Events
Communist Party - Brought to you by James Wormald -
This event is being written especially for you (as far as you know) straight out of my office (my work office). And by that I mean my dingy desk next to the smelly carpet stain. The reason this is happening is twofold.
First, from opportunity. I’m waiting here to go out later to see Mesrine: A Killer Instinct. Which will be reviewed tonight and put up along with all the other great stuff. But second, and more importantly, because there’s no other time for it.
I intended to write it last night, however Gazz stopped me before hand with a suggestion. His idea was to instead of one person just write down a list of things that happened from memory, we talk about it (on some kind of webchat forum), then copy, paste, done. Just put up the conversation. It was a strange, outside the box idea I’ll give him that, but what was so much farther outside the box it was in the centre circle, was that I liked it.
Of course it didn’t work. Not at all. But it does show off our desire to attempt all kinds of new platforms and innovative methods of journalism, all to give you the blessed reader, the optimum experience.
The idea is still in the pipeline, so watch this (or the upcoming) space. But today you’ll have to make do with what now seems like the tired, ageing version.
So it was a house party, based around the situation of a housewarming. Four friends, some old, some relatively new, coming together. Brimming with excitement, anticipation, and vigour for imminent shared experiences. So which theme could be more fitting than communism?
As a pleasant change to a house party I attended, this time I was actually able to bring some people with me. Nick would be joining Gazz and myself, as well as Hoss and Nick’s brother James hotfooting it down from Nottingham especially. There was also an extra ingredient, giving the party a distinct flavour as LMU newboy (and he will be until someone else joins) Ramone dived into the pot.
Nick and James were intent on getting a proper Hoss-inspired Power Hour (in spite of Hoss bailing to spend the weekend with his ‘not a proper girlfriend’ girlfriend) in before we so much as pulled on our outfits, so they were to show up at our house around 19:00.
For anyone unaware, the Power Hour, is an .mp3 file which is one hour of songs. One song a minute, with Quagmire (from Family Guy) telling you to Drink the Beer at every one minute interval. The Hoss Version. Is one shot every 30 seconds for the first 15 minutes. Due to the fact that when Hoss does the Original Power Hour, he takes matters into his own hands, drinking in-between.
I of course would not be partaking in any such vile and humourless drinking games as I hold some taste and decorum. Also the last time I tried, I lasted 23 minutes before becoming bloated and falling asleep. This time Gazz opted out on around 50 minutes, then was burped by James and got his second wind (after being winded), sadly the second wind lasted half another shot until he painted our toilet a nice shade of Fosters mixed with bile. Nick and James fought each other to the end until there was only one shot left in it. Even now, there’s still some dispute as to who actually won, so let’s just call it a draw eh?
After a tube journey in which James just would not either shut up, or at least stop freaking people out (One old man actually sacrificed his sitting position in order to stand in another carriage, having to use his stick! Just to get away from James), we arrived at the party.
Now usually, I’m one of those incredibly un-cool people who turn up to a party when you’re actually supposed to. When no one else has turned up yet, and no one will for another few hours. If you throw a party starting at 19:00, you’d better be home at 17:00 because that’s when I’ll knock on the door! But this time I thought I’d play it cool. Nick, Gazz and James were off their tits as well obviously, so we were about an hour late waiting for them to drunkenly sort themselves out.
Sadly this meant there was only a half hour or so window to get to talk to some of the main characters I was hoping to see. Rachel, Ronan, Vic and Alex all left early to catch trains, along with probably other people I missed all together. Half an hour minus time to actually find these people, as they’re saying goodbye to everyone else translates to roughly four minutes of conversation. Three of these minutes were spent giggling uncontrollably as Rachel poked her head in to say hello (then goodbye) just as Gazz was explaining how much he wanted to see her, and tell her she scared him, before cowering away like a rabbit sat on the Hollywood sign.
House parties are generally the coming together of many groups of friends, some large, some small, some only one or two people. You’re gonna get a lot of people who don’t know each other. Nothing really in common apart from their mutual friend (which gets old as a subject after 10 minutes), so it can sometimes turn sour. If people don’t click straight away, the scene can have all the atmosphere of Anne Frank’s attic. This is why themed parties are such good ideas, there’s always the ‘what did you come as?’ or ‘Have you seen the girl who’s dressed as…’, or ‘How the hell did you get on the tube in that?!’ topics to run through. A good theme is sure to get everyone chin-wagging through a blackout, at least until the alcohol kicks in.
