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London Road Writers

Housemate Series

Driving with Dave:

It is often said the love of a bloke’s life is not his girl but his car. This certainly seems to be true in some cases, when birthdays, anniversaries and Valentines can be forgotten or passed by with only the bargain card and a bunch of dying flowers from the nearest petrol station. Yet by comparison the beloved motor is pampered with all manner of enhancements; what other sane reason could there be for go faster stripes, ridiculously large spoilers or those noisy double exhausts?

However, even I am forced to admit this is far from universal. Just as you have those men who will spend hours lovingly cleaning their alloys with whosever toothbrush is closest to hand, you also have the other end of the scale. People who prefer their cars to resemble mobile skips. I have often wondered what their dates think when they get picked up; having to push aside assorted fast food containers and piles of old magazines in order to take their seat. I have always wondered just what is living underneath the mounds of rubbish, the odd mouse or escaped hamster. In certain cars I am sure they are well on their way to developing whole new species all together. Personally I cannot wait for the day when the Big Mac Mould Monster finally emerges from under the parcel shelf.

What amazes me more than anything is that the owners of the aforementioned biohazards on wheels seem to remain oblivious to their circumstances. I know my housemate is and he seems to be quite perplexed as to why no one seems to want a lift. Of course after anyone has gotten in the car with him they are put off for other reasons entirely, as aside from those seat of your pants rollercoaster’s, you know the ones where G-Force ripples your cheeks and you feel more than a slight queasiness in your stomach? Well, aside from those few occasions nothing compares to getting into the car with Dave.

Surely you say there is no way anyone can be that bad? Indulge me. Imagine if you can having to climb in over the drivers seat because all the other doors are inoperable and getting the handbrake, or worse the gear stick, wedged up your backside in the process. Then after pushing aside the assorted rubbish to find the seat belt, praying there actually is one, you settle down for your trip. Then hold on, I mean it hold on to anything you can find, start your screaming ladies and gentlemen the fun is just beginning. Welcome to a world where handbrake turns are normal means for negotiating corners, where roundabouts are mere bumps in the road and other cars are simply distractions.

I can tell what you are thinking, exaggerate I do not. Who else but my housemate would think it was a good idea to read and memorise a speech whilst speeding on the M25? I kid you not; it was a best man’s speech on the way to his older brother’s wedding. Needless to say the people who braked in front of him where not best pleased about it, they couldn’t care less that he now knew all the names of the bridesmaids or the mother of the bride. They were more concerned about the nice little pile up his last minute cramming created, delaying them all from important engagements but none more so than the person directly in front. It is quite a feat really making your brother late for his own wedding!

At least he got a new car out of it but honestly: what 23 yr old buys a Megane?

P.S. This new car didn’t last long, but of all the cars to crash into did it have to be a new Porsche? I don’t think he’ll be getting any insurance any time soon!

 

Multiple Dating/ Or Cheating as I prefer to call it:

The art of dating more than one person at once, not getting their interests, jobs, names confused and most importantly not double booking yourself. This is not a talent I have ever claimed to have, not just from the lack of opportunity, but also because of what I like to think of as an evolved sense of self preservation. The probability of disaster has always struck me as too high to counterbalance the rather obvious benefits. Yet despite this there are still some brave, or should I say foolish people, who seem to get high from the illicit thrill of it.

As some of you may know I live in a rather interesting house-share and the occupant of the downstairs room has often been the subject of my literary musings. Yet on no subject his he more apt to study than in the art of multiple dating. He has turned it into something of an art. Who else could manage to secure the almost permanent presence of a rather lovely if somewhat naïve ‘almost girlfriend’ and still find time to indulge in other liaisons on the side?

He has it boiled down to a few simple rules:

Always pick up the lady in question, this will not only place you her good books but it will ensure she never turns up early and catches you in a compromising position.

Make sure that you have a cast iron alibi with one your trusted friends just in case you need to answer that always tricky, and ‘what did you get up to last night’ question.

Never see the same bit on the side more than twice.

These simple rules seem to work for him and so despite a rather poor choice in slappers he has managed to maintain his complex love life quite successfully. If only he had seen fit to circulate this information to my other housemates then perhaps the debacle that occurred last weekend could have been avoided.

I had returned from a weekend away to find the house empty save for Lisa and her new boyfriend, a nice squaddie who was visiting her for the second weekend in the row. Quite a record as normally they don’t make it passed the first, either that or they are totally wrong for her. I kid you not the last two flings had been with a homeless fire-eater, yes such people do exist, and the other a permanently stoned Lothario who was still hung up on his ex. Hence you can imagine my relief to find this one had made it past the crucial second weekend.

Yet the peace was not to last as later that evening when who should arrive at our front door pissed and stoned, yes the Lothario who had decided to surprise my housemate. As you can imagine what followed was a precarious game of Musical Room’s, keeping the current boyfriend from the ex paying a booty call. All of this I could have managed where it not for the ex’s state, as he seemed determined to ignore my requests to wait here or sit there. When we had finally managed to convince him that Lisa did indeed now have a boyfriend and no he didn’t need to meet him, we thought that the worst must now behind us and he would of course leave. We were wrong.

