Well, this is about as fun as an epileptic fit; ironically something I am likely soon to experience due to the high frequency of flashing lights in my face. This is the party.
It is no place for me, since I am very middle class, and tend to drop it like it’s lukewarm at best. The trigger for my presence here was the words ‘Hey, want to come round mine on Saturday night for a get together, it’s going to be sick.’ However, ironically, the promise of it being sick has come to fruition only in the form of some guy hurling chunks across the poor host’s mother’s carpet.
Some people go to leave and I overhear them discuss whether they shall walk home ‘the long way, or the rapey way?’ which I think is so great I fight the urge to write it down for later and instead commit it to memory. There is also a girl who has clearly drunk half a bottle of gin (this is a party of middle class teenagers, so yes, gin) and is coming on to anything that moves. There is little else of note aside from this essentially: I have come to the conclusion that the ideal extended for a party is that it is an operation. After all, you wake up feeling terrible in a crowded room full of strangers and you know you will need a while to recover, but thankfully you were unconscious for the majority of the time so you don’t remember anything anyway.
Diagnosis: socially inept.