OK, you've been ejected from the nightclub, been kicked out of the kebab shop for trying to pick a fight with an antique space invaders machine, the police have kerb-crawled you all the way home to keep you out of further trouble (didn't offer you a lift though, did they? the bastards!).
After the 23rd attempt, you finally succeeded in getting your key into the lock, leaving numerous ugly failed attempt scars across your front door. (tomorrow you'll notice them and be convinced someone tried to break in). Now you are inside, warm, swaying, and hungry! You usher your mate/bird into the lounge, urging them not to make too much noise so they don't wake up your folks.
Suddenly, as you enter the kitchen, an amazing transformation takes place! One minute, you are a drunk, blur-visioned, beer smelling, rubber-legged fool, then you open the fridge, spot the plethora of ingredients and Hey Bisto! you become Gordon Fuckin Ramsay!
"Hey, how do you fancy a fuckin top fry up?" you whisper (albeit a 120 decibel whisper) through to your companion, which is met with a response which sounds not too unlike an ashtray being overturned, followed by an accompanying "Aww shit! Err, yeah, sounds great!"
All four oven rings are turned on to full, while you search for the biggest available receptacle, eventually plumping for a low-lipped oven tray which overlaps 2 rings at least. Next, in goes about ¾ of a pint of mums best vegetable oil, you pour a little touch of dads best barbecue fuel in as well, just to make sure it gets good and hot. Now, every ingredient within a radius of 15 feet, including but not exclusive to, sausages, egg, cat crunchies, pepper, stale biscuits, cheese (and some reluctant plastic wrapping), plus other quite unidentifiable substances left in various cups and dishes in the fridge and freezer all meet up in the pan for a tastebud destroying extravaganza.
Now all you need is a liquid appetizer, in the shape of mum n dads wedding anniversary champagne, hiding behind the curtain, behind the cat, which shakes its head at you and mews it obvious disapproval. "Ah shut it ye stupid moggy. I'll buy another bottle tomorrow, no-one'll know" you proffer, unaware that the cats concern is actually her stolen crunchies in your concoction.
"Here, get hold of these glasses while I open this wine", you pass the pint mug and the glass vase to your guest, and proceed to propel the pressurized cork through the window-front of your parents wooden display cabinet, with the additional bonus of chipping the nose off your mums favourite ornament, a family heirloom that's been in the family for generations, in your dazed state, you are pretty sure that, although upset, your forgiving folks will appreciate what a good shot it was.
The wine is poured, and drank, and before you can even say "Where's the TV remote?" a snoring sound rises from the other chair. But you won't sleep! No! You have important cooking to do, they look so relaxed with their eyes shut though, must go and check on the food, hang on, did they finish their drink? No! Bonus! More for you.
Now, all you need is a ciggie. Hmm, where did you leave them? Really need a smoke... You can almost taste the smoke, drifting, drifting away…...
Smoke SMOKE! And a high pitched annoying siren, then the front door, being kicked open, by a guy who looks like he does a lot of posing with his hose, for the calendar of course. And the smell! If you're not mistaken, that's the aroma of melted kitchen!
Kitchen Nightmares? too fucking right Mr. Ramsay!