Morloks In Frocks Again

Oh, crap.
Sharon's fifty.
That's crappy for two reasons:
one: it means I'll be fifty later this year; and
two: it means that I've just been invited to her party in …

… The Village Of The Damned.

Those of you who've not been hanging around here for years better read this to help understand my horror.
An evening out in The Village Of The Damned is like Dawn Of The Dead with party dresses on … Morloks in frocks.

Centuries of inbreeding and living in a swamp are not qualities I find particularly appealing in a woman, and this place has been cut off from civilisation (or indeed anywhere where fire has been discovered and the wheel developed) since the end of the last ice age.

Okay, so things are gradually progressing … some of them can walk upright and one or two have been seen using rudimentary tools, but this village owns the smallest gene puddle known to anthropology and evolution is as strange a concept to them as it is in America's Bible Belt; though for different reasons.

So … Friday night, I will be driving off the edge of the map into uncharted territory.
This place is not in any atlas and Google Earth just shows it as a fog bank. Unless you know exactly how to get in, you - together with the rest of reality - will simply slip on past it and emerge feeling slightly clammy and eager to be driving away at speed.
I will descend that long coastal slope toward the distant cluster of primitive buildings and enter what I can only describe as a Heironymus Bosch nightmare set in a seventies disco.

Rod and I will do what we always do. We will fight our way to the kitchen with whatever weapons we find to hand and barricade ourselves in there for the duration, shirts ripped like Doug Mc.Clure fighting off hordes of cavewomen in fur bikinis … The main difference being that ours wear cheap polyester party frocks, the entire Boots make-up counter, yellow-stained teeth; plastic knee-boots and a perfume made from local goats.
They cackle as they reach their horrible, grasping, fag-stained fingers toward us; false nails hanging askew in their desperate attempts to drag us down to the floor and to mate with new genetic material.

Will we escape unscathed yet again?
Will we manage to retain our honour?
Or will we be debauched by primitive harridans?

Do you really give a fuck?

Who knows? Tune in next weekend to hear the results.