The Saturday party was swell. There was boobs flailing everywhere, the now customary piley-ons, orgies on the parents bed, mildly unamusing tantrums (and no, not just by me) and everything else that I seem to have temporarily blocked out. No doubt the flashbacks of what was probably split leaps, split beavers and split relationships will come flooding back to haunt me as I sip smoothies and try to unfold my eye lids. I do remember that someone called the police. That’s a first in our party history which is surprising. I think I know who did it. Although it could have been a combined effort considering you could hear us all the way to Glasgow. Be warned: If you have recently fallen out with someone and they have left in a whirlwind of farts and bad moods, never joke that it was they who called them. Big mistake times two. Anyway, I’m sure I cried into the bosom of a police woman who was as hot as the colourless turd that someone left me to find in the morning but hell, what’s a drunken tear or two between friends?? I think after that, after we were ordered to move our party indoors, I think plants were on fire and gobbings were spat around in reckless abandon but fuck that, let’s so not go there. Such a teenager. As is the usual, the J Bo and the Beautiful Boy were up last although far too fortunately the Westlife CD was well hidden. Of course that did not stop a J Bo ransacking the parent’s CD collection for gems such as Bryan Ferry and other far too unmentionables. And as is also the norm, all fags were smoked and all drinks drunk while the rightful owners slumbered and drooled through the drunkness. Ah I love a party. I also love the fact that Babs was clearly far drunker than anyone else, being manhandled into my bed and despite all warnings of ‘puke and I will wear your foreskin as surgical glove and give you a rectal probe’, he subsequently vomited his lager, vodka and cider concoction in clumps around my room. I have yet to find the remaining pile, the smell of which tarnished my dreams last night when I dreamt I was floating in a sea of naked Babs and acrid bile. One thing to say to you Babs, ‘funcy a fuck?’
And so it was over and I was faced with four stunningly puffy eyed individuals the following morning where the discussion over fat pork sausages was once again, oblong turds, squishy poops and unsafe farts. Everytime.
Oh well today, in the blurry haze of a two day hangover where my hair looks mega backcombed and I can still smell the BBQ remnants in my nostrils, I now must scrape the bits of feet that people seem to have engrained into everything, from the lino, to the chairs to my mothers shoes. Cheers for that.
Have a good day. I know me, all dry skinned, shaky hands and swollen eyes certainly will not.
Two weeks till NY. Sex
in the city.
Photo phones… See stunningly unclear photo under blog description
Clark Shoes adverts
My Lil Red, so pretty
The morning after the night before
The tomato ketchup lingering in my hair which seems to be unshiftable
My scabby lips which are disintegrating by the second
People’s inability to take a fuckin’ joke.
Neighbours with attitude