Ma bday wz on the 1st of September, a date famous for England's historic 5-1 victory against Germany, being the birthdate of Romeo Beckham, and the 355-Day anniversary of the 9/11 Terrorist Joke-Ups. I decided to be a rebel and stay up all of Thursday night so that I could welcome my impending adulthood in style, listening to live rock music in a club full of semi-naked women and sipping dry martinis. I actually ended up watching a repeat of a tv show about pathetic fat englishwomen who still breastfeed their children, drinking three-day-old paintwater from a pint-glass. Oh well, at least I got to enter adulthood looking at some nipples, albeit horribly distended ones with weird albino kids hanging off them. Plus I was talking to the gf on the phone like a real man. So all in all, the transition from boy to MAN was pretty good.
"I'm now a man," I confided to her when Teletext switched from 23:59:59 to 00:00:01 (I swear it managed to miss out 00:00:00 somewhere along the line. I'm sure that this must have some serious moral or scientific ramifications, but I am no rocket scientist and thus the missing second of space-time means nothing to me).
"Very good, she said. "But every second I waste talking to you, I fail to spend working on your birthday card, which is like a third done and is getting more crap by the second. Happy Birthday."
(NB: My girlfriend is some kind of freak who thinks that spending eight+ hours working on an incredibly intricate birthday card is a good way to show her appreciation of my talents. It is, but come on love, effort. When it's her birthday she's getting a £2.99 'Happy Holidays' number from the cornershop with a watercolour picture of a farmhouse on the front to function as both a Christmas AND birthday card... you see, her birthday is close enough to Christmas for it to work! YES!!!! And she will appreciate this card because it Shows That I Care.)
I took her snubbage of me as a hint to fuck off, so I ended the conversation in my customary manner (interrupting her mid-sentence to yell BYE!!! and then slamming the phone down as hard as I could. Then pressing the "End Call" button), and collapsed to bed in the very very early hours of Friday morning (at 12.47AM, exactly... rebél), safe in the knowledge that a: I was a man and that b: My girlfriend was losing hours of sleep JUST TO ENTERTAIN ME. This devotion backfired, however; she woke me up THREE TIMES in the night with text message updates about said card, the final being "It's 6:30 and your card looks like shit, I'm going to bed".
I was awoken at 8 in the morning by my little brother strolling into my room saying "Happy Birthday, I have to go rowing so get up and open your presents, you dirty fuck."
-- (Perhaps I should take a second here and explain why my little brother was going rowing YET I WAS NOT. Basically my little brother is an adorable fellow who wants to be like me in every way. He'll argue against this hypothesis but I'm the older one and I know best about everything. In wanting to be like me, he has decided to embrace the idea of rowing and thinks that going to every training session is the key to promotion. However, he's about a year and a half behind me in his enthusiasm for rowing - I've already gone through the 'keen' stage, followed swiftly by the 'slow realisation of how things really work', 'crushed hopes', 'broken spirit', 'bitter resentfulness', 'jaded cynicism' stages in that order. I have finally arrived at the 'wry, wistful, knowing sense of my own futility' stage. This basically means that there was no fucking chance of me going to a rowing session on the morning of my 18th birthday, no matter how apparently important it was, no matter how little I actually had planned for the morning of said birthday. I was just not going to go out of the principle of the thing. My little brother, who has yet to be crushed by the tedious nepotism of the Boat Club, is welcome to go straight ahead and train if he wants to, though.)
So yes, I leapt gleefully from my bed, wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy sleeping shorts, and gayly ran down the stairs. I ripped open my many presents, rejoyced at the good taste of my family, and then rejoiced more at the sudden influx of birthday cash from my extended family who, after eighteen years of fairly crap presents, have apparently finally realised that all I really want from life is MONEY (for a full rundown of my gifts, please read Hatchet Zombie over the next few months). I have to highlight my trendy new jeans and even trendier new t-shirt for real awesome stylez, though.
After my spirited stand against the evils of going to rowing training, I spent the next hour lying on the sofa in my underwear watching a repeat of the OC before pulling on my clothes and rolling into Kingston to visit the squaw and get the card which had been built up so much in my mind that it would basically be impossible to be as good as I'd imagined it being. But what do you know - it was actually pretty good. The daft bint had painted me a full A4 masterpiece of things I liked and song lyrics and shizzle, all surrounded by kerazy swizzling colours and shit. It was bare good blud. I was quietly impressed, and immediately framed it and put it up on the all in my house just to show all the party-goers later on (I'm not joking). She was embarassed. I didn't care.
Because she's my girlfriend and she gets mortified if people look at her work, I've decided not to stick the picture on the internet so that everyone can pick it apart and mock her for the amount of effort she put in to entertain a dickhead like me. I do this because I care about her feelings. Of course, I am lying. Here it is:
Click for bigger.
