Written by The Unknown for the benefit of The Unlearned
Nightmares of Life No. 1 - renting the downstairs room in your student house.
2100hrs - the luvvies decide it is time to shout up and down the stairs at each other with their most annoyingly sloany phrases, mainly comprising "Gosh!", "Crikey!" and "Really!".
2200hrs - said luvvies now decide they must bark down the telephone (cunningly positioned right outside your door) at the people they call their friends. These are usually people with awful public school induced nicknames that remind you of watching playschool: there's Floss, Cleo, Foxy and Porscha. Porscha?! What's her mother called? Paula Yates? Doh. Anyway, this ear-whithering garbage continues incessantly as you try in vain to complete that week overdue essay that must be in first thing tomorrow or else your lecturer will eat your balls.
2230hrs - balls preservation is sidelined for a well-intentioned hour down the boozer in an attempt to gain some poet inspiration through the consumption of the odd alcoholic beverage. Said plan goes masterfully wrong as you forget the whole logistics of the operation and drink as much as possible before closing time and return home a new man, ie a bimbling fuckwit.
2330hrs - collapse on bed and sleep, preferably fully-clothed to avoid wasting time with such prepostrous events as getting dressed in the morning.
0300hrs - woken by the telephone. Hope in vain that it will go away if you hide your head underneath the duvet for long enough. No such luck. Crawl drunkenly to the door and answer the telephone to be greeted by Floss or Foxy or Fluffy Bunny & Co asking for one of the 'luvvies'. Tell them non-too discreetly where they can stick their Eton accent as well as their stupid fucking name. Back to bed.
0620hrs - woken up as the keen flat-mate slams the front door on her way to work. The previous night's alcohol consumption momentarily reminds you of the horrors it will shortly induce upon your head before you collapse back into a fitful, dry-mouthed doze.
0830hrs - rudely woken once again, this time by the noise of the two scientists making their breakfast and, despite their apparently intrinsic technological abilities, managing to swear profusely for the billionth morning in a row at the toaster burning their toast and the kettle being hot (strange that). The apparent lack of bodily fluids that your body reminds you of causes an involuntary trip into the kitchen for some anti-gag. Feel shite. Sit down and ask yourself: "What’s wrong with these people?"