So, with my own well-being in mind, here are my 5 rules for writing a good blog about a party:
1: Just remember, nobody cares.
2: Also remember, not everybody knows who everyone is and the detailed backstory behind every tiny instance that happened in the party. For example, I have no Fucking Clue who the hell Tom Scott is, or why everyone says his name and cackles. I don't have an intimate knowledge of the entire Tom Scott/Abi backstory, babes, so please don't tell me that he's here and look all excited as though I should have a clue of what's going on. See what I just did there? I just went into an esoteric story of something that happened on a party while complaining about blogs consisting of esoteric ramblings about things that happened at parties that only you went onto. While I untangle the mental elasticband ball I've just created, here's a picture of a kitten for you to look at:
3: Right. So bearing the essence of the previous point in mind, just give everyone an invitation and, if something funny happened, please relate using enough detail as necessary. Not too much detail. Hearing the intricities of how somebody thew up all over the kitchen (what colour the vomit was, the consistency, how many bits of half-digested lemon) isn't good. But on the other hand, reading OMG JUSTIN U LEGE!!!!!!!!!OGMOGM!!! YU NO WAT UD ID! LEGEDNFG! OGM LOLSZZZ makes me want to burn things, so that's probably not a good idea either.
So yes, for a good party blog, relate all the funny stuff, and then sort of cut out the chaff inbetween.
But bear in mind: if you need to spend more than three sentences explaining why it's funny, then it's not funny enough for me. It is then just a pointless ramblage.
4: Actually, that deserves its own point: a decent party blog is not a description of everything that happened at the party. You squish all the non eventful stuff (nobody, least of all me, and I'm the only one who counts, wants to hear about you hanging around waiting for somebody to arrive) and stretch out the interesting bits. It's a blog about a party, not a Literature essay in which you compare how conflict is depicted in The Red Ball and One Other Story - be as unbalanced as you like.
5: This point is the most important one of all, and is just here because 5 is a better number of points than 4.
So, with these rules in place, here is My Review of Abi's Party
Took place at Abi's house, which is in Walton, peadophiles. I chose to wear my fisherman hat there. Now this may seem like an insignificant point, but that hat became major player in proceedings later on in the evening. So, looking like a cross between James Bond and a bohemian pot smoking hippie drugflowermaid, I made my way to Aborahs and presented her with her present: a flask. It was the most obnoxiously ugly flask that I could lay my hands on being, as it was, yellow and emblazened with the 'Allsports' logo. But a tale of a flask? This isn't interesting! I hear you cry. But NO, you are wrong....
Abi, who is a spaced out chick who always seems to be slightly drunk/stoned, and she was DELIGHTED with the gift, having admired my own flask from afar for many years.
We quickly got to work with drinking, me and Joe (a tall american git who is going out with Kris, a small russian git) and, of course, Oli G (the manliest man around, who really needs no introduction if you've been reading this thing for long). But then Alex, who was going by the name of Wakeem, or Juakeem, or Wakim, or however you pronounce it, for the evening, decided that he just wanted to get as drunk as he could as quicly as he could. Now Alex/Wackeem is stick thin... you'd think that he'd be knocked unconcious by a lemon shandy without any alcohol, but apparently not, as it transpired. We needed to get him drunk, and thus hilarious, quickly! But how? But then an idea stuck me.
We took the flask, me and my short fat ugly cohort Cassandra 'blowjob' Ho-man (because she is both a ho and a man) and wandered about, telling people to contribute bits of their drinks into the concoction. This 'Jesus Juice', as I named it (thank you Micheal Jackson) ended up containing bacardi breezer, beer, white stuff, beer, coke, lemonade to give it a punch, and a decent splash of Jack Daniels, and resulted in Whackeem's swift and beautiful inebriation. Hell, it resulted in Wackeam, me, Cossie, Oli G, and pretty much anyone else who drank it being pretty cheery, loud spoken, dizzy and in the case of the Ho-Man, a total anal-whore-skank.
At this point, The Main Man Mike Y (who is black, often has an afro and plays basketball, so is thus a walking cliche) decided to prove his comic prowess by STEALING MY HAT and WEARING IT. Because, yeah, nobody saw THAT gem coming. Wew. Stealing my hat when I'm not looking... man I didn't see that coming. Wow, George Carlin step down, cos somebody's come up with a sort of comedy that's even longer lasting than your own brand of genius. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I usher in a new age of comedy... the HAT STEALING AGE.
I'm sure some really great stuff happened between then and me sitting on a bench having my neck kissed by Whore-man but I'll be damned if I can remember it. Oh yeah, the following stuff also happened:
Oli G ran off. Then he came back and asked if he could go for a ride on my bike.
I made about 3 more flaskfuls of Jesus-Juice, using the dregs from bottles found lying on the floor.
I made peace with Georgie (a girl who resembles a boy and just can't admit it), who hated me after I said she resembles a boy... by totally retracting my statement about her boyish looks and smiling sweetly.
I saw FOUR BREASTS. Well, they were encased in bras, but come on. And Roxy (a pair of boobs attached to a person) I didn't mean to look down your top, but if your going to lean across to me then get the aforementioned top stuck on my button then have it pull totally down WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO LOOK? AT MY SHOES. By the way, I was wearing the same shoes this year as I did last year.
So after all that, and me performing what could best be described as a half-joking-rather-tipsy-attempted-rape-on-HoMan-who-was-really-asking-for-it, I punched her in the boobs and rode home on my bike. Here's a list of the safety laws I broke while riding home:
Don't cycle semi drunk (Well, it's not in my little sister's High Way Code Cycling Profiency booklet, but if they thought that 11 year olds got drunk on really crazy mix of alcoholic beverages, they'd put it in)
Wear a helmet (I was wearing my hat, which should have protected me against all injuries. It's a magic hat after all... did I say?)
Always lock your bike up when leaving it anywhere (I just left it in the front garden as I couldn't be arsed to open the gate)
When riding at night, wear bright clothing/luminescent yellow (Black shoes... black trousers... black jacket... black hat. I was actually wearing more black than that twat from Splinter Cell)
And there were probably thousands more, especially with me veering all over the place and cycling on the total wrong side of the road for ages.
So yeah, that was Abi's party. Good party, babe.
And most importantly, on the ride home, a pikey said he liked my hat!
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