I'd rather go on a date with a my beautiful wife, in a really fancy restaurant, and it's going really well, and as we're sat there, dreamily gazing into each others eyes, I start crying, and s**t myself.
She leaves, screaming in disgust, while the other restauranteurs are panicking and clambering away from me, as I continue crying and shitting like a sewer monster.
As I stand up to leave, I slip on the sloshy, shitty mess on the floor, and end up face down in my own excrement. I look up at the waiter staring at me in shock and disgust, and reach out a shitty hand for him to help me up, but he takes one look at my s**t covered, tear streamed face, screams, and runs away in horror.
I struggle to my feet, and try to leave, a torrent of excrement still flowing from me, sobbing uncontrollably, and now projectile vomiting over the few remaining restauranteurs, who have stayed to watch the horror unfold.
The police have been called.
They arrive in a maelstrom of blue lights and sirens, people outside are now stood looking through the window at the shitty, vomiting, bawling mess slipping and sliding everywhere. They think it's some sort of dirty protest against the restaurant, and proceed to fire their tasers at me.
I'm now convulsing in agony, still shitting, vomiting and sobbing uncontrollably. I black out.
I spend the night in a prison cell, having been hosed down by the local fire brigade beforehand, who film the whole thing, and post it on their social media.
After several days in hospital, on a drip, I discover I'm to be charged with criminal damage, disturbing the peace, and receive a huge cleaning and repair bill for the damage to the restaurant carpets and interiors, and huge compensation claims from staff and customers claiming to have been severely traumatised by the whole incident.
On returning home, I receive a phone call from my employers, they've seen online footage recorded by one of the waitresses at the restaurant, and the online video of the fire brigade hosing me down at the police station yard. Apparently I've brought the company name into disrepute, and they have no choice but to let me go.
I hang up the phone, as Mrs MD walks into the room, I tell her about the phone call. It's the final straw. She reveals she's been having an affair with the fitness instructor who lives next door, and she's leaving me, and she's taking the dogs with her.
As I sit slumped on the kitchen floor, I realise I'd left the stove on, and the kitchen towel has caught fire, and the flames have spread to the nearby curtains, they erupt in flames, as the oil in the frying pan explodes, and before I know it, the whole kitchen is engulfed in flames.
I sit amongst the burning inferno, a broken shell of a man, and I s**t myself again. I try to get to my feet, but I slip on the sloshy mess, and once again, end up face down in my own s**t.
As I lay on the kitchen floor, the burning, crumbling house comes crashing down on top of me, and the last thing I see before I slip away, is the reflection of my s**t covered, sobbing face in the oven door window, as the frying pan finally falls from the stove, and lands on my head, providing the final, fatal blow.
I awake, in Hell, for eternity....
That's what I would rather have happen, than spend ANY time with Ian Middleton.
