Brissle
I, mad Pete and small Mark had gone to visit our friend ginger Jonathon in Bristol, where he was at university. We went for a few drinks then came back to his (shared) house. As Jon was having trouble fitting his key in the lock, and while he struggled mad Pete was making friends with a cat who was winding round his ankles. Eventually Jon opened the door and we all fell in. The cat slinked in too.

We were hungry, and in the kitchen was a roast chicken which Jonathon's landlord had cooked. Of course Jonathon forbade us to eat it, so we only took some tiny slivers which the landlord would never notice, before going to sleep; Jonathon in his room, me and small Mark on the living room floor, and mad Pete sprawled out in the toilet, for some reason.

Next morning we were woken by the sound of shouting from the kitchen. Jonathon's landlord had discovered his chicken half eaten, and a drunken mad bloke sprawled on the toilet floor. We apologised for mad Pete and told him that his cat must have eaten the chicken. But he didn't have a cat. That's when we discovered the cat shit under the table in the kitchen, and fleas everywhere.

We trooped out, chastened, and scratching.
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 9:32, 1 reply)

Serves
Jonathon right for spelling his name with an 'o'.
( industrial_bunny, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 13:19, closed)