It’s Her Party and I’ll Die if I Want You

Special thanks to Friar Cous-Cous for supplying much needed inspirationojuice with regard to the ending of this terrible tale.

And tell me, might this have happened 'á vous' quelque jour?

A half-day at work has allowed me to enjoy an early drink in the centre of London’s guts. Myself and girlfriend outside, enjoying the midsummer sun. Beer-bloat gives me the horn for rum, and soon, the afternoon has housed an evening’s good drinking when pace was called for. We now leave for the party of a friend of my girlfriend’s. The sky is getting dark as 9 o’clock comes round. Through the off licence, we obtain liquids for nasty booze fusion, which, considering the mixmuddle already in my innards, will make for psychological ruin by 1am. I’ve managed to lose my hat, but I can buy a new one at some point maybe later on or something perhaps.

Getting to the front door of the flat at the top of the block, I feel too tired to speak to the strangers I will meet very soon. I almost buckle on my crap legs. Door opens and meet mumble with mumble.

After two hours I am in semi conversation with a group of people with whose names I never bothered to get myself acquainted. I pull fairly hard on the rollup which has been placed in my limp digits, and notice myself becoming the dead middleman between my brain and physicactions. One man asks me something about William Shatner’s dogs. I confirm his suspicions with no solid proof, but my response seems to satisfy him and buys me more concentratiotime. Then a girl asks me why 5? I do not know the answer, so I show her my left nipple as a distraction technique. This too seems to go down well, before I am asked a rather cryptic question about cocks by a third man. Before I have the opportunity to answer, my eyes cloud over. My girlfriend has somehow disappeared from the entire building, but I am unconscious before I can feel truly pissed on by the shitscare.

I awake in a different position, I am quite sure. I look straight ahead at the top of a mosque through the window. It must be about 4am, as the mosque is vaguely hit by the sun’s morning glory. My scene setting is cut short by me noticing a strange yet consistent sensation in my anus which I am quick to ascertain is related to the hands clutching my naked buttocks. Leaning on the kitchen sink and staring at the mosque, I question in my own mind how events became thus. Had some punk slipped some dinner jazz into my drink to stimulate some happy-homo-trance-hardcore? Or was I my own ‘undoing’? The man behind me is whispering what sounds like latin, and someone in the corner is making a coffee. As I consider this, I once again black out.

I awake to the sounds of a car engine. I am wrapped up in a blanket, travelling at considerable speed in the back of some car. Coming to, I realise that this is my parents’ car, with my parents at the helm. I try to remain silent, so they do not realise I am awake, and peep through my eyelids to assess their countenances. Their faces are horrifically unreadable, spastically unanimated. The ambiguity is terrifying, and nothing becomes clearer as I noticed something scrawled on my left hand:

“William, 07961 27xxxx – call me”