"Can you see any more poop, or is that the last of it?"

Back at University, my housemates were my entire social world. Every single one of us was a totally different animal from the next.

I was a sort of odd, slightly (and increasingly) overweight hermit with an obsession for World of Warcraft, The Simpsons and drinking coffee out of pint mugs.

Then there was Gio, our "mexican." He was a mohawk-clad, Ecuadorian city hopper who would disappear for days on end and then return in some sort of daze with pupils the size of walnuts. When he came home and we asked him where he'd been, he'd say "...Oslo." He wasn't kidding. This happened often.

Abby was perpetually stoned and once cooked her own finger making potato smileys. She also had extensions "professionally fitted" that left her with a rather interesting bald strip on the back of her head. I cut her hair once and it never grew back. Whenever my hair decides to stop growing for a bit, it's "doing an Abby."

Lisa and I would fight about... everything... but mostly tidying. I was incredibly scruffy back then (not that you'd know it to see my room now - it's gloriously tidy 95% of the time.) and she hated me for it... and I hated her for hating me for it. We fought with vigour and vim and OFTEN. I think it's pretty safe to say that we actively hated each other at times.

She is now my daughter's Godmother and I love her with every fibre of my body.

One day I sought friends, dare I say it, OUTSIDE of my HOUSE. I had been chatting to a few people from the area on Twitter on and off and one day decided to ask one of them out for a drink. His name was Chris and he was skinny and ginger and made me laugh a LOT. We met up in town and after an awkward hug and the usual "Hey how are you? Yeah I'm great. Me too. Cool. Alcohol?" we went to a nearby pub. We sat and chatted about general nonsense, and I quickly realised that his face, like mine, was made of rubber. Not a minute passed without some sort of stupid, contorted expression travelling across one of our faces. It was glorious.

I was a smoker back then (ew, I know, right?) and so being as it was an open fronted pub, I stood outside while he sat inside with the clean people and we continued the nonsense talk. A few minutes in I felt something land on the top of my head. My first instinct was to look up. My second instinct was to, stupidly, touch the top of my head. When I brought my hand back down I noticed a sort of white and green smear that looked remarkably like half digested, stolen chips.

"I'VE BEEN SHIT ON, CHRIS."

"You've been what? OH MY GO-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

"STOP LAUGHING AND PASS ME A TISSUE, YOU BASTARD."

He passed over a tissue and I wiped the bird... uh... "leavings" from my pristinely quaffed (it wasn't) hair, cringing beyond belief and deciding that I probably wouldn't ever call him again. Ever.

"There's still some th-no, the other si-no not there, it's right th-shall I just get it?"

We bonded over him wiping bird shit out of my hair that day, and he has been one of my favourite people in the world ever since.

"Can you see any more poop, or is that the last of it?"

"Well, it's sort of still there. You might want to wash it."

I don't get to speak to him nearly as much as I'd like to, but he is the male me and he does a wonderful Steve Bruce impression, so if you do ever get the chance to go for a beer with him... do.

Just remember to stay inside.