HEY EVERYONE LOOK AT THAT PICTURE!!! LUCIA DID THAT!!!! LOOK AT IT!!! Fuck man, that is actually SO GOOD. LSB is pretty talented actually. I can't believe that I was the lucky one who spiked her drink, date-raped and impregnated her and now is forcing her to marry me so that her future brood will be able to go to heaven when they die. Five points to anybody who can identify the song lyric going through this masterpiece (no, not Debaser, you dickhead).
But... WAIT A SECOND... What's that I said beforehand? "Party-goers". WHAT? PARTY-GOERS? HUH? PARTY? Yes, people, I managed to finally succeed having a party at my house. I did this by telling my parents that I would be able to keep the invite list down to eighteen people. This quite obviously was not going to happen, but we all pretended that that was the plan, even while the piece of paper featuring the list of people who had been invited steadily got more and more filled up with small writing, crossings out and addendums and the amount of beer my dad bought grew steadily larger and larger. Eventually the list was more like forty people... and I still didn't invite you!!!! Yes, you, you know you know who you are, you person who conspicuously failed to be invited. AHAHAHAHA. I don't actually know who I am referring to here, but I'm sure that I've planted the seed of doubt in some poor bastard's mind.
Just to really twist the dagger further, here's a picture of some of what you missed out on:
Just to pour some barbeque sauce and flesh-eating HIV ants into the already bleeding dagger-wound, here's a rundown of all the booze purchased especially for my party by my folks (this does not feature the rest of the beer/hard alcohol brought by the rest of the partygoers, which was pretty plentiful)
- 2x 24 crates of bottled Holsten Import
- 1x 24 crate of bottled Budweiser
- 1x 24 crate of bottled Stella Artois
- 2x 18 crates of Smirnoff Ice for the girls
- 1x 24 crate of bottled Grolsch
- 1x 24 crate of canned Stella Artois
- 2x bottles of Pimms
Pretty good, eh? AND YOU DIDN'T GET ANY OF IT BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T INVITED!!!! AHAHAH!!!! Loser.
Is it any surprise that I can't remember much of the actual party? Just fragments, people, fragments. I remember candles. I remember a sudden influx of people at like 10:30, including a guy who gave me an awesome yellow and black Von Dutch hat which I am going to wear to every rowing session from now on. That guy later broke a bottle of beer over the head of someone else, which was pretty funny. I remember being in a hole for like ten minutes. I tried to get out, but I kept getting sucked back in. That was pretty weird. Then a couple of scallywags tried to christen my tent (Which I think of affectionately as the "Tent of Love") with some actual sticky disgusting love. Luckily, the Von Dutch guy (who has some lovely stubble), picked up a passing girl and threw her bodily onto the tent, flattening it and (hopefully) the raging hormones sloshing about within. I remember being given a huge leather jacket by Mike and Ogg. This is like a proper black-man motorcycle leather jacket, which went SO WELL with my new hat. Made me look bare ghetto blud. I doubt I'll ever take either of them off ever again. I seem to remember somebody being violently ill next to my fountain, and then me being forced to drag her by the nose to a car. I'd swear that a load of glow-sticks appeared from somewhere, and some passing cool person gave me a pen that had arms and a little button on the back and if you pressed the button THE ARMS PUNCHED. I recall sitting on a wall with my homegirl and motivational guru Cassie for about five minutes having a deep spiritual conversation about how good I was. She told me a story about the Terminator, if I remember correctly. Then two indians that I had never met before kind of walked into my garden and shook my hand. I was like SUP YOU ARE RANDOM INDIANS I DON'T KNOW. Then they asked me if I wanted to go out clubbing with them and I was like SUP RANDOM INDIANS NO BECAUSE THIS IS ACTUALLY MY 18TH BIRTHDAY PARTY! If my memory serves, I kept grabbing random people by the arm and dragging them to my fridge just to show them how much beer I had stored within. Which was a lot. I remember eating chicken satays. I remember lying on the floor laughing heartily. I remember playin' black music and rapping along like a proper little homeboy. I remember getting a good (but allowably fidgity, considering the surroundings) night's sleep. I remember ice.
You know what I don't remember?
Anybody crying.
MY PARTY WAS THE FIRST ONE I HAVE BEEN TO ALL FUCKING YEAR IN WHICH I DIDN'T COME INTO CONTACT WITH ANYBODY CRYING, BEING OVER-THE-TOP DRAMATIC OR BITCHING HEARTILY ABOUT THEIR BEST FRIENDS. I think that this makes my party pretty much the best event ever.
You are SO jealous you didn't get invited. BTW if anyone still wants to send me any birthday money, please, go ahead. Get in touch via comments. Buff.
Oh fuck, school in two days. Have I started homework? Have I FUCK.
PS: Pretty much every dialogue featured in this post is either embellished, poorly remembered, or totally fictional. I can't remember conversations very well; I just tend to recall the gist of the details. You know, the tone, the mood, etc. And I'm a boy so I misread a lot of moods. So basically, in all likeliness very little of this post actually happened.
No comments:
Post a Comment