Tayls, Tad and Lynden sat together in the kitchen, which had been altered between the last two episodes (by way of moving the furniture) without a single person knowing. Someone was about to come in. It was obvious. Everybody knew it. The script said so anyway, and the audience could clearly see, so there was no pretending. Suddenly, in a swift, whippet-like movement, Phill Opielercurry (room 4) entered the kitchen. He was a true stallion of a man with shoes, cream slacks, an Everton shirt, gel-spiked hair and a curious look. His flatmates looked at him in awe.
"New slacks, Phill?" enquired Tad.
"Yep. Hmmph." replied Phill.
"They're, er, very nice."
"I'm not asking you to loik them Tad!!!" raged Phill in his odd, Hereford/Brum drawl of an accent, which his flatmates clearly envied and tried to copy.
"Sorry." said Tad, for about the fifth time in the last few episodes.
'The audience', thought Lynden, 'must be getting pretty suspicious of this Tad character. First he's introduced as some nasty mean character with a penchant for, er, killing people and stuff, but all he manages in the first couple of episodes is a token roar. All rather odd it must be to the audience', thought Lynden, further, 'that he simply keeps apologising and making tea.' 'In fact', thought Lynden, 'I might well think that Tad was named Terrible Tad in the beginning simply for the cheap effect of simple alliteration'.
But, of course, that would never happen in this kind of soap-opera, set in totally trendy Talybont, where alliteration was as unheard of as Oasis posters on student walls, Sleeper spewing from student study er cells, and dickheads getting their faces painted for England games in the serene but super silly social centre. Or whatever.
Phill immediately set about making his breakfast. He would, as usual, have sautéed rat's vomit, with diced spam, some tinned stew, with his name on of course, some tinned new potatoes, followed by escalloped pig's trotters with black peas and toenail clippings, and of course a tin of cold rice pudding, which he would later fashion, with unimaginable imagination, into a bowl of cold rice pudding. It was all quality stuff.
"Shaddap Phill! That looks rank!" said Tayls.
"I'm not asking you to eat it Mark!" retorted Phill, in a stunning blow. Earlier in the week, their other flatmate Joey Melville, the cheeky cockney type, had remarked that Phill's tea had looked like he'd thrown it up. Phill had said that he wasn't asking Joey to "loik" it, that it wasn't his business and that he should keep his nose out. Joey said that in that case his nose would probably the only thing that wasn't in it. Phill did not take kindly to this type of criticism. He was sat now, angrily pondering the sheer rudeness of his flatmates, which you just wouldn't get in the Hereford countryside, where cows walked idly in the street, passing the time of day with the womenfolk, who made dried flower arrangements and wore big silly dresses and stuff. 'It was despicable,' thought Phill. 'How dare they?'
After all, he had kindly left his TV in the kitchen for everyone else to watch. If he wanted to eat rat's puke and toenails that was his business, and how right he was. Again the other three sat and stared in awe. No other human could possibly eat that kind of shit and expect to live, whether their names be on the tins or not. Phill was super human obviously, but could he, his food, or his slacks save them from what was now afoot in the hallway? Again the door and all of their ears twitched.....
© 1999 Vance Productions. 'The Flatmates' is a work of fiction. All characters portrayed herein are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead is purely coincidental. Flatmates cuddly toys are now available at special price to all subscribers. Enquiries, and all correspondence should be by email to VanceProductions.