*I came up with this idea a while ago but wanted to tweak it a little etc before posting. I should also warn you there may be some references to old, British TV shows that may not make sense to...well anyone (i just have odd taste). Oh and there is some censored language :s*
[as silverSUNLIGHTx pointed out, one more thing to warn you about. in Britain a fag is a cigarette]
I hate this. I mean you get to the door after three hours of failing to pop that zit on your forehead - so that your whole face is now bright red - and you knock on the girl’s door. When her mother comes to the door you want to say something like “Why hello ma’am, I have come to collect your daughter for a night of excitement out on the town.” But then her mother wrenches the door open – curlers in her hair and a fag clutched between her wrinkled fingers – and she screeches “Who the hell are you?!” like Terry Jones in a Monty Python sketch and all that comes out of your mouth is “I…urrrr….aaahhh…daught….you…..r…urrrrr…..” and you just finish with a strangled gurgling noise before the rest of your face turns red.
“Lydia! It’s one ‘o yers” and you hear drift down from the upper regions of the house, “Oh damn…I’ve still got to do my hair. Gimme…twenty minutes?” Begrudgingly her mother tells you that you might as well come in and wait.
You now meet the deranged dog and the little brother from hell. One of which is a small, hyperactive fur-ball of energy who keeps trying to shove his ‘business’ in your face. The other is of course the dog.
Ah that poor dog, that looks like it eats less than a Hollywood actress, doesn’t just have fleas but has the flea’s genetically-enhanced grandchildren and in dog years is about three thousand and two. Unlike a normal dog, when it sees you it doesn’t run over, playfully begging you to scratch its head, it just rises weakly onto its spindly legs before falling back into its p***-ridden corner because its frail legs can’t even hold up the poor things miniscule weight. You almost feel sorry for the creature, if it can be called that now, when you look down and realise you’ve just stepped in one of its messes.
You are then shown a seat (“There it is”) before being given a stool that looks like it was built back when Jesus was training to be a carpenter. It also looks like one of the ones he got wrong.
You are then introduced to the well-meaning father who calmly says hello and smiles thinly at you whilst he awkwardly shakes your hand. Then the interrogation begins: “How old are you? Got a job? Ever done drugs? Parents together? Got pets?...No Bartholomew don’t do that to the guest…Got a criminal record? Don't take that tone with me! How did you treat your last girlfriend? Why have you never had a girlfriend befor…FOR F***S SAKE BARTHOLOMEW! No matter what you do he doesn’t want to eat that Hot Wheels car! Go to your room NOW! I’ll beat you later...Now, where were we?” this torrent of insanity ends with a suitably forced smile.
By now you feel sufficiently awkward so fate decides to send down your date (having given up on her hair because it ‘just won’t go!’). You hear footsteps down the stairs and like something out of Stars In Their Eyes she appears through the [cigarette] smoke.
“Hi, sorry I look terrible; I only had a day to plan the outfit.” She of course looks like a Goddess.
As her smile lights up the room better than the two Watt bulb hanging limply from the ceiling ever could, you’re left thinking just one thing…
“Damn, wrong house!”
)
