We found a dead rat in our nightmare Stranmillis house

For many of us, the whole point of university is independence, moving away from home and finding their feet in a world of pavement pizza, unpaid internships and skinny trackies. The competition for accommodation at NI’s leading university has led to an orgy of unacceptable housing.

When the options are a 60 mile commute or a slug-infested grease shack, we have our arms twisted into a £600 monthly contract for a tired building that cries for the sweet release of death. In what other circumstances could you browse a property where the wallpaper peels away like dead flesh and mould covers every corner, smile to the estate agent and say “I’ll take it”?

Open the door to terror

And if you leave it too late, you’re left in a desperate scramble for university lodgings. After a day of house viewings, staring at bubbling lino and a stockroom worth of Red Bull cans, a contract was signed for a property off the Stranmillis Road. Promises were made of a comfortable house, pristine with new carpet and rooms freshly cleaned. We were all naïve once.

Upon arrival at the St Albans Gardens house two months later a mummified yellow rag, sorry carpet, lay in the hallway to greet visitors. As expected, a wooden table and a cigarette burned settee sat in the dimly lit living room. The blinds twitched feverishly in a frenzied hum. There was no mystery as to the source of the sound, behind the blinds lay a crawling wall of bluebottle flies.

There must be some mistake, the estate agent phoned to say he’d been round to inspect the house and it was in perfect condition. But the flies were impossible to miss. Flies come from maggots, and maggots come from decay – something was entombed here. In light of the discovery of these unexpected housemates, the estate agent agreed to send cleaners round to assist in their immediate eviction.

Here’s two of the rent scrounging bastards

The cleaners agreed that the flies had to have come from somewhere and went in search of the source.

It wasn’t long before the kitchen was a scene of chaos. The backdoor was open and the sounds of retching filtered into the house. A cupboard door was opened and the cleaner explained that the flies had been coming from a veritable rubbish heap within. The black bin bags concealed a dark secret.

The mouldering carcass of a dead rat lay among the rubbish. The cleaner, resealing the crypt, said: “We probably need to fumigate this place”. Any plans for a moving-in party breathed their last and joined the putrefying rat in heaven. Slugging the Xbox back to the car, once again the estate agent was phoned.

“There was no such thing when I was in inspecting, Mr Gallagher.”

“The thing was festering mate, it’s in the advanced stages of decay, it’s been a tenant far longer than I have.”

After 30 minutes of debate, he agreed to take 50 per cent off that month’s rent on account of the special guest, all the while insisting he’d been in the house and there’d been no flies and no rat.

After two months the traps were down, slug infestation showed up, and that mangy carpet still festers in the hallway despite repeated calls for action. He was happy to sit back and do nothing. Was there really a rat in the house while he was in for his inspection? Yes, I’d say there were two.