Clearly he was determined to stay the night whether it was convenient or not and preceded to trench up the stairs convinced in his own mind that our other absent housemate had given him permission to use her room. What followed I cannot type down here, but let me just say it involved several hasty phone calls and my raising my voice to a decibel that only dogs and the very young can hear. Finally with the sudden appearance of Deano and Dave and the not so subtle threat of fisticuffs our visitor was persuaded to leave.

What of the new boyfriend I hear you ask? Surely he could not have remained oblivious all this while? All I can say is thank God and Jeremy Clarkson, as for once Top Gear managed to save a relationship.

P.S. Or not in this case it only lasted one more weekend, oh well and on to the next one!

 

The Art of Eviction:

Bear with me dear reader I would not seek to sully your minds with the triviality of reality television evictions; this is no big brother. What I aim to impart is the art of evicting that oh so annoying housemate. Not the one that leaves the toilet seat up or uses your toothpaste, even if they do commit the cardinal sin of squeezing it from the middle. No I am not so petty, this should be saved for the worst of the worst, the housemate from hell.

I had the misfortune in my last move of finding myself lumbered with not one but two such grotesque incumbents. In the room above I had the permanent teenager, the type whose own parents had kicked him out, unable to deal with his behaviour. Whose only friends were a group of sycophantic seventeen year olds, who only hung out with him because they had nowhere else to go and hell anything was better than revising for their exams.

Downstairs it was the Lothario, the one with a different girl every night, all of whom seemed to have an impressive vocal range and acting ability. Oh and not to forget a worrying affection for repetitive music, played at such a decibel that even next door’s woodworm could hear it.

Why I hear you ask did I move in? Simple it was a new share I hadn’t met them, I was foolish and desperate for a place to stay. However that is another story. This concerns a much more satisfying matter, that of getting them out!

Mr Upstairs was my immediate concern, for the time being I could live with my vibrating floor, I could even learn to tolerate and find amusement in cataloguing the number of fake orgasms. Yet there are only so many times you take hysterical teenagers, juggling lit firelighters and hamster torture, before you declare enough is enough.

Step 1: Garnering support:

The support of your fellow housemates is essential, you must ensure there is consensus before any move can be made, so as to avoid the general finger pointing and blame scenarios. A little difficult well housemate from hell No 2 is his friend but you need to find a wedge, a partner, or significant other is the best tool.

Step 2: Soften up the Landlord:

Before making any moves to evict ensure that your own relationship with your landlord is cordial, no late rent or non payments.

Step 3: Wait for a spark:

This is very important; you need to wait until troublemaker does something foolish. In my case it was inviting some fourteen year olds round getting them drunk then locking them in his bedroom whilst he went out. It took a very long ladder and some cajoling to get them out and needless to say their parents were not amused! Then use this incident, make it seem like a spur of the moment decision then make the call.

Step 4: Physical Removal:

Ok so you’ve convinced your housemates, your landlord and the notice has been served but guess what the little pipsqueak decides he’s going to squat, you’re screwed right? Wrong! Get your landlord to send you the master key to his room, book a locksmith for the major doors and then have great fun fling his stuff out the window!

Of course such results are not always instantaneous. Mr Upstairs was child’s play out within a month. Mr Downstairs it took six and more underhand methods, after all it takes a while for an ant infestation to take hold!

 

Harry the Colditz Story:

July 31^{st (Day 1 of Captivity) 7pm:}

Finally got a look at new surroundings; burrowed around already have spotted several weaknesses which I will wait to exploit. Note evidence of previous occupant, yet no sign, assume prisoner deceased.

2nd August (3rd Day of Captivity) 10pm:

Hurray first victory against the humans, waited till the hairy male picked me up, was able to bite and defecate on him, already is giving me more respect! Will work on the south wall this evening, am certain the bottom bubble sphere will give, must wait for the humans to retire they seem suspicious.

3rd August (4th Day Captivity) 3am:

Was right south wall bubble sphere loose, will wait and gather food supplies in cheek pouches, attempt escape tonight after human’s asleep.

3rd August 11pm:

FREEDOM

4th August (1st day Resistance) 9pm:

Have founded new base of operations behind the dishwasher, kept a look out on human activity, human female apparently distressed over missing POW.

7th August 11pm:

Under-cupboard resistance movement proceeding as planned. Found permanent food source, foolish human left bag with in easy reach, have made a discrete hole. Insurgency tactics in hand, Widdling On Vegetables plan nicely underway and Strategic Wire Nibbling plan under development.

10th August 7am:

Curses foiled by female. Was undertaking daily fitness training up the back of the fridge when recapture took place; I am currently imprisoned in exercise ball while the puny humans attempt to reinforce my prison. The fools will they never learn?