Wine in the fountain and blood on the walls

No, that is not the title of the latest song by some sort of new-fangled 'emo-rock' ("eck") band like 'My Chemical Romance' or 'Panic! At the Disco' or 'Take That'. No, those are amongst the things that I had to clear up in the aftermath of MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY PARTY! Woo. And this is what I am going to talk about in this blog post and we will forget that I only wrote two posts last month...

I decided that it was necessary to have a birthday party for several reasons. The first is that Nineteen is a shite age. I was thinking about this the other day and I realised that for every teenage year, I have a mental image that personifies that age. So thirteen is a boy in a baseball cap and a scummy screen-printed Offspring tshirt, fourteen is a girl wearing lots of layers and possibly cut-off tights, fifteen is a slightly burly chap, sixteen is a wiry but cool-looking kid in a ruffled school uniform, seventeen is a high-school jock making out with Leigh Cabot from the book version of 'Christine', and eighteen is a man with stubble driving around in a car. Those images are OK. They are kind of cool in a wry way. You know what I have for nineteen? A wiry, gangly, nerdish looking Jewish student (I don't know why the jewish is important, but it just seems to be) with whispy hair, big silly glasses, a grubby linen shirt five sizes too big for him, clutching a camera and running around New York saying 'GOLLY'. I'm thinking a stretched Woody Allen, or maybe sort of like Will Ferrier on crack. That isn't meant to be a cuss at Will Ferrier, by the way - I, like the rest of the world, have nothing against him - but every time I see a picture of him on Facebook, I think to myself 'Holy shit, that boy personifies my already existing image of what Nineteen is".
Where was I? Oh yeah, the lameo student. Basically, nineteen is not a cool age. You've pretty much finished puberty (unless you are a eunuch, or possibly Daniel Bedingfield); all of the cool allowances have been given to you. SIXTEEN: SEX. SEVENTEEN: CARS. EIGHTEEN: ALCOHOL. NINETEEN... THE ABILITY TO GET MARRIED WITHOUT YOUR PARENT'S CONSENT IN NEBRASKA! FUCK YOU, SYSTEM! I'd say that Ninteen is the first age at which birthdays become less about getting awesomely excited about presents and stuff, and more about being depressed because death is another year closer. This put me in the mood for a bloody good party.
The second reason was that, at the end of the summer, the social group that I have known and loved and grown up with will be officially SHATTERED into a thousand fragments as we all go off to our respective universities to study our various courses, such as English at Oxford, or one of those mickey-mouse courses like Outdoor Adventure and Philosophy at one of those mickey-mouse universities like West Sussex or Durham. The thought that I might never see some of my fondest friends ever again... people like *looks at Facebook* "Jonathan Doyle", "Emily Brighton" or "Elena Lynch"... a mental scan of their names comes up with a blank but apparently they were all at my party so we must be friends... the idea that I will never see some of these people again is enough to PUT ME OVER THE EDGE. So I threw a big party and decided to invite all of my friends. Well, most of them. I also had to invite the people who are only friends due to habit, and then I had to invite the members of the various clique just so that I had collected 'em all, and then I invited this one guy who I actually forgot had existed throughout Summer. All of this was done on Facebook, and being the responsible person I am I said "If anyone wants a plus one, just ask me and it will be OK". Naturally all of the people who I only invited out of a desire to make a set complete wanted plus ones; and at one point a plus one wanted a plus one, at which point my unified view of the universe collapsed around my ears and I burst into bitter, self-pitying tears before cutting myself with a broken bit of glass for three and a half hours. Then I said "NO". Actually I don't even think I said no; I think that the plus one who wanted a plus one broke up with her boyfriend or something so didn't even come to the party at all! So really, the joke is on her. Sucker.

As it was, when I was ambling through the crowd of blood-stained extras about forty minutes into the party, I realised that I only knew about 70% of the people. I was like WHO ARE YOU to one girl, and then she shot back WHO ARE YOU back and I thought to myself 'Hmm'. But then I realised that we were both covered in fake blood and thus we should just get on with everything. Oh yeah, the theme of the party was "Zombies and Cheerleaders". This was because I like zombies and because, in the words of my estimable companion Kit "Girls won't want to come all covered in blood". Naturally, all of the girls came slathered up in blood and gore, and most of the boys showed up wearing girl's clothes. This is the way that the universe works.

I think the last time I wrote a blog about a party, I gave up trying to write a coherent narrative and just started listing stuff that happened in no order. This was because it was easier to list than it was to string together smoothly and professionally. Of course, a year on from that, I have become a more accomplished writer, have gotten into Oxford and am more secure in my literary skills; therefore, I am going to do exactly the same thing, except this time I will use co-ordinating conjunctions (I learnt that term in English Language A Level!) to bridge the gap between the points:

Amy showed up carrying a bloodied baby doll; we then threw it onto the barbeque and its head melted a bit and went conical; then its body split open and beads came out so I drop kicked it across the lawn
and...

Kit showed up dressed in black face paint and an afro. When I first saw him, I said "Who is the black guy?" then I realised it was him and I nearly split open my liver laughing."I thought that dressing up as a zombie was boring so I decided to come as a black guy" he confided in me
and...

I was given a bottle of champagne. I popped it open outside and hit a girl in the back of the head. I then wandered around swigging from the bottle but then I lost it. Then I thought I found it again but it turned out to be white wine
but...

Cassie had a bottle of absinthe. She offered me some and I had a swig. I do not like absinthe, I realised as it trickled down the back of my throat. You know how when you sup a really strong alcohol it makes spit just spontaneously well up from different parts of your mouth? Well, that was still happening to me TEN MINUTES LATER
however...

Tom "LJ" Kempner showed up and gave me a Sean Young hip-flask which was well good. Then he drank a 2L bottle of Diamond White - the 7.5% Tramp Juice second only to Frosty Jacks (I should be an advertising executive) - and fell over. He locked himself in the toilet and fell over again. We phoned his mum and made her take him away, but he had lost his phone. "WHERE IS YOUR PHONE, LJ?" we asked. "In the middle" he said, so I kicked him and ran off.
but...

I had some red paint in my shed which I used for making zombie blood. My good friend Ogg told me to paint something "Really offensive" on his back. I was annoyed with him so I wrote "I LUV STEVE" and then ran off. THE JOKE IS THAT STEVE IS HIS EX-'GIRL'FRIEND AND THEY BOTH PRETEND THEY HATE EACH OTHER TO COVER THE UNDERLYING SEXUAL CHEMISTRY, AND SHE WAS AT THE PARTY TOO! Ah, jokes.
meanwhile...

Apparently there were about three massive arguments, breakups, breakdowns and fights. I didn't notice any of them as I was too busy not caring
however...

My friend Pete, who from this point on I will refer to as 'DJ Pete', said that I could borrow his speakers for the dance room. However when he showed up, drinking Argentinian herbal tea that looked an awful lot like drugs (and I should know, I saw some drugs at the Reading Festival), it turned out that he was a: An actual DJ and b: under the impression that the speakers were to be positioned OUTSIDE. So they were basically bigger than my head and - DJ Pete assured me - would kill small insects that flew in their vicinity. I was like COOL so we set them up. Nobody went in the dance room.
Unimpressive Photographic Summing-Up of the Soirée: