Death By Disney Bath

Back in my bachelor days I spent a lot of time living in pretty horrible places, preferring to rent cheaper so that I had more spare money to go towards video games, beer and trying unsuccessfully to find clothes that didn’t make me look like someone had just haphazardly thrown a nylon sheet over a beached Beluga whale.

However living in these horrid places did have its own range of disadvantages. You’d sometimes find a poop in your communal stairwell that you weren’t sure came from a drug user with irritable bowel syndrome, or a six foot alsatian who’d munched their way through a discarded takeaway curry.

The poop would remain unclaimed, and over time would become little more than a smelly trip hazard until someone came home drunk as balls, stepped in it and then dragged it through the house on the heel of their half wrecked Adidas trainers.

(I had to tear up a hallway carpet once and throw it in a skip after doing this).

I once had someone knock on my door like they had an urgent police warrant, forcing me to spill my plate of spaghetti hoops all over the carpet as I raced to answer it. Turned out to be some bleary eyed scumbag asking to speak to ‘Derek’. After I explained that no ‘Derek’ lived here, and that should he ever knock on my door like that again I would be jamming his large Stone Roses medallion so far up his chocolate super-highway, he’d need a team of experienced spelunkers to go in and retrieve the ‘Fools Gold’ within.

After shutting the door and walking away, I heard a quiet squeaking noise behind me. I turned to see my letterbox opening very slowly, and the head of a somewhat impressive ‘Gentlemans Sausage’ poke its way through to say hello.

I was still staring in shock as the purple-headed protagonist seemed to twitch ever so slightly, then start to hose piss over my wonderful Lionel Ritchie emblazoned door mat.

With one swift kick, I slammed the open letterbox flap down onto the unwanted Johnston that was sprinkling poor Mr Ritchie’s hair with a few litres of yellowed urine, nearly detaching the ‘helmet from the body’, if you will.

The ungodly scream that arose from outside the door confirmed that the near-circumsized home invader had received his due punishment, as I put on some Marigolds, picked up soggy Lionel and heaved him down to the communal refuse chute in the stairwell.

Between those events and seeing multiple assaults, knife crimes and nearly being stabbed myself outside my front door, I learned that going to sleep was a dangerously vulnerable position. So I started to develop a ‘Spider-Sense’ when danger may be present, and kept an extendable baton by my bedside called ‘Mr Friendly’ I case I was woken up by more uninvited toodles coming through my front door..

And then I met The Roobs, who amazingly enough endured my war zone living arrangements for a short while, before dragging me out into the more civilised world and making us buy a house together in wonderful Oldmeldrum. Mr Friendly was consigned to the bin, my Spider Sense relaxed and apart from the odd wet finger jammed in my ear at 6am, I’ve managed to sleep pretty securely these past few years.. At least until yesterday that is.

I was right in the middle of a wonderful dream, where I was buying ice cream from a van that was owned by former TV star and pool owner, Michael Barrymore. Just as he threw me a cheeky wink, and was about to slap that second scoop of ‘Rum & Raisin’ onto my cone, my Spider-Sense kicked in and my eyes flew open.

Above me in the darkened room stood a woman shrieking, with a childs bath raised above her in prime smashing position.. Before I could scrabble to the side of the bed to grab something to launch at the demonic bastard, she threw the small bath aside and proceeded to launch into a frog splash that wouldn’t have looked out of place landing atop Hulk Hogan during Wrestlemania 5.

Thankfully before I could unleash ‘Lightning & Jet’, (every man names their fists, and these two are named after my favourite ‘Gladiators’ from the 90’s TV show) I realised it was Mrs Madhouse herself, who clearly thought it would be a great idea to wake up a 6’3″ former nightclub bouncer by threatening him with death by bathtub.

Luckily for her auld Jet and Lightning are nowhere near as quick to react as perhaps they once were. But unluckily for my wife’s brand new bedsheets, the fear may have supplied them with more skidmarks than Jeremy Clarkson’s driveway. ?

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