Death of the party

Goodbye, dear party flat: you served us well. Last night marked the end of a rather brief era, with friends moving on from Bournemouth and – clearly more importantly – moving out of the flat we could regularly rely on to host parties.

The unbridled hedonism of these soirees is the sort of thing that future generations simply would not believe, putting the last days of Rome to shame, quite clearly. Brie, pate, other foods, middling quality alcohol, high-level consumption of said alcohol, all of my musical choices being skipped even though I was always nice enough to not skip all the absolute shit other people put on (what the fuck is wrong with Cannibal Corpse anyway? Philistines), kicking balls at things.

Heady days, no doubt. Craziness. Shocked we’re still alive – it was just so utterly wanton.

But now it is gone, and now we have nowhere regular to attend when we’re all broke and/or bored. Nowhere we can regularly go to consume cheaper-than-pub alcohol and engage in the sort of witty banter that would put Oscar Wilde to shame (“I LIKE THAT BIT ON NAKED GUN WHERE HE SAYS ‘NICE BEAVER’”, for example). It is a loss, of that there is little doubt.

This does of course mean we need somewhere else that is willing and able to host good, solid parties on a regular basis. Auditions will be held over the next few months, with repeat interviews to be carried out on those locations deemed worthy of further attention.

A replacement will be found. A replacement must be found. After all, where else am I to drop trou and dance? The street? THAT WOULD BE MADNESS.

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