Why is it that at every party I go to I always end up so bruised the following day that I look like I have been fucking in the missionary position with a sumo wrestler? I wonder if it could be the fact that I have a tendency to drink conncoctions of beer and wine and vodka which leads to hurling my large body around in ways a large body should never be hurled around?? Of course, I knew this latest party would be no different. Somehow I ended up spread eagled in the shower with an equally drunken Bo in my lap. It should have been a lesbo’s wet dream but unfortunately it was just wet as someone, namely Beautiful Boy, switched the shower on and made our freshly straightened hair pube-like. Falling, or actually, did a Lil Red throw me? into a ceramic bath is not good for your ass. Neither is pedalling a vintage French-esque bike with a sadle sharper than carving knife while tingling a rusty bell. I swear the wheels on this mummy bike were larger than the bike itself. But you should have seen me go. You should have seen my hideously curly wig bobbing past the window as I struggled to gain control of this relic with skinny yet strangely large wheels. What a beauty. After about the 800th time I passed the window with a grin smugger and bigger than the wheels of the bike, I knew I had to fall. I also should have known that if your cycle an old bike with a few hundred punctures into a gate at full force you are going to do your already fragile arse some more damage. I did it anyway, completely ignorant of the consequences of a bruised fuckin arse. Crashing into the gate I somehow landed in the potted plants which were actually nowhere near the crash site. I can only assume that in my vodka haze I picked my aching arse off the ground and proceeded to butt dive into the hanging baskets just for good measure. One whole person came to my aid. The other bastards were either stuffing their big faces, struggling to see out of puffy eyes or relating tales of lost love and curly turds. Despite my ass being sorer than ring sting, I tore off on the bike again and did another dramatic tumble as I tried to dismount. I knew my poor ass was gonna look more mangled than a whore’s chuff the following today but hell, aside from the fact I am now walking like I have a 20 inch butt plug up my ass, it’s impossible to tell the trauma my fat ass has been through.
Tender arse aside we had a most enjoyable party. There were trips to the nieghbour’s garden where we almost lost a Gentleman to a freshly dug trench, there was the pass the shots of any available alcohol games, naturally there was the customary running around the garden to Tiffany and sadly there was also Westlife Kareoke. Before the Bo arrived we hid the CD. It’s a sad fact that Bo has more than a tendency to slap on the crap and stand too sturdily in front of the stereo, just daring any fucker to try and slip Britney on and then force us to listen to slit your wrists crap until you actually do. Despite all our efforts, a drunken Bo had us on chairs singing into smoked daffodils and singing the wrong words to poofy Westlife with all our drunken hearts. It was all too much. Why would she put us through such traumas? Why I ask you, WHY?
Despite the shite Kareoke and broken butts and bust flower pots and smashed ornaments we had a lovely time. We always do and this party marked the start of the good stuff to come. I only hope the swelling on my arse goes down before the next one and I also hope that my mum forgives me for the damages and the fact that her cupboards are barer than the Queen’s newly waxed tache.
PS I just saw Princess Ann. I feel so special.