Luckily I managed to part myself from James (which sadly also meant excommunicating Nick, but needs must) for the rest of the night and catch up with some people I haven’t seen in a while like Becky, Kevin, Joe and Diya… people I haven’t seen in a longer while like Andy, Tristan, Millie and Duncan, and people I haven’t seen ever like Olja, Danny, Nathan, Vernon and Marsha.
Surprisingly it was only at around the halfway stage, that we (Andy, Tristan and myself) realised the carpet was covered with plastic. An ingenious plan we mused If not a little weird at least until we mutually remembered the last party we’d all attended where gatecrashers were jumping on the dining table in an attempt to destroy it, throwing eggs in an attempt to ruin the floor, and throwing bottles in an attempt to make everyone bleed to death.
Later still into the night, I remember a hot brunette girl shows up unexpectedly. ‘This is strange’ thought I. She must be a new arrival, I’ve not seen her until now. But she’s not with anyone. Not talking to anyone. Just flitting about, looking like she knows what she’s doing.
She asks me if I’ve seen her camera. I’ve seen a camera I state, on the counter. But that was Olja’s camera I think to myself, as I join her search. She tells me she wants to go to bed. I agree in kind, that it’s getting late and bed is an agreeable option in anyone’s mind, not least my own, but wonder what she means as she does not live there. ‘Do I not?’, the surprised words, rhetorically vaulting from her throat... At which point it hits me, like a lead bus. It’s fucking Olja! She’s taken her wig off!
I of course gloss over my idiocy seamlessly with one of these “umm…. Y… err..” and pretend it’s all kosher.
Instead of going to bed, Olja views the fruit slice situation and claims it needs improving. She lunges for the drawer by my side, and retrieves a meat cleaver the size of a cow. Kevin and I jump back, our eyes fixated on the shiny yet blunt blade. ‘What?’ She asks as she takes a wooden mallet at a fair-ground strongman contest swing at a lemon, keeping both her eyes on us and nowhere near the lemon, blade, or her fingers. As if taught by a blind 184 year old monk, she expertly slices the fruit and leaves the blade on the table top, glistening in its glory.
Some more time later, once everyone not having already bagged a sofa, a bed, or the floor, has taxi’d on, Olja is still up. Along with Joe, Diya, Marsha and myself, Olja being Russian, gets out the Vodka, and even worse the shot glasses. As anyone who knows me better than she obviously does will know, I DO NOT do vodka shots. Admittedly there was a time, during University (when else), when I could drink enough of the vile drink to put any Bond Villain to shame, but not now. I’m out of training. Have been for over 5 years. This it turns out, is all circumstantial. When you’re being told to drink vodka until the bottle is dry, or else bring a lifetime of horrifically bad luck upon you, your entire family, everyone in the house, and everyone in the house’s entire families, that’s one thing. But when the person threatening you is an angry Russian, and is doing so with a huge meat cleaver, it’s an entirely alternate thing.
Two actually rather smooth (which she was right about) meat tasting (which she didn’t mention) shots later, and it was done. The bottle had been emptied and I returned to safety. Of course Joe and Diya went to bed, Olja went to bed, and I was left to the only remaining sleeping spot in the house. On the living room floor.
Credit to Danny though, who seemed to appear solely to provide me with a sleeping bag, providing enough comfort for as good a night’s sleep as possible.
Sunrise, and… I’m a little disappointed not to show any signs of hangover whatsoever, seems a waste. Where’s my evidence of a good night? Where’s my proof? Despite the double vodka at the end of the night, I’d been hitting the water pretty hard after the booze ran out. I’d say the ratio had swung that way by the end, so I was fine. Still feeling cheated however, I cracked open a couple of cans for breakfast (as you do) and the remaining group got outside for a nice Sunday morning sit in the sunshine.
With not everyone else feeling as fresh as me, the order of the day had to be the Sunday Roast down at the ‘North Nineteen’ pub just up the road. Right then and there… as I sat on a bench, tucking in to my gorgeous roast in the middle of the North London beer garden, I couldn’t help but envy Claire and her new housemates.