Drunken 40-year-old twat

That’s all I can recite in my head. “You drunken 40-year-old twat,” to my new housemate, a 40-year-old twat who has stumbled his way up the stairs with two (I think) young-sounding girls. They and him are absolutely wasted.

Naturally, my first feeling is one of enraged jealousy that a man 14 years older than me can bed two women who, by the sounds of it, are probably my age – even if they do sound about as intelligent as one of my socks. But that’s already passing, replaced by a sense of sadness, almost pity, that this fool is in his forties and still living on his own, in a shared house, without a job. I might be 25, nearing 30, but at least living on your own in your twenties has a degree of detached coolness about it. And I’m quite well known in my field, too, unlike the drunken twat next door.

They’re still giggling and I’m convinced one of them has just bashed her head on something. Twice. All I can hear is muffled conversation – no, wait, there go the shoes. The shoes are off (if not the gloves, yet). He sounds even more moronic, infantile and stupid through two walls than he does face to face – and he also has the unfortunate mug of someone who’s spent a lifetime in prison.

My sympathy towards him is now waning. What does this twat think he’s doing? It’s nearly 2am; he’s 40; he’s drunk; he has two girls probably half his age in his room (not jealous, not jealous, I am not jealous, repeat and loop).

Enough said. I am definitely going to have to evict him immediately.