Firstly, there are two things that you must do before reading this:
1: Re-Read New Year's Eve Part 1 to re-familiarise yourself with this epic tale.
2: Listen to "Don't Ever Think Too Much" by The Zutons. In fact, play it on repeat.
The story so far: Our brave band of travellers have been left in a trashed house, still containing many drunk 18 year olds.
After sitting up in Mario's room for a while, playing Mario Kart and eating Chocolate Segsations, we were informed that we had to help clean up.
And, hoo boy, what a lot of cleaning it was. Nobody told us that, while cleaning, the rest of the drunkards would be sitting in the other room, happily being drunk and occasionally staggering out into the kitchen to smear mud everywhere and throw up. Wankers.
Firstly: the garden. Twas an epic task, standing in the middle of a garden at 2:30 in the morning, putting bits of party-popper and mostly empty beer cans into a bin-bag. I am sure that we must have turned MOST of the plants in Marios's garden into alchoholics, the amount of booze that we poured over it. Although, technically, the amount of WKD that was thrown around during the party (someone had the idea of drinking the entire keg in one go), meant that the plants were already well on their way towards George Best. What the hell am I talking about?
Meanwhile, Paul and Oli donned gay little aprons and were busily washing up every individual plate in the building, despite the fact that there was an EMPTY DISHWASHER next to them.
While dishwashing, Paul switched between the following three states:
Saying "washing up is my bitch" over and over again.
Yelling insults at the people in the next room.
Singing "Don't Ever Think Too Much," or rather, the first ten seconds, which was all he could remember.
At this point, we decided to start an all-night cleaning club, known as Token Cleaners. Why token? It had two token black guys in it. Don't ask me, I didn't think of the name.
And then; the floor. It looked like the entire indian army had marched through. Why the Indian army? I don't know. But there was thick, caked on mud. And, after ten minutes, vomit. Also, irritatingly, this one totally wasted fella kept wandering in, trying to help by brushing the floor. Git.
So, armed with a mop, water, a brush, a dust-pan and a lot of cloths, all 5 of us embarked on one of the most bizarre and convuluted systems of mopping a floor that I have ever seen. Also, the mopping system followed a strict hierachy:
The mopper (Paul) - he who wields the power of the mop, which was basically to trickle water on the floor and wipe it about a bit. Apparently, the high commander.
The brusher (Mario) - scrubs at the floor with a broom, for some reason, to shift some of the ground in dirt. Bigger debris is made into a pile for...
The Dustpan man (ME) - this brave soul holds the brushpan and maneuvers the larger debris into the bin.
And then came the dregs:
The Dryers (Mike and Oli) - walk about with towels on their feet, drying the floor as they go. I have no idea what the hell they were meant to be doing, but hey. Occasionally, Oli would take the towels outside and beat them against a wall, claiming that it was the Mauritian way to dry things. I just don't know. I can't even say that it made sense at the time. It didn't.
After doing the entire kitchen floor, high lord Paul demanded that we also do the corridor of projectile vomiting. Shudder. There was a lot of orange air freshner spray used along that corridor, I'll tell you that. There were fears that we were gonna poison Marios's dog.
It was long, it was hard, but eventually we did it, and celebrated by eating sugarpuffs out of a mug, and then making instant coffee in a perculator. And then tea. Basically, every hot beverage in the house.
At this point it was about 6:30. And then we switched on the TV. A 100 song countdown of the Best Air Guitar Anthems Ever!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWK AND RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWL
Me and Oli Gill sat on the sofa and had air guitar orgasms while Mike disappeared, Marios and Paul obsessively cleaned another room and then went to bed. Well, Paul did. Marios walked into the room dancing in a gay way to the music.
After listening to 50 rockin' air guitar tracks, I can safely say:
Huge facial hair will never, EVER, go out of fasion.
The Drummer for Boston should be hailed as king of the entire universe.
Freddy Mercury = DUDE.
So we listened to air guitar for 3 hours, then we went home.
Total hours of sleep: 0
Total minutes of sleep: 0
Total seconds of sleep: 1 (I dozed off for a second during the ad break)
And a good time was had by all.
I assume.
(For another review of the evening - like you'd really want one - go to http://super-mario89.blogspot.com/ . It's quite funny, for something I didn't write.)
One more thing: No Europe in the top 50? No Bon Jovi? Booo! And the White Stripes suck.
Weapon for killing Zombies: Broken bottle.
Method for wiping up the mess: Just give Token Cleaning ® a call.
| |
No comments:
Post a Comment