Nando Blew Up Our Kitchen

Last night, I was relaxing in the lounge, watching TV. Beginning to get hunger pangs, I was waiting for Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, to finish in the kitchen, before starting to prepare my evening meal. Suddenly, I herd a loud popping noise, followed by Nando yelling, "shit!" in an Italian accent. "Are you alright," I shouted over the sound from the TV set. There was no reply. I yelled again, still nothing. Hitler's Nephew, my other housemate, looked up, but made no effort to ascertain what happened. Then Nando walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs, holding his face, but he wouldn't respond to my questions. Had an improvised explosive device (IED) gone off in the kitchen? Were we the victims of some terrorist attack? No. Nando had blown up his coffee pot.
I don't know what caused it to happen, but there were coffee grounds everywhere, in the kitchen. Eventually, Nando came back downstairs. He was fine. He'd merely gotten some coffee grounds in his eye. Fortunately, he'd not been standing closer to the pot when it blew and I wouldn't have to miss the rest of "the Family Guy," driving him to the hospital. I did have to wait an hour and a half for Nando to finish cleaning the kitchen, before I could have dinner. The top half of the pot had rocketed into the ceiling, chipping the plaster and leaving a big, brown, splash stain there. The ceiling would need to be repainted by someone, not me. Once I was assured that Nando wasn't injured, the whole thing did strike me as a bit funny. Who needs satellite TV when there's this kind of drama in the house? Eventually, I got to enjoy a steak dinner, with a jacket potato, sweetcorn, broccoli, and cauliflower. The steak was topped with fried onions and mushrooms, plus A1 steak sauce, imported from America. I washed it down with a cold, Becks beer. Life is great.