Just booked myself a man with a van. This time next week I shall be Douchebag free :-)

Now, I need a job back in Yorkshire… help?

So, last night things got lairy. I got home from the gym to find Douchebag cleaning dog poo off the cream carpets (brilliant) before he started to have a go at me for putting up an advert on Spareroom.

Now, I agree, the advert is a little harsh (see last post) but it is true, and doesn’t name him, so quite why his receding hair-lined head exploded all over the kitchen is completely beyond me.

Anyway, first off he tried to worry me by claiming; “If you knew anything about journalism, you’d know this is slander.” To which I pointed out to the imbecile; “If YOU knew anything about journalism, you’d know that slander is the spoken word and defamation is the written word - you pillock - and for it to be defamation it has to be false, which of course… it is not.”

He then tried to tell me to move out immediately and I quote; “Get out now, go to your parents, or don’t they want you either? Cant they stand you?” to which I simply replied with the obvious answer; “Stuart, you were adopted, PLEASE don’t lecture me about my parents not wanting me.” Harsh. But true.

This tit for tat went on for a good hour and half, with him complaining that I ‘take over’ HIS house… the cretin doesn’t realise that when you take on lodgers, the whole point is to SHARE the residence, and at £325 a frigging month, I should be able to hang my washing on the radiators.

- He then complained about my bunny poo-ing on the flags in the garden - Whilst I pointed at his dogs crap in the middle of the lawn.

 - Complained about me cooking fish which smells - After his Thai bride had just knocked up some meal.

- Threatened not to give me my deposit back because I had got fake tan on the mattress protector, right after calling me ‘scratty’ when I asked if he had OCD - Erm, hello? Isn’t it scratty to rent the room out after I’m gone and NOT replace the mattress protector? You MONG!

- Told me I had no proof that he had been a complete and utter nutjob and that the claims in my Spareroom advert were total fabrication and he CAN sue me - To which I told him there was an entire blog dedicated to his weird little ways to back up my claims and I shall impart the URL when I leave.

- Moaned that I wrote about him in an advert rather than confronting him face-to-face - I reminded him that he writes notes everywhere instead of confronting face-to-face

- Said I had no respect for him or my privacy by walking around & answering the door in my underwear… Now I DO NOT look good in underwear, and I would never, EVER walk around the house in it (that’s probably been in his pervy dreams or something) yet, if it bothers him so much that I put my make up on with the bathroom door open and my PJ’s… Why on earth does he insist on sleeping with the bedroom door open.

You see guys, he was making all these points, but they were points that he doesn’t adhere to himself, and when I pointed that out, he came back with the caveman response of “It’s my house, I’ll do what I want.” Brilliant, very mature, and he accuses me of thinking I’m better than him because I have a journalism degree? I don’t think it’s the degree that makes me any better, I think it’s just that I am a normal human being.

Anyway, who wants a link to his Facebook page? My parting gift to you….

Trying to get me out with two weeks notice. Illegal.

Got home today to find a massive mound of washing on my bed, my washing basket moved from the bathroom into my bedroom and a clothes airer against my wardrobe.

In my pokey room this is not good. Douchebag swanning in and out of my room as he pleases is also not good. Luckily the drawer with my vibrator in was ajar, so at least he could see a dick, although he probably thought he was looking in a mirror.

Anyway, I went downstairs to confront him about going in my room. (Which I pay £200+ a month for) whenever he pleases. He came back with the following…

1) Its my house, I can go where I want

2) You shouldn’t dry your underwear on the radiators where people can see (he told me off for using the dryer and wasn’t meant to be home until tomorrow anyway)

3) You’re ‘monopolising’ the bathroom with your washing basket and toiletry hatbox . (He doesn’t use my bathroom though…)

4) The washing basket is stopping the door from opening. (In the 8 months I’ve lived here, its never blocked the door)

So, I have decided to find somewhere new… After all, I also discovered he’s been in prison and has a child he doesn’t have anything to do with… Which he neglected to tell his thai bride… But I’m saving those little gems for when she’s here just before I leave.

One word. Douche.

So, last night I got home from a weekend in Harrogate with just 6 minutes to go until Top Gear started. Enough time to wash my hair, get my PJ’s on and not miss too much of the show. Excellent plan…

Until of course, I wandered into the house to find no heating or hot water on (Standard. Captain Douchebag religiously turns it off when he’s not in) and then the alarms started going off.

I was so tired from the drive that I almost dropped and rolled thinking I was under attack or something, until I realised that the utter mongoloid had set the alarm. Which of course, he’s never bothered to give me the code for.

What could I do? Bloody nothing… he wouldn’t answer his phone and was probably laughing to himself as he enjoyed a date with another woman - he’s often cheating on his girlfriend, the little scumbag.

So, I sat in my car, cranked up some Parkway Drive and waited for someone to arrive…..

After a while, one of the neighbours came to help and we tried to turn the alarm off at the fuse box, but the alarm had a 2 hour backup battery anyway, so no doubt it would start squealing in the middle of Lark Rise To Candleford on iPlayer.

In the end, the neighbours invited me in to their house for a drink whilst I left the house screaming that it was being robbed. I sat there, interrupting a married couple’s cosy pre-valentines night in, whilst watching the house glowing blue every few seconds. You had to laugh, as much as Douchebag had clearly done it to make a point, it’s HIM the neighbours will hate. Not me.

Anyway, about 45 minutes later he calls back with the opening line; “Is it the alarm?”

IS IT THE ALARM?!?!? F*CK ME, YOU COMPLETE TOSSER…. OF COURSE IT IS.

He then told me the alarm should always be set when no one is in (ever since July the alarm has never, EVER, been on) and of course, being a complete tosspot, he’s never bothered to give me the code. Now, if he was so keen for the alarm to be set, why didn’t he give me the code? Why does HE never set it… and on the topic of security… why do I often find the patio door unlocked?

He claimed that he told me the code when I moved in. Oh, yes, well obviously you did, that’s why I’ve missed Top Gear, not had a shower and have spent the night across the road looking like a criminal. Moron.

Anyway,  after pointing out to the dim-witted, receeding hair-lined, OCD’d mongoloid that had I already known the alarm code, I wouldn’t have been phoning him in the first chuffing place, I proceeded to hang up on him.

He then rung the neighbour and (not knowing I was still there) proceeded to call me a “stupid cow” for not being able to turn off the alarm…. Now I don’t know about you, but I think even the smartest cow on the planet couldn’t disable an alarm without the code… either way, tonight is showtime.

Douchebag Chronicles, look forward to tomorrow’s instalment.

“Can you make sure you dry your feet and legs before stepping out of the shower. You’re wetting the tiles.” Can you make sure you f*ck off?

Been home a hour, douchebag is mad that my towels are in HIS cupboard, which is in MY bathroom? Move the cupboard then moron.