Straightening my mane in the mirror at my parent’s house, my friend and I were getting ready for an old school night back in the bubble of our hometown…
Suddenly, we heard an almighty crash, like something really heavy had hit the wooden floor.
Obviously my first instinct was to spit out my mouthful of wine and cower on the floor… which I did, assuming that the murderer outside the door had accidently dropped the mallet he was now going to pound me to death with. After a few minutes, in which time I’d managed to arm myself with a wire coat hanger and my mobile I decided to try and be the logical person I’m not and checked the kitchen for anything heavy that could have fallen. With everything intact and no windows open, the only thing left to do was investigate upstairs… and at 23 I decided that I needed to man up.
So I rang my dad.
Practically crying, with the sweat pouring off me, I calmly explained to him that I was about to get murdered - by what I could only assume was some sort of Hannibal Lector-esque super villain – and proceeded to say my goodbyes.
Somehow he convinced me to check upstairs, with the promise that he would stay on the phone as I did, (so he could LISTEN to my untimely demise? Sound, nice one!) Holding hands, Vicky and I headed upstairs to meet our doom… it’s funny how you laugh at the stupid blonde girls who hide in the shower in teen horror films, but there we were, me armed with a glass bottle of bubble bath and her armed with a hairbrush.
She later admitted her biggest fear was that the murderer would knock me unconscious and leave her alone and helpless, she’s never been the best runner.
Because I’m from Liverpool and proper hard… Lol… I karate kicked open my parent’s bedroom door – my make up ruined by the tears streaming down my face and sweat pouring off me – fully expecting to find Freddie Kruger stood before me.
Finally there was only one room left to check. I had of course, thrown aside my atheist ways and converted to every religion there is by this time. I creaked open the door of my old bedroom, to find…
…what can only be described as a home brewing works… that had exploded.
In my absence my dad had used my bedroom to set up his own fucking speakeasy… and clearly didn’t have any sort of control over his overflowing produce. The entire room was soaked, home brew ran down the walls like something out of the fucking Amityville Horror and you could get drunk off the smell.
What was once my childhood bedroom was now a place of 1920’s illegal activity, and will forever smell like an old alcoholic died there… but we hadn’t been pounded to death by a crazed killer and lived to fight another day.