina and blood is obviously a deal breaker for most women. Most women, however, are repulsed by nut musk so I really don't know if he did it or not.

It isn't, but rape is.

(To be continued)

Friday, 17 December 2010

Valentine Wine

A while ago, not knowing how to spend a cold winter evening, I decided to watch P.S I Love You with a bottle of wine. I hadn't yet got round to watching it because I'd assumed from the title and premise that it was shit. Unsurprisingly, I was not mistaken. The movie is an abomination and if it hadn't been for the wine I think I would have switched it off within the first five minutes when this happens.

Wine-making has changed dramatically over the years. Like many trades, there are those who are passionate about their craft and this passion is substantiated by the quality of their products. There are also those who focus on quantity, which I find utterly abhorrent. Below is a 1.5 litre bottle of wine which any tasteless person can buy in the supermarket round the corner from my house for €2, although I must stress that only a low-life would do so.

Two Euros and two hours later and the movie has finished, although my brain had stopped paying attention at around the one hour mark and had been focusing on how stress-relieving it would be to strangle Phoebe from Friends. It was around this point that my housemate came home and my misguided libido kicked into play.

Although she is very attractive, I have no desire to engage romantically with her. After all, you shouldn't shit where you eat. I tell myself this and then I realise that we are lying in bed together smoking and that her hair smells really nice and not like tobacco.

Let me share with you, if I may, a technique I invented for picking up girls. It's fairly useless as it requires the girl to be lying in bed with you and your arm to be around her, but I find it breaks the ice and allows you to progress from talking to tonguing in a matter of minutes. I call it The Tickle Technique and I've had fan-mail from it.

Like many techniques, the Tickle Technique relies heavily on physical contact. While many girls do not like being dragged onto you by force, by tickling them from the other direction they have no choice but to roll closer to you. Repeat this until lips are touching then insert the tongue. Easy.

Unfortunately, I think this is too easy. It is also easy to blame the wine or the tactic for my actions, but if it wasn't for them I could still have my morning coffee in the kitchen rather than scuttling back to my room with it to avoid conversation.