When I was about nineteen, I was living in Lancaster with seven other undergraduates: three girls, four boys.
One of the boys was from Liverpool.
Now, it's probably worth saying that he was exactly the opposite of what you are probably imagining, given that single fact. He was quiet, he was clever, he was soft-spoken and he was well-dressed.
Granted, the soft-speaking came with a scouse accent, but you'd be surprised how much nicer that all sounds when the volume is turned down.
Oh, how I've misjudged the people of Liverpool, I thought.
And then his cousins came to stay.
There were three of them.
Two were your standard itv-crime-drama-style Liverpudlians, so for the sake of keeping this as neutral as possible, I will leave it there. Even though they were both wearing tracksuits.
The third, however, was basically the most beautiful young man I had ever laid my eyes on. He looked EXACTLY like Tyson Ritter from The All-American Rejects except BETTER because I had a chance.
Anyway, to their credit, the first time they came to stay they were very well behaved.
(Probably. I was very busy kissing the third one and planning our wedding.)
Cut to three months later.
I had been ill for approximately forever.
In the seven days prior to the incident we are about to discuss, I had been out of my room on one occasion and this was only because I got it into my head that crawling to the shop to buy three cartons of orange juice would fix me.
Just as I was reaching the end of this hell, on what I believe was a Saturday, I was terrified out of my death bed by the sound of one of my female flatmates - Girl From Essex - screaming BLOODY MURDER.
I was vaguely aware that we had been expecting visitors from Liverpool at some point, and I was lucid enough to want my future husband to believe that I was the attractive young woman he had met a few weeks earlier.
So I didn't exactly RUSH OUT.
And this turned out to be a good decision as, seconds after I peeped my head around the door, I was violently accosted and dragged into the kitchen by Girl From Essex.
Hold your breath, she said menacingly, before placing me in front of the kitchen sink, which was inexplicably filled with vomit, urine and a bit of burnt carpet.
As the smell hit me, and I was forced to leave the room, I noticed that every visible wall from my door to the kitchen was covered in what was either blood or ketchup.
Then I tripped over the bit where the carpet was supposed to be.
And found another female flatmate wondering what it was that had made all those tissues stick to her door.
But at least I had lipstick on.
WHAT HAPPENED? I cried.
As if in response, our resident scouse and his three cousins appeared at the end of the corridor. Entirely naked, mostly drunk, but remembering enough to be TERRIFIED.
Then Girl From Essex sent me back to bed so she could deal with them.
There are basically two lessons here:
First of all, people from Liverpool should always be supervised by a sober adult. Evidence suggests that they are very good at cleaning their way through a bad hangover when someone bossy is stood behind them glaring.
Secondly, you don't want to get on anyone from Essex's bad side. So when your born and bred flatmate tells you that if she ever catches you kissing that boy again, she'll 'take your kneecaps', YOU LISTEN.