P.A.R.T.Y.

Moving to London as a young person brings with it many comments from those remaining in the home village about the nights out I must enjoy. I remember older work colleagues reminiscing about themselves as recent arrivals and how they would be out all nights of the week till 2am, following each madcap mash-up with a day of steaming alcohol stench in the office. “I don’t really go out that much,” I tell these people, much to their surprise. Part of the problem is not knowing where to go: being raised on a staple diet of cheesy clubs in Guildford or Oxford, the choice is a bit overwhelming. Most of the problem is not really being able to afford it. Everyone knows London is expensive and I’ve no interest in complaining about it. Maybe if I actually did some work in the office instead of writing this I would be on a higher wage and raking in the disposable income that would enable me to bop till I drop.

But occasionally the TV has to be switched off and abandoned and my presence is required out and about: friends’ birthdays. Email or message arrives with an invitation to ‘My Birthday Drinks’ and a date is scribbled in the diary.

I have varying levels of success with birthday parties. A close work friend was throwing an animal magic party for her daughter’s seventh and I was very excited to be among the invited attendees. The weather conspired against us, with flooding washing away most of the first petting zoo’s animals and a replacement company being used at the last minute, and with the rain continuing so that thirty screeching kids had to have their interactions with nature in one crowded living room. On arrival, I realised I had forgotten how loud and energetic children could be. I want to say I haven’t been near a child in ages, which makes me sound like a certain type of offender on the road to recovery. What I mean is that in my young person’s lifestyle, I don’t have any dealings with anyone under the age of twenty.

Nevertheless, before long, I was leading the pack and getting involved, drawing on experience as a teacher in Germany and a Cubs helper in Surrey to keep some semblance of order. The nice farm lady put me in charge of holding the albino hedgehog which the children were invited to come and stroke. This was difficult as, kneeling down as I was, it kept trying to bury itself into my crotch. I held it in outstretched arms, only to realise it had begun to relieve itself over most of my hand. The children recoiled in screams as warm browny hedgehog poo tumbled onto my forearm and jeans. Internally I was panicking and wanted to fling the hedgehog off of me but instead I had to remain calm as its gritty faeces slid into the folds of my clothes. The nice farm lady calmed things down by explaining to the children that all animals do in fact poo, even snakes; and I was given a wet wipe.

I seem to fare better with celebrations for those around my own age. Other parties and birthday drinks have seen me traipse all over London. Vauxhall’s popular Roller Disco proved eventful. From waiting for friends at the Tube station in retro short shorts and long socks with hair poking out of a sweatband, to the birthday girl’s inability to balance on her skates leaving her flailing her arms wildly until striking me smack in the face at the same time as I lurch to catch her as she tumbles over, it proved to be a memorable evening. The disco is a huge amount of fun and the diverse crowd adds to the amusement. The combination of booze and wheels-on-feet means you can’t drink too much because you’re skating and you can’t skate too much because you’re drinking. Nevertheless, I didn’t want my fun to end, and in the early morning, as my friends opted for bedtime, I informed all that I would stay by myself. Which I did. For an hour, during which time I completed hundreds of moronic circuits of the rink before finally queuing up alone for shoes and looking like a keen-bean weekly solo skater.

The common or garden birthday drinks can be carried out with varying degrees of success. My own in Hoxton Square probably weren’t aided by the generosity of the host’s friends in getting one in for the birthday boy. Another close friend selected a bar in Covent Garden for hers. The music was so loud nobody could hear what anyone was saying. I rarely listen anyway so this was no problem. The fact that I was returned from a trip to see friends in Oxford and therefore suffering from indulgence in a cheaper nightclub than any of those to be found in London, culminating in some choice chundering in a train toilet as we pulled into Reading station, meant that I was not touching a drop on the night itself. A flatmate was also keeping it teetotal, having given up alcohol for Lent. However, he made the mistake of asking the rather flash barmen for one of their virgin cocktails. For those not aware, these are found in most cocktail menus, often for bargain prices, somewhere near the back. By ‘virgin’ they mean boring and no-one is expected to buy them. It took my flatmate a good deal of explaining as to why he wanted an alcohol-free cocktail and, funnily enough, the barmen were pretty much disgusted. So whilst they mixed the drink with the usual performance and flair, one of them brought in a new move which he must have held in reserve only for those after such a drink. He stood up, a leg on the bar and a leg on the surface behind. He positioned the cocktail shaker somewhere around his crotch and proceeded to make a thrusting motion with his hips and a stroking movement with his hand, effectively simulating masturbation as he poured out the drink into its glass. Offended and bemused in equal measure, my friend retreated with his drink.

But normally it’s not the staff who are debauched and behave poorly, it’s the people I’m out with. A friend from my home village began her night with drinks at Porterhouse in Covent Garden before we were dragged through a great deal of Soho, haemorrhaging partygoers from our group hither and thither until the decision was made to grab a taxi to Turnmills. The hardcore few that made it there danced away, the boys taking it in turns to bring in rounds of alcopops to the small area where we were twitching away to the banging beats and awkward pauses of such trendy music. Apparently enjoying myself so much, I refused to head to the bar for my round, instead handing over my card to a friend to fetch it in for me. The joys of chip and pin meant I had only to give him a four digit code to enable him to access my overdraft, but I don’t think holding up the corresponding number of fingers in order to convey this was a wise move: four fingers, three fingers etc. Luckily, I did not become the victim of PIN-surfing. I emptied my account myself.