I partied this weekend like it was 2006. (And I'm still hanging from 2006.) Two parties, with my ever-adorable new flatmate – what a beeyoot – of monolithic proportions.
Party One – Martha Stewart's Housewarming party at our place.
Third Roommate even came, which was amazing since I thought he'd died or something. Hasn't changed much. Still chirps me like a king: (“Dude, please get me a drink?” Him: Hmmm. Please suck my knob?)
Ant came through from the Poenda, and we ended up getting whoringly drunk, rolling round on the floor, snogging cushions, and then singing, no ska-reaming, karaoke at 3:00am.
Martha Stewart was on form, and joined the Ant and I in our usual capacity to have Dance Offs when we're shitfaced. She's really fitting in well here.
Mrs Abdul and her 300 children must've loved us, two doors down.
Turns out Mr 747 is a bit of a microphone hogger. He's that kid, bless. We woke up the next day – devastation around us – to find that one of our mates chundered on my electric keyboard. Nice chaps. Who the fuck was it – own up. It wasn't a spilt drink, the texture of this could only be one thing: vomay. Now own up fuckers. Lost my house keys amongst the debauched detritus, and Mr 747 and I had to break out of my flat, which was amusing.
Party Two – Around The World.
Rhodes people are funny hey. I can't seem to get enough of the buggers (having readily filed my way through Eastern Cape farmers quite extraordinarily over the past two years...Mr 747 included), but they do this thing where they turn every room in their digs' into a destination. You drink in every country. It's unbelievably brilliant.
Austria was strewn with paper shredding for snow, The States had two doors painted as the World Trade Centres with an inflatable aeroplane wedged between them, while Mexico – oh my aching tequila bottle. They put heaters on there, and then locked us in. Schvitzy and a little unpleasant, but hysterical.
Martha Stewart – this chick is good value - jumped off the roof into the swimming pool.
They set up an “aeroplane” in the lounge, gave us a shot glass as our “passport”, then guided us around the house. Zimbabwe was the compost heap at the bottom of the garden, and two buxom young things fell in there. South Africa was the garage, where we had to down a Sowetan Toilet. (It was triffic.) Then there was Brazil, where the guy – Drawers - cut vines from his mother's garden and hung them around his room as the 'Amazon.'
I met a dude called Crappy.
They're a special bunch these Rhodes people. My mate kept on screaming, “A U! A U! A-UCT!” which was mostly ignored, but well done for trying babe.
I'm still hanging.
PS: It's Mr 747's birthday today. Happy birthday Gringo.