It’s a shitty, bitter little party. Crackers here- look, barely smeared with margarine. Admittedly I’d chosen this do as the one to crash, and no doubt the whole crew will give me shit for it all night. The sparkle of Rhonda’s frock is a reproach in puce. Silly bint looks like she’s attending some sort of gala feast. Not in this bloody town.
I won’t hear a squeak out of Reg- not after the balls up last week. A kids birthday party! Not even a little kids’ one, at least Bonzo the fucking clown would be a soft touch for booze, people who do shows for sprogs are always raging alkies and starved for normal adult contact. No, it had to be a bunch of eleven year olds getting high on fucking party rings and lemonade and us looking like slimy paedos for even showing up of course. That was a record low in terms of time spent in the gaff. Because of sodding Bob.
Normally if there’s no booze or adults it’s grab a fistful of snacks, make apologies, just a bunch of confused but adorable elderly lawn ornaments, don’t mind us, we weren’t even here, type of thing, then leg it to the off licence and settle into the Snug at the Wave Maiden for the umpteenth, passing a flask under the table. But Bob was starving so he actually tried to pretend he was this lassie’s granddad. Hovered and patted her shoulder on his way to the barbeque. Birthday boy’s Mum only asked her and when it all came out the whole gaggle of kids turned bright red and started carrying on. The Mums too. Hungry for drama. I can sympathise I suppose. Anything to get the heart pumping.
We could have come to a bad end that night if we’d been on foot, but luckily Madge was on the wagon again so she’d brought the car. She’s fallen off since so if this turns south we’re fucked.
There’s someone crying over there. Oh, crap. They’re all wearing black.
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