Back when we were students, places were furnished (an optimistic definition of furnished). Admittedly, we had a sofa that looked like it had been used in a porn film and then had the cast murdered on it and a TV that weighed more than the Titanic and a took a week to warm up (as a plus, far too heavy for the weekly burglary to deprive us of its company). You know your stuff is shit when the burglars dump it in the garden.
Our last place featured a bag of cement in the bath, so you could sit on if you were inclined to brave the temperamental temperature of the shower (a fate you risked once, we showered at the Uni from then on). On the plus side, we didn't get burglarized as that was the place where our landlord was the local gangster and the local scrotes didn't want to be on his radar. Any trouble, let me know and the lads will sort it out. Given we'd seen them expel the next-door junkies who'd moved in over the summer through the merry process of baseball bats and extreme prejudice, I can understand why. He had a huge treasure trove of illicit merchandise (booze and cigarettes mostly) in the lock-up downstairs, which probably explained his proprietary interest.