So, being a student in Manchester, as many of you may or may not know, the weekends revolve around the heaving, crazed house parties in Fallowfield. Therefore, essentially it is a second year’s right of passage to bless the house, with, at least one.
Despite taking the obvious basic precautions before our party- taping up kitchen cupboard doors, locking most of our bedrooms and making sure no dodgy looking party-goers or members of the Moss-Side gang (Moss-Side Massive as I’d like to think they’re known) were let in, nothing prepared us for the aftermath that occurred the next day. It really was the cherry on top of the worlds worst hangover. Ever.
Firstly, me and the girls in my house were treated to an exposed roof in our toilet, where clearly someone had found it necessary to smash in the wall whilst taking a wee. And to finish the job off nicely, someone had evidently crawled through the hole in the wall, into twigs and fibreglass and had by the skin of their teeth saved themselves from falling completely through the floor, which, consequently resulted in a gaping hole in my housemate’s ceiling… All I can say is, 5 months later the roof is still exposed and we’re still enjoying a nice wintery breeze when going to the loo.
Moving onto the kitchen…A fellow party-goer had kindly decided to embrace his artistic side mid-party and helped himself to the many neon paints my friends had bought for the 90’s themed rave, and taken it upon himself to decorate. Clearly thinking he was some kind of Van Gogh, he scrawled some ‘abstract’ illegible graffiti over the wall. Coming from someone who appreciates art, I did not appreciate the several hours of scrubbing, hot water and bleach that ensued the next day…
The icing on the cake was probably when my landlord turned up unannounced a week later to find one sofa still vertically on its side, and the other, literally, obliterated from incessant jumping to music… And of course it would be me, innocently making toast, that he discovers in the kitchen, only to express his horror to at the state of his poor house. Words could not describe the awkwardness, especially as I frantically rushed off to try and find one of my housemates for moral support.
Anyway, our house is pretty much in the same state, many many months later, although now we are home and breeding-ground to a lovely family of mice as well! But that’s another story altogether.
Moral of the story is: house parties in Manchester are mental, and so are my parents now they know they’re no longer getting their deposit back…