Here's what we know about your dad. For years now he has been playing the guitar, singing along in the shrill poorly timed tones of a pre-pubescent chipmunk. His guitar skills and salary have never quite been in sync. In fact it would be safe to assume, that as the one got better, the other has taken a mind boggling nose dive. Four guitars and one too many versions of 'Summer of '69' later, you're a few radishes short of losing your mind.
To make matters far, faaaar worse, he is in possession of an amplifier. So despite having said goodnight, and being behind the once safe enclosure, that is your bedroom door, you can still hear the not so distant, not so bluesey version of Eric Clapton's Layla. Clapton himself is no doubt having a sleepless night at the very thought of the massacre. Layla stripped of all her blues, her off-beat, decidedly on, her swaggering confidence destroyed by a teenager sipping white lightning in a cold park.
Three lessons, with a floppy haired son-of-a-gun surely not more than 3 weeks your senior, and you're longing for the days when the rumbling downstairs was unrecognisable. Your every waking hour is interrupted by scales and screeching and wailing that no new-born baby has ever been able to match. If he confined himself to one room of the house, you could cope. You could watch Friends on surround sound, so that Ross burning his fingers on the fajitas, sounded like it was actually in your kitchen. That would be very well and good, if your dad hadn't decided to entertain both you and Ross in the living room.
You didn't think the fiancé was evil, I bet you do now.
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