Death of a party

Well, that party was a little awful. I did my best to have fun. I started by drinking a few beers and an obscenely large whisky as quickly as possible to get things started.

And then it occurred to me, what are we celebrating?

Some Indian guy who married the daughter of a Swiss millionaire turned thirty five and threw himself a party.

There was a truly comic start to the event. I arrived having already eaten and then discovered there was free buffet. Not wishing to appear rude, I grabbed a small plate of rice, chicken curry and nan. By the second mouthful I was aware that this meal was a hazard to my dental health. I know that meat is often a little boney around here, but every dollop of food in my mouth involved the (deeply un-endearing) motion of reaching in with both hands to remove some foreign object.

So, I abandoned my second dinner.

As I talked with Lucy, Adam and two Americans we were interrupted by the sight and sound of fireworks.

“Ooh fireworks!” We all said.

And about five minutes was spent watching a continuous bout of colourful explosions in the sky – while being simultaneously deafened.

Then it stopped.

Clapping. Some cheering.

Phew.

“So, where were we? Yes, you were saying…”

BANG BANG BANG BANG

bang

"What, seriously? More?" (We collectively inhaled.)

Yes, five more minutes. I put my fingers in my ears. As a music lover, my hearing is unsurprisingly valuable to me.

During this bout, we enjoyed taking the piss amongst ourselves:

BANG

“Oooh, that one was my favourite.”

BANG

“No wait, now I’m not sure.”

BANG

“This guy must have a lot of friends. Look how many fireworks he can afford.”

BANG

“That was my twelfth favourite.”

Etc.

Then it stopped. A reluctant applause. Someone had the cheek to whoop. Perhaps it was me.

Sigh.

Thirty seconds.

And it starts again.

BANG

This guy must be hung like Daddy Elephant.

By the time it actually finished we were just a stunned crowd, pummeled into silence.

Please! No. More. Loud. Sounds.

I can’t see anymore!

The DJ of the evening turned out to be the guy whose party it was. Between songs he would make his important way around the tables and with a deep frown and the grave earnestness of a football manager, he would say,

“Hey, you having a good time?"

Weak smile, holding aloft a bottle of the free beer he had personally arranged, we would say….”yes.”

From this point the evening went downhill. After a tragic spell on the dancefloor and a failed attempt to make some kind of impression on a bunch of Israelis (they insisted on speaking in Hebrew – the hardest of the languages written the wrong way round), I went to bed.