The Humble Differences Between Some of My Housemates and I

 The origins of this humble little blog were born in my general annoyance at mundane things and my incessant need to write things down rather than verbally spill my guts. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m no good at arguing verbally, I just feel that I can express my opinions more eloquently in writing; maybe it’s that I’m no good at? I’m sure you’ll be the judge. Anyway, my point in bringing this up lies in the fact that on this occasion, this post comes as a result of me being somehow commissioned into writing it. It was a good few months ago when a couple of my housemates suggest I write a post on the differences between us. My first thought was “well how much spare time do I have? Probably not enough to complete it!” But after weeks of carefully weedling my way around the issue only to be constantly ambushed with conversational taunts of “have you started the blog yet?” to end any and all conversations I have with them, have led me to this; sitting in my room, plotting our differences as they sit downstairs ‘doing’ physics; crunching numbers and letters with a few brackets and Greek symbols in a way that somehow constitutes an answer to a question.

            Right, they want differences? They’re going to get them. First, stuff. Just how much stuff is it physically possible for one person to have? I’ll tell you how much: A lot. But where can we store all this stuff? What about the living room floor? Of course! The living room floor. Genius. Try negotiating your way through our living room and my bet is you’ll come out with some kind of disease or a broken limb, or both. It’s an assault course just making a cup of tea. For months, in fact only just moved today, was a bag full of god knows what. Clothes I think, but it could just as easily have been a portal to Hades, I never had the guts to stare at it head on. None of my stuff has even really been in the living room. The only thing I ever had in there was a Big Bang Theory poster that pretty disintegrated as it touched the wall. I swear that room is cursed.

            Rugby balls. Rugby balls everywhere. There were rugby balls in the washing machine once. What? It might not surprise anyone who either knows me or has seen me that sport was never, is never and will never be my strong suit. I love football; actually, correction, I love watching football, but playing sports? Not so much. Again though, walking across the living room is like walking across a rugby pitch: rugby balls flying this way and that way. But not just rugby balls, rugby balls with names. Rugby balls with names that get hugs. I forget what they’re called now but I swear there’s some kind of family tree forming currently.

            Excuse my seemingly incoherent trail of thought, but I must move on to another point, an important point, before I forget it. Quite apart from the fact that their interest in books was very much set out initially as just textbooks and even them as a chore (quite a difference there in itself), I must move on to films. Not so long ago I was sat down by them and told to watch 300, a film that I had heard a lot about and was intrigued to watch. Now I am a person that likes a good Tarantino, a Nolan, a Mendes, a Coen Brothers’ and am not immensely impressed by a film full of showy stuff for the sake of being showy; something that, with a certain degree of inevitability, 300 was.

            I set my stall out quite early; I thought 300 did what it set out to do, well: Provide two hours of gore, guts and violence in an unbridled, bloody fashion. Now I’m not averse to gore, guts or violence (see point about Tarantino), but only if it’s done well alongside a compelling story, good dialogue, notable acting and an altogether decent bit of filmmaking. To say that I didn’t like 300 in this house however, turned out to be a big mistake. Never before have I disliked a film only then to be asked whether or not my genitalia was still intact, or in fact, if I had any genitalia at all. It was not my understanding that genitals and films were intrinsically linked, except of course when Hugh Grant makes women’s ovaries twitch by mumbling in posh.

            So tidiness, sport, books and films: that’s all I have for the time being and I hope that suffices. Apologies at the singular nature of this post, I realise that it is very much for a select audience; a select audience that will hopefully let it lie now that I’ve written something about them. It might appear harsh but it’s deliberate, I know they can take it and they won’t be arsed (you know who you are). For next time, either part two of this, or something completely different. Let’s see how well this goes down first...