Urge to kill flatmate RISING

As dedicated followers (all two of you) of my adventures in Las Espanas will know, I got myself a new flat almost two months ago…

This is a spacious and altogether pleasant place. But of course, there’s a hitch. This is me, after all.
The hitch comes in the form of the two other people sharing the flat with me: the pair whom I affectionately refer to as ‘the frogs’. I know it’s rather cruel to be stereotyping nationalities in this day and age, but then again I’m a cruel heartless bastard.
Things have been, for the most part, just fine. There’s the occasional silence regarding the piles of dishes in the sink, but mostly tranquility reigns supreme. That was, until Monday this week…
On Monday, I answered the door to see Ana, an eighteen year old spanish girl (Belgian and French family) who was asking us could we ‘help her fill out a survey’ for her college course in Sociology. We know this young lady on account of her being the daughter of the landlord’s best mate who lives around the corner.
We sit down and start answering questions. Lame fucking questions. Seriously lame fucking questions. After about five minutes of this incoherent meandering buffonery, I began to smell a rat and absconded to watch TV, citing medical reasons for my pulling out of the great survey. I think I said something about having a headache. In reality, I was suffering from a homicidal urge to smash an ashtray into her mawkish face.
Why? Because, it became abundantly clear that this whole things was a bullshit story to get into see my French flatmate, Fabien. My suspicions were first aroused when I noticed her breasts practically hanging out of her top, the almost overpowering stench of perfume and the pouty-mouthed erotic sighing every time that Fabien spoke.
My suspicions were confirmed when she ‘forgot’ her cigarettes and phoned Fabien later that night to ask him could he drop them around. He dutifully did and as a thankyou, she promptly went down on him. Classy.
So, what’s me problem? What’s the jazz with me giving out about a fella getting some? Has Damien become such a twisted, embittered old bastard that he can’t even find it in his withered black little heart to be happy for his French pal who (lets face it) is riding a notably attractive, nubile 18 year old? Probably.
However, me problem arises from what has been happening in the last four days: I get home from work at about 9pm. Every time that I have done so this week, herself and himself have been hogging the two good seats (i.e. the ones that have upholstery) in front of the TV. This has been getting in the way of my important hobby of sitting and watching BBC World and shouting and screaming like an impotent dickhead every time the Shrub appears on TV.
Furthermore, the pair of them have been sucking face like they are trying to extract oxygen from each others lungs. Perhaps I am a prude but there is a time and a place. The time is negotiable, but the place is his fucking bedroom. I actually shouted ‘Get a fucking room’ at one stage when their slurping and slobbering was preventing me from hearing Tony Blairs’ latest obfuscation over dead Iraqi civilians.
I give it a week before I go postal.

damien

Damien DeBarra was born in the late 20th century and grew up in Dublin, Ireland. He now lives in London, England where he shares a house with four laptops, three bikes and a large collection of chairs.