At the time of writing this I am coming out of my final session with the therapist about what the spiders in my back room did to me last Christmas. Below is an account of that day:
Mad Friday, Fighting Friday, Black Friday. All names given to the last Friday before Christmas, when tradition dictates that everyone must go out and consume far too much alcohol for their own good and then raise holy hell, and last night was one such night; not for me, but for certain anarchic members of my household.
I’d come home around 7am from a very hectic night at work and was just about to partake in a relaxing cup of tea when the door bell went. I grunted and went to open it and was confronted by two very burly and stern looking Policemen and a laconic WPC who looked directly at me and then to the ground and said:
“Are these your spiders, sir?”
I groaned inwardly as I looked at the four worst offenders in my fraternity of creepy, unwanted lodgers. The one leered at me though 40,000 drunken eyes, the second was looking up the WPC’s skirt while the third was holding the fourths legs back while he was being sick down the drain.
I groaned again, this time lacing it heavily with resignation: “What have they been up to this time?” The copper frowned and said: “Can we come in, Sir?”
My shoulders slumped, but I stood aside and waved them in, the spiders staggering along behind them. I looked at their team leader and exclaimed out loud:
“My god, is that another tattoo?!” He just grinned and staggered off to his web, looking into the fridge on his way to pick out a pack of dried bluebottles he’d stashed there last August; apparently he had the munchies.
Once I’d got them all settled into their webs, telling them they were grounded, and had provided a bucket for the sick one, I returned to the Police officers who were eying up my large stash of pens suspiciously (the ones I’d been collecting from broken crackers at work). I slumped into my chair and bade them continue with the rap sheet.
It turns out that after I had left home for work the spiders had found my stock of Christmas drink and a bottle opener, and after a crash course on how to open bottles from YouTube, had downed most of the real ales and had decided to go up town for a bit of action and a pizza.
This had involved, and I quote: Managing to get themselves inside two barrels of Doom Bar ale and drinking them dry, abseiling drunkenly on thin strands of web with party hats and obscenely shaped candy canes, while frightening the local girls into hysterical screaming fits, doing line after line of Jäger bombs, picking fights with the bouncers and taking out a local county councillor with a taser gun disguised as a blow tickler; the police were eventually called in when they managed to coerce a pack of nuns--- who were on their way to midnight mass--- into the pub and had them cornered and were force feeding them Black Sabbath songs backwards on the Juke Box. Apparently the screams could be heard all over town.
When the police finally arrived, the leader was making lewd suggestions to a very startled looking Rhinoceros beetle and the nuns were genuflecting like epileptics at a light show.
I looked suitable chastened, promised I’d keep a closer eye on them and the officers let me off with a warning. Once they had gone I slumped into my chair once again and released a slow valve sigh of frustration; then the door bell went again.
I grunted my way to the door thinking, ‘what now?’ only to be confronted by a pizza delivery guy with a double pepperoni and jalapeño pizza. I turned to the spiders who had somehow managed to pilfer my mobile phone and were sniggering while they hacked into my Facelessbook account.
So any odd statuses (well odder than normal) appear on here then blame it on the spiders...Bad spiders, very bad spiders!