Instead, what I thought to be a fertile pasture of lady loving quickly became a barren desert unable to sustain female life. Girls, it seems are harder to find then Hitler’s missing testicle (the whereabouts of which the Albert Hall has conveniently murky information on, although if rumours are to be believed, Bin Laden is hoarding it in a pickle jar along with Stalin’s moustache and Mussolini’s back-scratcher).

Now I may not be looking for a ‘meaningful relationship’ as such, but come on, a little positive tension on the female front wouldn’t go amiss. They say you meet the person you’re going to marry at university. Well if that’s the case I’m getting hitched to my microwave; ever ready, ever faithful, we make piping hot food 5 nights of the week (we’re expecting our first child in 2 minutes 30 seconds).

And it’s always like you’re a few weeks too late as well. One moment someone could be as single as you, happily available and on the ‘market’, then next thing you know she’s become a couple, joined at the hip to some curtain-haired muscular 20 year-old called Sebastian who, when not snorting peanuts gets through girls as quick as he gets through protein shakes. If you’re not careful, you can get rather bitter. Oh well, I still have another 2 years left to rectify the situation during which time someone must eventually fall for my charms, if not I may just have to trip them.

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Barry Scott: Tosser

When you first move into a student house, first impressions are everything as you try desperately to keep the lid on your quirky behaviour in front of your new housemates (so dancing in your underpants to Lou Bega is a big no-no). Every action, you feel, is scrutinized by your fellow inmates as you embark on life without the safety net of your family around you. But probably the hardest aspect of student living is job delegation, and in particular, cleaning.

Now, when I was a fresher, I lived in a house with 3 other guys, so obviously cleanliness was paramount. OK, I’m lying but it was still a necessity. However, maintaining a good level of tidiness takes meticulous planning and a level of negotiation that even a Galactic Envoy would find challenging. Finding the ‘appropriate’ level of apparent care over the domestic issues is a tricky business, especially in a house full of dirty boys.

If you put too much emphasis on cleanliness and you begin to name the house’s cleaning utensils, than you run the risk of being labelled a ‘poof’, ‘wuss’ or (much worse) ‘Kim and Aggie’s soapy lovechild’.

You wouldn’t think it but there’s a thin line between bossy housewife and slack student. In the cleaning world I’d like to think of myself as a ‘Mr Muscle’ character – geeky, knobbly kneed, a hit with mothers, but most importantly, I get the job done, often with a sparkle. I’m quieter than Barry Scott, but not as needy or whiny as ‘Toilet Duck’.

So it was with these credentials that I, through no fault of my own, quickly became the houses resident feather duster. Without the influence of girls, who naturally possess the organisational skills that completely escape guys, (save the tremendous organisational effort of aiming correctly into the toilet) we had no-body to maintain good standards for.

Well excuse me for not wanting to sit in bog-standard conditions guys. Excuse me for staving off all kinds of unspeakable bacteria through a simple occasional wipe down. Excuse me for…FOR WANTING TO BE APPRECIATED! Sob.

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1. Bog-roll in the student house

A necessary precaution

Many things are deemed to be precious within a student household. Fresh underwear, cider, Miss Microwave and her radioactive goodness and the one comfy chair in the dilapidated damp box you like to call the living room are each important comforts. However, if you really want to strike at the heart, at the very drunken soul of your average student, then take away that which he holds most dear: his toilet paper.

Bog roll (or ‘golden bum hankies’ as they have sometimes been referred to) are not just simply a necessity in a student house. They have become a form of currency, stronger than any Stock Market. For guaranteed alpha-male status, hoard the toilet rolls and watch how an ordinary scene develops into one of mass hysteria.

Without his soft, silky papery comfort at his disposal, student-man reverts to a more primitive state of being. Grunts can be heard from within the bathroom as the student discovers his private quarters are somewhat lacking in papered relief. Muffled curses echo through the house. He could have sworn he put a new roll in there that same morning as he begins to damn his curry consuming housemates. The student is in a tight, not to mention vulnerable spot and now must barter his way into maintaining a clean pair of underpants.

In the past, I’ve been at university sitting in a lecture theatre, when suddenly my phone would ring and on the other end would be a desperate, toilet roll deficient sounding housemate.

‘Mate, mate…mate, you don’t happen to have any toilet paper on you? In your room, maybe? Mate, we’ve run out! I’m not messing around ‘ere this is serious! Mate, you still there? I feel like Stig without his dump ‘ere, you know what I mean?! Mate…can you help me out?‘

Somehow, I had acquired this reputation of storing my own private stash of rolls, which was true but it became slightly annoying when the people I lived with phoned me up, sounding like druggies haggling for their next score.

‘Please. I’ll buy you a pint?’

Ah, the student resorting to alcohol to sweeten the deal. How very cliché. All well and good but does a pint have the same practical benefits as a lovely soft roll of peach dyed ‘southern’ comfort? Can a mere beverage soothe the outer turmoil of a man bereft of a bidet? No, no it cannot, so they were often forced to walk down to the off-licence to stock up on an emergency supply while I sat and rolled amongst my papered acquisitions, often pretending to be that mischievous cute puppy in the toilet roll adverts.

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1. Rubber gloves anyone? Cleaning the student house
2. Heads roll at the Student Loans Company