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.
I really am that damn bad at organising or arranging things – this has been proven with birthdayageddon. Giving people who live hundreds of miles away a week’s notice, said week’s notice being a week’s notice for god knows what seeing as I hadn’t actually thought what we’d be doing, it getting to Friday and me deciding near-silently it would be my actual birthday thing, then re-deciding on today it would be today instead, like originally planned.
I don’t know why my brain can’t just think, sort it out, tell people and just get on with it. I’ve arranged good things before, but they were mainly a result of two things: they just randomly ended up being good and fun (see: BBQs at my basement flat), or because somebody else took the reins (see: whenever Ben is in a ten-mile radius and feels the organising itch).
When it’s just me doing it and it needs some actual attention? Nah, goes tits up mate.
Still, we shall see what happens this eve. So far I don’t think anybody bar one or two can be bothered coming out, as last night was a heavy one. Understandable. I’ll just end up upside down in a ditch, on fire. On my own. Or something.
Mid-year resolution: next birthday I will try and arrange something better. Or I will get someone else to arrange it for me, as I am shit at this malarkey.
Today is my birthday. I am now 27 years old. This may be quite old, or it may be quite young, or it may be neither young nor old. I don’t really know or care that much. Still, I’ve got a few birthdays under my belt so far, so I think I’m confident in my opinion that they’re… well, they’re alright actually.
It’s not like Christmas, which has been mainly shit for me, and it’s not like [INSERT OTHER OCCASION HERE] where I usually end up battling nine flaming cock(erels). Birthdays tend to be pleasant, if not downright fun. Even last year’s complete non-event was good, just because I got drunk with Anna. Pleasant. Even today is good – I’m ill and had to go to work, but I like my job and I’m not dead, plus the aforementioned Womana came down and is now cooking for me. Pleasant.
But there have been less simply pleasant times, more ‘fucking stupid’ times. Ben falling asleep at the table of the Mexican restaurant we were at because we’d been on the lash since about 10am, only to be woken up by me shoving jalapenos in his facial orifices is pretty high on that list. As was the trip my uni mates made to Swinton and Sheffield for – I think – my 19th. I fed them tinned ready meals and we were so bored we played cricket in my mate’s house in Sheff. But it was good fun in the end.
I don’t much care for ceremony, gift-giving and all that nonsense – I like it, but I’m just not a major player of the game. I just like birthdays because I’ve had fun on the vast majority of them. How could I do anything but like them?
Wow, this sounds a bit sentimental. Sorry.
So not only does a power cut stop me from doing last night’s blog, Word being an utter prick tries to stop me from doing today’s by letting me write it out then deleting it? Wow, thanks world. Fuck you too. Hence, this is a rehash of something I’ve just written, and as such isn’t as passionate about being hilarious as it was before.
I’m going to a stag do tomorrow* for the first time in my long, fat life. The details aren’t important – who, what, why, where, when and how can take a running jump for all I care. All that matters is the fact that even with my lack of experience I am still a lean, mean, fat-reducing grilling machine/stag do man. This is owing to the fact I have researched many stag parties over the years, with my main bodies of research conducted in Liverpool, Bournemouth and Riga, Latvia. I can tell you for a big fat fact that these are some of the finest places around to pick up some ‘stagging’ technique. See my plan for tomorrow:
- We will wear wacky, zany and outright crazy items of clothing that make us completely unique and individual (bought from a shop). These will indicate that we are indeed out for a good time and are not the usual plebs who go to pubs. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out)
- The groom-to-be will end up dead. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though not necessarily with a groom-to-be. A bride-to-be, for example, is even funnier)
- We will be as obnoxious and aggressive as possible to anyone who isn’t a part of our group, as is traditional for British stag parties. After all, we don’t want to break with tradition. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though only applying to traditional tradition, not stag-tradition)
- We will get into fights within our group once everyone else we have alienated and insulted leaves or runs away. After all, what says ‘fun’ more than punching each other in the face? (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, because everyone needs to punch their alleged friend in the face at some point, right?)
- We will end up in a strip club, where I will feel uncomfortable and want to leave. After all, gawking at trafficked-in Eastern European girls is a good pointer on how to rock the stag night party! (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, especially when you’re on your own. Going on your own makes you even cooler)
- We will drink so much our hearts explode, or something, because drinking is really big and cool. Anyone in the group who uses the tenuous excuse of “I can decide whether or not I drink as I am my own person and simple peer pressure is not something I cave to. I also resent the accusation that I am incapable of having fun without having booze in my system. It’s an immature viewpoint held by a lot of people and is a sign of the shocking state of British culture today” can just balls off. As they’re clearly pansies. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though probably with less “COME ONNNN, IT’S A SPECIAL OCCASSION!” to try and make non-drinkers drink)
That’s about it, as far as I’m concerned. If I die tomorrow, it was Anna’s fault. Even if she’s not going to be there – that’s just coincidence.
*Meaning you’re unlikely to see a new blog until Sunday. I’M SORRY, OKAY?