Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Monday, June 28, 2004

Whisky Galore

This Saturday, I went to a party where the cocktail punch was basically getting whatever bottle anyone bought and emptying it into a bucket, giving it a stir and putting a little umbrella in it. And off when the night into giddy abandon - for what had started off as sangria had now turned into a bubbling bucket of hate so potent that the haze coming off it started to warp the wood behind it, and people about to light up were grabbed forcefully by the elbow and lead from the kitchen. Rather in the manner of a store detective.

Er, I would imagine.

Apparently this was all the rage in Oxford when Gertie was attending. We met up after I'd escaped into the night from the do, staggering around Kings Cross station at midnight like so many of the children you see there during the sunlight hours. Well, their excuse is due to, hysterically, there being a sign on one of the brick walls towards the back of the station with 'Platform 9 3/4' on it, and several deeply ingrained blood stains around three-foot up where willing children with crossed fingers had run at it in the hopes of reaching Hogwarts. Anyway, Gertie had fallen foul of a couple of these 'bath parties' while studying, where people (hopefully) cleaning out their bath, put in the plug, and whatever drink came through the door was tipped into the tub and swirled around a bit. Oh, and there was food dye too, just to add that extra sense of mystery.

People would ask whether you'd went to the blue party last night, or the red one - when it was frankly obvious from the colour of their teeth. Messy. Very messy.

At any rate, the two of us ended up at the Black Cap, one of North London's more spit-and-sawdust dens of iniquity. After an hour of dancing, I somehow accidentally managed to pull an Armenian, even by keeping my eyes to the floor at all times as I am want to do when I'm out without the Wife. He seemed nice and intensely proud of his accent but, on closer inspection, had the face of Gordon Ramsey. Gertie is wonderful to have around in these situations: not only does he provide a bizarre camaraderie that makes most people think we're a couple, but his nigh-on epileptic dancing fits meant I could position him between myself and foreign Gordon. And I know of no-one brave enough to attempt to push through his whirling movements when S Club 7 is on - Gertie doesn't so much 'throw shapes' as hurl them.

This morning, I enquired after the state of the bucket via the party's hostess. Apparently it had melted through at 3am. Which was a little off-putting - it had been galvanised steel.

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