Okay imagine a British werewolf who’s always talking about his “mates”, and everyone assumes he has a big harem of lovers like something from a ridiculous paranormal romance novel. But his mates turn out to be his friend-group of other werewolf lads.

“Aw, mate. Like, full moon tonight innit. Wolf sesh down mine.”

And you go to his house and theres a pack of wolves watching football on the telly, chugging cans of Thatchers with their big wolf jaws, and running around barking when their team scores.