Nick is Beelzebub's Bastard

Although, and I'll give him this, he tries really hard.

Nick fancies himself as a musician. He sings and plays the guitar, composes songs, and occasionally goes out busking on Buchanan Street. He does all of these with the small but precise modicum of talent he applies to most things; namely, he strums and wails.

He has two methods of applying himself to his muse, depending on where he is. If he is sitting in his room, he wails along to his guitar, in such a manner that he can be heard in all of the house. (Should you point this fact out, he will apologise, point out that he didn't believe he could, in fact, be heard anywhere at all, and quieten a bit. Then, an hour or so later, he will start again.) Alternatively, if he is walking around the flat, without his guitar, he will sing short unprovoked bursts of something, out of the blue, managing, through random harmony, to simulate a Doppler effect even if he is in fact perfectly stationary.

A word on Nick's singing. Nick manages, through careful application of a cod-American accent and bad vocal mannerisms, to convey the impression that he is singing out of tune, while at the same time hitting all the notes. When he plays the guitar, he strums arhythmatically; recently, he has turned his attention to the tempo of famous songs, which he wantonly modifies without justification. Which aspect of music he will turn his entropic attention to next is currently the subject of a few small wagers in the flat.

And of course, after the strenuous effort of making himself some food, it is well beyond his capabilities to do anything like clean up after himself. Having successfully lobbied for a flat policy of washing your dishes after you use them, he regularly fills the sink. He cooks rice and leaves remnants in the pan that resist all attempts to move them. He recklessly scatters tomato sauce, choppings and various sundries on the work surface, the floor and the cooker; he sets the frying pan on fire, usually when the rest of the flat are watching TV, and of course he then has to turn on the extractor fan and effectively prevent us from hearing anything at all.

Nick is an intensely boring person. He has no wit whatsoever (although that might be the amateur boxing). His typical response to you watching a TV program or, say, playing him a CD, will be "Do you like that?" No, Nick, I don't; I'm just doing it to punish myself. Every second of it is complete agony. The Pope decided that I was such a evil and debased man I had to constantly listen, publicly, to this particular CD; and even though I am not a Catholic, and am uncertain about the very existence of God, I felt deep in my heart that this punishment alone could possible atone for my grievous sins. Although my heart and soul rebel against this ordeal, although the pain is such that I would walk over hot coals for a thousand years rather than spend one more second within earshot of this monstrosity, I accept my fate and stoicly await the end, when I can at last turn the machine off and return to my room to flog myself with birch twigs.

Of course I like it, Nick. If you don't have anything interesting to say - which is most times - just don't speak.

And complains that people want to use the kitchen late at night. The plan to install an ultraviolet light bulb in the kitchen has been postponed mainly because we fear where his bodily fluids might have gone.

This should have tipped us off in the first place. It is well known that people with red hair divide into two, sex-based, categories: flame-haired temptresses and ginger tossers. Never doubt stereotypes.

Bet you anything it's his fault.

Like most serial killers. There's a reason we don't give him the keys to the back door. (Because we don't have a back door, that's why.)