The Aftermath

This is the morning after. 
I sort of knew what to expect. But it still didn't help... Four 15 year old males sleeping in my sitting room. It was always going to be a matter of holding my breath for long enough until I could open a window or two to let in some fresh air. The cat too was massively unimpressed. 

So I did the only thing that can combat the mix of testosterone and feet and cheap aftershave young lads ooze, macerate and spray liberally: I cooked the mother of all fry-ups. The Full Irish at full throttle. 

It did the trick. It brought them back to life and the smell of cooked grease managed to cover up the stench.