Scene One: The Big Blogger house. Sometime this morning.
Tippler is crashed out in a garden chair clutching a half-empty bottle of Strongbow in one hand and a bunch of tissues in the other. Neither are recommended for further use. On his shoulders are perched two small, clichéd characters in what appear to be very silly outfits - quite possibly obtained from the Fancy Dress Shop For The Virtually Challenged just up the fookin' High Street.
Devil (balancing deftly on left shoulder of sleeping cidermeister): "So, Angelface, the dumb fuck we're in charge of has to come up with ideas for a kick-ass party.
"This, in order to persuade his housemates that he's bordering on the interesting or, failing that, that he's been bitten by a radioactive cider-apple worm and is now a superhero who can piss pure Strongbow at will in European Cider Lake quantities."
Angel (located, as one would expect, on said comatose bastard's right shoulder): "Not a bad summation, actually, coming from you. But I have three points. One, Tippler is patently obviously nobody's idea of a 'superhero', two, he actually is 'bordering on the interesting' - he has a tattoo near his nob - and, three, don't swear or call me 'Angelface'. Like EVER, OK?
Devil (under breath - 'Bitch, but I wouldn't mind removing your halo, baby...'): "Alrighty, no probs. Chill, chick. I mean, fuck - oops, sorry! - I've been around a bit and I know my parties. For instance, d'you know what I said when your boss the Big G cast me out of Heaven when I turned up the jukebox and tried to keep on rockin' in the free paradise?"
Angel: "No, I don't. (Starts to file angelic nails, gently flutters wings and flicks back hair in irritating girly manner - an amazing feat when combined.) Ok Devil, what did you say to God when he threw you out of Heaven?"
Devil: I said "Screw you, Big G-with-a-beard - I've been thrown out of better places than this!"
Cue stunned but impressed silence from winged hotty. The cameras fade.
Scene Two: The cameras slowly focus on a waking Tippler. He scratches his underwear-free gonads to a soundtrack of cutlery-rattling tummy rumbles, earth-moving farts, Berlin wall dropping My-Amp-Goes-Up-To-Eleven-You-Fuckers! groans and galaxy-expanding belches. It's all his own work, too.)
Tippler: "Right, you crazy shoulder-perching weirdies. Stop what you're doing and help me out. Angel, I need 72 virgins plucked from Heaven - two blokes, the rest women - like NOW! And Dev, mate, you're in charge of the Punch - I'll let you brew it.
"Oh, and the heating. Obviously. Basically, you are the God of Hell Fire and I want them to Burn. Got it? Meantime, music-wise I want bastard-death-metal at volumes high enough to make snowcaps melt, mountains bleed and entire star systems weep.
"Once you've sorted that out, team, I want you to be available all night to jump up and down on the shoulders of the poor, unsuspecting sods that are sharing this place with me.
"Get them to argue about whether or not they should be shagging the person next to them with or without snorting low-grade detergent from Tesco - which you will also provide.
"Oh, and Angel - for the food, rustle up an industrial-sized pile of fairy cakes laced with gin, a dozen boxes of Belgian chocolates and shitloads of Marmite sarnies. And remove all the salt from the house, ok? Devil gets a bit sensitive.
"Basically, I want you to get in the swing of the whole thing, start three orgies and a riot if necessary and give my housemates a party they'll never, ever remember."
Angel: "You mean 'a party they'll never forget', surely?"
Tippler: "No. I fucking don't. Devil, have a word with Harpgirl here, will ya? Jeez..."
Scene three is several days later, dawn is breaking and only two bodies stir.
(We hear background noise but it is indistinct. Perhaps we hear Tippler mutter from stage left: "You know what, Goth, the reason I fancy the redhead is coz ginger girls taste different. No, they do. It's a fact. I can prove it. Just blindfold me and put me in a room with twenty naked...")
Or maybe we don't hear that at all.
Prompt: ONLY TWO BODIES STIR!
Oh, right. Only two bodies stir. They are the Angel and the Devil.
Angel (smoothing out wings): "Woah, sexy horns. THAT was different."
Devil (readjusting and wiping pointy tail with Kleenex): "Sure was, doll. Right, our work here is done. I think you'd better go to the bathroom and sort yourself out before you head back for your debriefing sesh with the Big G. There may be an identity problem."
Devil: "It's your halo, luv. It appears to have slipped... Anyway, catch you later. Gotta ride the lift that's going down!"
(Fade out then slowly in again)
Final scene: The Big Blogger house members slowly awake. They sit and sheepishly discuss the Angel, the Devil, the Punch and the (almost) salt-free sex.
Despite their universal hangovers, the lurv-filled johnnies all over the floor and the fact that they all have vague and disquieting memories of singing along to the song 'Fame! I'm gonna drink forever!" they decide in their own embarrassed way that the depraved party must have been nothing more than a 'mass hallucination'.
Out of shot, we hear something that sounds like the backsplash of what may or may not be a radioactive superhero-sized European Cider Lake being pissed into the garden pool.
(Cut back to kitchen where several housemates are sitting in silence.)
"I know it didn't really happen but thank God the cameras were switched off after 1am," whispers one loose-limbed girl to herself.
She may or may not be a redhead.
In the garden, Tippler allows himself a wide grin. Somewhere in the house, surveying the detritus of last night's 'imaginary' party, a camera's little red light is still blinking. The 'record' button has remained switched on...
Fade to black.