Housemate problems - what do I do?

Now we're talking. That photo brings back powerful, pungent memories. I lived in that flavor of squalor for the winter of 2007, in a house of "DJs" (read: cunts). Guys who knew how to party but treated the house with a celebrated level of apathetic abandon, because putting, say, a beer can in a bin would ruin their delusion of living in pure, reckless hedonism. Thus grew a vile sea of pizza boxes, beer cans, fag ends, bottles, cans, kebab boxes. The smell hit you on the face when you opened the door. A family of mice flourished. I remember, in a vain attempt to get my security deposit back, a naive attempt at cleaning away the impossible - filling like twelve bin bags with detritus from just the living room. That effort reduced the greasy tide from shin-deep down to sub-ankle-deep with some thrilling glimpses of carpet, but in the end we all kissed that deposit good bye and the house was probably featured on A Life Of Grime with pro cleaners muffling "bloody students" through their haz-suits.