A dog's dinner...
Back when I was a teenager, my mum used to put an unnerving amount of trust in me when she went away, even allowing me to have parties as long as no one took drugs and the house didn’t get trashed.

So one weekend when mum was on a course, I invited some mate round for drinks, pizzas and videos. One of my friends thought it would be hilarious to invite pretty much everyone in the local underage friendly drinking hole. Carnage ensued.

I spent the next hour getting more and more hysterical as the level of desecration of the house grew – there was wine everywhere, a mirrored door got broken and there were burns in the carpet. But the final straw came after one guy left a glass on the floor which I stood on, cutting a neat hole in the sole of my foot. I retreated to the kitchen in tears to deal with the pizzas that I’d put in the oven in the naïve hope that they’d go some way to sobering people up. As I was taking them out of the oven, the same guy ran into the kitchen, knocked into me and pushed my hand into the roasting hot oven. This caused me to drop the pizza, upside down into the dog’s basket. The elderly dog, I should add, with a nasty case of eczema and an incontinence problem.

What to do? There’s a bunch of drunken lairy wankers in the next room clamouring for food. The food is in the dog’s basket. So…

I scooped up the topping, making sure to scoop up some of the bits of skin and doggy detritus with it and put it on the tomato base. A bit of extra cheese and seasoning and voila, dinner is served.

So for the last 15 years I have been carrying around the secret that, Matthew, for starters, you’re a twat, for main course you ate my dog’s skin disease, soaked in canine piss and for desert, you can kiss my arse.

And that, I believe, is closure.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 18:01, Reply)