House parties tend to be a unique phenomenon where a group of assorted friends and friends of friends mill around awkwardly in someones living-room, munching pot luck food, ashing cigarettes in any kind of make shift container and waiting for the alcohol to kick in.
As a matter of course, there is usually always:
- Someone who pees in an unexpected place (i.e a plant pot, the roof, their pants)
- Someone who throws up in an unexpected place (i.e a plant pot, the pot pot, the roof, their pants)
- A group of people no one seems to know or admits inviting.
- Someone who gets so hammered they start hitting on anything moving with a 4 foot radius. (I use the term ‘moving’ vaguely loosely)
- Someone has a romantic entanglement with 2 or more individuals (if lucky)
- Someone cops off with someone purely out of tedium. They will either:
a) deeply regret this the next day
b) Hook up for the next 12 months or more
- Someone who spills something (usually me, but I’ve often had company)
- Someone who at some point will pass out in a corner and have a troupe of highly concerned people surround them formulating an ingenious plan of action, while simultaneously a group of entirely unconcerned people (like me) will surround them if only to ash their fags on the unconscious victim.
- Someone completely sober (Georgina) who will be around to witness the drunken idiots, be absolutely appalled but still help take care of the unconscious drunks and tidy up in the morning.
- Fag ash must and will on principle cover every single available surface and you will revel in it.
- The designated party area must look like a nuclear fall out zone in the morning.
- No one should leave before 4 am.
Should you follow these simple guidelines, you can’t possible fail at having a party thats talked about for a week after in the pub.
In the past Camille’s house parties have followed these age old established house party rules to her great credit. I’d give her a 8 out of 10 for such great morning-after value for money gossip.
Unfortunately this most recent effort was largely sedate affair, wrapping up eventually at a very adult 2 o clock. A mere 5 out of 10 I’d rate it. (But double thumbs up and flying kisses for a great smoking venue.)
It’s a sign of impending old age when the meaning of the words ‘house party’ changes from debauched evening of drug and booze fueled smoking, pissing and lust with random strangers and evolves into civilized wine sipping while nattering with pals.
True, most of our chit-chat even while sober is about piss and sex but talking is hardly the same as the live performance by a long shot.
And god forbid, should there ever be a cheese platter. A cheese platter is the death nell of your youth. (There was no cheese platter at Camille’s but I’m sure in the years to come there shall be)
The ex and I spent an hour trying to co-ordinate what time we should go (together) which tube stop to meet at (together), what Sainsbury’s to shop in (together) and what wine/cheese to buy (together). Needless to say all our coordinating went awry (all me).
We spent an hour hanging around in ‘Jaguar Shoes’ (a trendy bar full of equally uber trendy wannabes with their oh-so-grungily-thrown-together-at-the-very-last-minute-yet-s0- super-fab-darling-mwah mwah-outfits on) near Camille’s place.
Being as fundamentally incompetent as I can be, I didn’t have her number or her address while I vaguely assumed it was on the left side of the road (I was wrong) and was told via G. that she wasn’t yet ‘ready for us’, a baffling statement.
We’re just a bunch of art students who probably couldn’t tell the difference between a Stinking Bishop from a Gouda or even a nice Pinot Grigio from white wine vinegar. What can you possible have to prepare for?
The ex, ever frighteningly competent, was annoyed by my nearly ceaseless talent for fucking up. I kept the beer flowing which no doubt helped, but was far crankier myself not being able to smoke. (non smokers be dammed, you evil fun squashing party pooping health freaks hippie veggies conservative bastards. I hate you all. Fucking vegetarians.)
I was closely stalked all night at this little ‘do’. A large chunk of the evening was spent with the ex’s hands groping my rear while the Mexican’s and Amalia’s were determinedly trying to grab a hold of my breasts. I have to say, their latent lesbianism did slightly worry me.
“You arrre a facking slaat Janneeeen. And you have vaaarrry beeeg breasts.”
I tried to keep out of reach. With the tiny Mexican this is fairly achievable. All you need to do is hold her head at arms length. Amalia on the other hand is not called the India rubber woman for nothing. Very bendy. Mmmmmmm petzels.
Later when the Firecracker and the Amazing Bendy woman were more pleasantly engaged with things other than mauling me, Camille came up to me, petted my arm and suddenly exclaimed
“O my god, ou ‘re so soft! Encrrreable’ Janeeen!…Well I’m quite drrunk…*throws up arms in air* so I can say now …anything……and eet doesn’t matter..”.
I mutter something vaguely inaudibly in embarrassment but clearly have lapped up the compliment like a smug cat with a pot of cream (god I’m so vain) et le Français parlant est ainsi sexie juste, non? (I doubt that’s a properly constructed sentence but do I care? No no with my French I’m as carefree as a bird.)
Clearly this latent gaygiri is quite catching. I really ought to have exploited it more while we were all still in college. I am a fool. The ex scolded me (in a nice way of course) for allowing all these lustful on-the-verge women to grope me but as Amalia would say, in my heart I am a slaat.
The ex and I finally left after I was scolded some more for paying too much attention to other party members (and 2 in particular) and started *ahem ahem cough cough* canoodling in the lift on the way down.
It shudders and grinds to a shaky halt at the ground floor but we don’t *cough cough* get out.
“Baby,” I say timidly, “We should go… what if people hear us.”
“But…what if people need the lift??”
“So?? Whats their problem??” (so brazen)
Of course, at this very moment the lift suddenly rattles back to life and heads back up to Camille’s flat.
We both start giggling nervously. As we clank our way nearer and nearer to the 4th floor, I can hear Camille talking to Foz and Gary and can see the murky shadows of their suits through the frosted glass.
AIEEEEEE!! The tutors who are like gods! (or so I am told by a very reliable source.)
I sensed (being as perceptive as I am) that should they find us still in the lift it might be slightly awkward on the ride back down. All of us…. riding back down.
Fortunately the ex, always someone to hang on to in a time of crisis, pushed the ‘G’ button before the patiently waiting tutors could even draw breath and open the door.
I don’t know if they heard us giggling like idiots on the way down, but since I’ve decided shamelessly to post this regardless, perhaps they might now imagine that they did.