Party

Sun.24.08.08. It has been a bank holiday weekend crammed with barbeques and music. We have experienced possibly the worst summer on record with relentless windy rain filled days. The habit of ‘eating outside’, long balmy evenings, shorts and ‘T’ shirts has never materialised. So, the prospect of a Saturday evening soiree at David’s farm was embraced with trepidation. The same evening was also being celebrated with a beer garden party at the Oak for ‘Ash’. It was his fortieth birthday: a marquee erected, hog roast tent, balloons, ribbons, candles with the music provided by ‘Billy and the Temperamentals’. It was our intention to honour both invitations. We would divide our time equally being careful not to peak too, early practising self-control we were determined to enjoy both parties. David had arranged the rear garden assembling a collection of tented spaces to create sheltered protected areas; several tables were guarded from potential downpours plus the prevailing gusting winds by large umbrellas. The bar was also covered by a retractable awning enabling serious drinkers a permanently dry corner to ‘swali’ in peace. Moving around from one area to another was facilitated using hand held brollies, as much to protect the ladies hair and frocks rather than a genuine practical solution.

Arriving around 5pm the party was just about to begin. Close family were in attendance. Uncle John, aunt Joyce, cousins Andrew and Paul, elder sister Emma, younger sister Ashlyn, various younger people neither of us knew. Paul, ‘of big word fame’, ‘a Southpork founder member’ and a ‘6am drinking buddy of the Doc’s’ had been given the task of manning the barbeque. He has a decent reputation in this sphere of culinary prowess successfully producing protein that has not suffered from an over enthusiastic use of fire, delivered to the plate not resembling cremated organic remains. Adele and David are perfect hosts: ensuring that everyone feels comfortable to help themselves at the bar, introducing the guests to each other but additionally having the ability to effortlessly foster a relaxed informal gathering. ‘The girls’ have inherited this knack of floating in between the disparate bodies affecting conversation, engaging strangers with natural ease.

After a brief, miserable downpour the dark clouds passed over brightening up the congregation. More people streamed up the drive entering into the garden, by 7.30 the group had swollen. There were some familiar faces but many were new or forgotten. The gang form the Oak were the last to arrive each carrying bulging bags and boxes of booze. Typically Mick had organised the Preacher, Chris and Doctor Dave by earlier purchasing a case of vintage Rioja, a few bottles of Auslese complimented by equal amounts of Chardonnay. Lowtie and Sheila carried tins and a ‘football’ of Merlot, Knocker hugged a ‘malt’, his pockets secreting the last few tabs of Viagra, just like the motto of the scouts he was ‘prepared’. The case of Rioja was cracked immediately, three bottles consumed with 15 minutes; the glasses were large the appetites even grander. Chris, never having bought any clothes for 20 years, had to run the gauntlet of constant jibes, his 80’s chest size black strides suffered the bulk of the insults, the hole in his shirt remained unnoticed. For once Doctor Dave, who was sporting his white pin stripped suit, was not the focus of attention apart from discreet glances from guests who had never met him before. We managed to leave slightly later than scheduled, the friendly faces and banter preventing an earlier exit. The post analysis revealed the usual indiscretions. As early as 11pm Lowtie was finished, his wheels had fallen off, his undercarriage had given way. Sheila was forced to prop him against the wall to prevent him from collapsing into a complete heap. Doors were not wide enough anymore, Lowtie approached them snakelike with liquid legs, crab fashion grasping his opportunity to slide through before the opening shut completely. He made it to the taxi but the driver refused him entry claiming that he had never seen any person in such a drunken state. Diplomacy, folding money, a rubber seat protector and Sheila’s distress eventually appeased the driver. Doctor Dave with ‘Will’, the boyfriend of Ashlyn, serenaded a small audience of revellers late into the night, David fell asleep on the settee, Adele continued to be the perfect host still controlled, tidily pissed and talking even more properly, Mick continued to be curious as to who was ‘the bird with fat arse’ whilst Chris drifted from one amusing meeting to another. But, no one appears to have any memory after midnight, it’s perhaps as well.