I moved into a flat with Bent Hagen and Mancunian legend, Brian Coleman, in January 2013. While Brian and I hung out, worked, and socialised, Bent didn’t. His eyes were glued to his laptop. I'd met Brian in the hostel and I'd known Bent since September, meeting him at a goon party in Travel Bugs. He was the Scandinavian that introduced himself to others by saying “I like to party. A lot.”
In July 2013, Bent finally got a grip or ran out of people to kill in Warcraft and went back to Norway. We got new decent flatmates and all was sweet - until the landlord informed us that Bent hadn't paid rent for the last month...
Here’s what I've learnt:
-Bent should never have left Norway.
Bent’s Australian adventure is a masterclass in how to waste a year’s visa. Nobody does it better, as Carly Simon would say. Or did it better.
His daily routine consisted of playing warcraft, eating oats, more warcraft, eating chicken, warcraft, gym for 3 useless hours, oats… do you see a pattern? We nicknamed him GWL (gym, warcraft, laundry).
He spent 6 months, working part-time for a hospitality company – meaning he would get a phonecall when a job or event emerged. Most of the time he would turn down work because he was too lazy to get up. Usually by just telling the organiser, “I'm tired.” That's like a 5 year-old telling his Mum that he doesn't want to go to school today. And when the calls became less frequent, Bent would wonder why.
-Bent thought he was Mr Universe.
Bent was a built guy; but his diet was atrocious and he chain-smoked. He drank nothing but Pepsi Max. His piss was the colour of a tangerine (you'll find out a bit later why I know this). Brian used to ask me, “How is this guy even still alive?” I still don’t know.
His daily gym workout consisted mostly of checking Facebook on his phone. In the short period I was a member, he got a kick out of telling me that he was “definitely the strongest guy here.” He had the worst squat technique I’d ever seen, and would attempt to lift 20kg more than he ought to. After attempting a rep, Bent would enjoy strutting around afterwards like Tony Manero. Then back to checking his facebook.
He once took out his phone and filmed my mate, Conor, when he was struggling to do squats because he thought it was “hilarious.” And like most gym assholes, he would vocally humiliate you for doing an exercise wrong. Even if he had told you to do it that way in the first place.
-His birth name wasn’t a coincidence.
It’s a common name in Norway apparently. Not that I care – I won’t be going there.
A self-proclaimed ladies’ man, Bent couldn't go a day without making some sort of reference to “cock” or “dick.’ They were some of the most used nouns in his daily vocabulary - along with “protein”. Maybe he thought this was funny? Is this what banter is like in Norway? If so, that country is doomed. Sometimes Brian and I would bet WHEN he would have the necessity to make a phallic reference.
Me – “Right, I’m going down Darling Harbour for a beer. Who’s up for it?
Bent – “Why don’t we just stay in and suck each other’s cocks?”
-Bent sucked at football (and lied a lot).
Bent said he played for a football team back home as a striker. We went for a kickaround and that boy had the touch of a rapist! He also told me he slept with the lead singer of Aqua. That's like me saying I've slept with Rachel Stevens.
-Bent never took responsibility for anything.
He wouldn’t admit he was wrong; which was all the fucking time. You could catch him with his hand in the cookie-jar and he’d still accuse you of doing it. He had the brain of a demented goldfish, with zero accountability.
One night, Brian and I decided that it was time to confront him about his dire living habits. Like Hugo Andrej’s flatmate, Bent would leave empty packets of everything around the flat. He treated the living room floor like a bin. He didn’t clean up after cooking. He’d leave the ends of chewed up carrots on the table. He took the trash out 3 times in the 5 months I lived with him. I know because I counted.
But Bent must have seen it coming somehow, through some Warhammer sorcery shit, because he marched downstairs into the living room and confronted us instead. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, shouting for no reason. Every accusation we would fire at him would get shot back:
Brian – “Bent. You don’t wash up the dishes. You don’t do anything around the flat.”
Bent – “YOU don’t wash up the dishes. YOU don’t do anything.”
Me – “There’s a bowl over in the corner with oats still in it. It’s been there for ages.”
Bent – “That’s not mine!”
Nobody else ate those 4 dollar cheap-ass raw oats! Eventually we won the argument and Bent professed he would clean up from now on.
1 week later, I’m treading on carrots.
-Bent is the reason I stopped going out in Chelsea.
Despite being from an affluent background, Bent's that guy in the pub that asks “Whose round is it?” when he knows it’s his. Everyone knows one. He's the guy that leaves you behind to pay for the taxi. He once gloated, “I might just buy an apartment with my savings” but then threw a wobbly when I refused to give him $3 for toilet paper. He’s one of the worthless, affectless muppets that you read about in a Bret Easton Ellis novel.
For several weeks I was paying for his gym membership, while he transferred me the money (late every time) and waited for his bank account to get sorted. But this extended to 2 months, even after the card had arrived, because he couldn't be bothered to give the gym (which he visited every fricking day) his account details.
-His reluctance to change was exemplified by his shit haircut.
Just take a look at this picture. Bent is one of them (I forget which). It's like an Aphex Twin video... but I digress. Bent stuck to the same Eurovision dress code in Australia.
Bent seemed perfectly happy to travel 9000 miles and follow the same useless program as he did in Norway. He was content with the way things were going. Which was great, if being content meant living like a slob.
-Bent wasn’t potty-trained as a child. Or an adult.
I’d be getting ready for work in the morning and find that he hadn't flushed the toilet. EVERY MORNING, without fail. Greeting me. Winking at me. It was only a tiny room (around 2 sq/m) as our shower was separate, so walking in to the vile smell of his oats-infected urine required a gasmask. Or an exorcism. Maybe he had servants at home in Norway that would take care of these sort of things like in Coming To America?
And while we're on the subject - back in November 2012, when we were in a room share at a hostel, a drunk Bent came in one night and took a piss in an Irish guy's suitcase (with all his belongings still in there). This Irish guy was harmless and in the morning he came back from a nightshift and obviously went crazy. But Bent never apologised nor owned up to it. Instead, my mate Sammi got blamed.
-Bent left Australia owing 4 weeks rent.
The final payoff. Bent fleeced us and lined his nest with it.
Of course, he denied it at every turn. Through some eventual email correspondence, Bent sent us a very suspect, cropped screenshot of his Aussie bank account showing rent payments. It showed money had left the account but we couldn't see who it had gone to. He could have been sending it to his own swiss bank account. When I asked if he could provide individual payment receipts for tracking , he replied, and I quote, “No, I’ve closed my Aussie account. I took the screenshot before I left because I knew he’d try to fuck me over.” 'He' being the landlord.
So Brian and I paid for it – losing our bonds. The landlord sent us the ledger report and it showed that Bent was 3 weeks late on every payment spanning the last 5 months. Should have known. Could have known.
So until Bent takes notice, I've paid to promote my Facebook post which links to this site. What's another $20 to the money he stole from me anyway? I’d like to think I’ll get a response or some sort of repartee from Bent, but in the end, he’s the laziest fuck I know. Plus the World of Warcraft ain’t savin’ itself.