Suffer the little Beer tin, for you will Inherit the Floor.

THIEVING FRIDGES.


A warning, please take heed.


Terrible accident today… I nearly died of fright. No wonder there are so many fatalities in the home when things like this happen.

I have thought of so many ways to save on electricity. It is expensive heating the atmosphere via my non-insulated flat. The irony of it. My donation to global warming via the electricity meter could contribute to my own drowning by the rising sea levels. I await the day when I look out my window and conclude I must swim to the Co-op.

With all known electric eaters now confined to the front room, I still thought the amount of times I have to keep feeding the black machine with £5 worth’s of electric vouchers to be still excessive and thought maybe something, somewhere, in my flat was stealing juice. I blamed the fridge.

I think the light doesn’t go out when I shut the door.

You may wonder why, if it is so bitterly cold beyond my front room door, do I keep my fridge on. That’s because it is a heater! It keeps my beers at the right temperature. If I just leave them lying around they become so chilled it hurts the chipped off pieces of my teeth. I remember once reading, as a drunkenly stoned Warlord of the building sites in Germany, which seems eons ago, a Viz magazine on the toilet. There was a handy tips section and the one about the fridge possibly fucking you over caught my attention between gasps of release.

The writer had cleverly suggested drilling a hole through the door, so as to be able to peek inside to see if the light really had gone off, or if this was a conspiracy between the fridge manufacturers and the thieving electricity board only interested in making profits for their off shore share holders. I decided to find out. I needed at least three fat joints to get my own central heating going, but after wandering around dazedly in the sub artic temperatures of the back of the flat for a while, I remembered where I had put the drill and turned on the lights before I fell down the staircase.

Everything went to plan till I withdrew the drill bit from the door. As I attempted to have a look, feeling a bit like a peeping tom, the hole began to foam and spurt brown liquid all over the place. Like it was dying! I had killed its life force. Panic stricken I ran confusedly around in the mounting puddle of brown slop, which now started to smell amazingly similar to Carling 4.1% which coats the carpet of the Lion pub next door. After what seems ages, the fridge gave a final frothy dribble and was still.

My heart was racing badly now, and I almost swooned, clutching my breast, as if I had put the drill into my own pasty white skin. I staggered in shock to my refuge to gain courage but when I got there, the Dutch bit was empty and I knew I had to return to the kitchen to get another beer from the fridge.

I suddenly had this bad feeling of ‘destinos stupidinos’, recalling that prior to getting stoned, I had been to Iceland and fetched beer and upon my return stumbling rather badly on the chip fat smeared staircase, resulting in a couple of tins falling out the bag and bouncing quite some way to the entrance door. I also, now very reluctantly, recalled I had put the well shook up tins separate in the fridge door. Give them extra time to settle down, I thought, before I pulled the ring out of ‘em.

What a beery mess. I had to get my torch to see exactly the damage done, as the seriously pressurised spraying tin had managed to short circuit the light, so now it will never go on.

Ahhh, bollocks. I clean the mess tomorrow. At least I can sleep with the knowledge that my fridge isn’t stealing anymore.