I used to live near a KFC and was a regular customer at this franchise when I had a hangover, which was nearly every Sunday afternoon. After one brutal evening of debauchery, I was in a sorry state of disrepair. While I was crawling to my bed like an infant after vomiting in the shower at 1pm, I knew I needed some grease so I toddled up the road and settled into a booth to dine on fried chicken. I was wrestling with a particularly nasty piece of gristle when I looked up and saw what can only be described as a junkie-skank tottering up to the store entrance. She walked in, looked around, and then went into the ladies toilets. Nothing strange there. 30 seconds later, a Mercedes Benz pulled up and a well-dressed middle aged lady in a suit-dress and high heels hopped out. She also went into the ladies toilets. Again, nothing strange. 2 minutes later I saw a rotund, unkempt man in shorts and a singlet moseying into the store. He scratched his groin, looked around, and then went into the ladies toilets.
I sat there sniggering amidst my detritus of chicken carcass and sanitary napkins and waited for the inevitable screams. The screams didn't come. 10 minutes later the well-dressed woman trotted out of the toilets, fixing her hair. She was followed by the junkie-skank. 3 minutes later, the scruffy man wandered out of the toilets, looked around, and then ordered some chicken. I still don't know what went on that afternoon. It certainly gives a new meaning to the term 3-Piece-Feed.