Not nearly as bad as last time, at least (that's what comes of having less than half as many people come!). Still, not an appealing prospect to wake up with the next morning. Or the next afternoon, I should say. I was very good about it, though: I did do nearly all of the cleaning and tidying straight away.
One of the reasons I so covet a courtyard... to be able to throw an outdoor party. But I guess the amount of clearing up is going to be the same: same burden on the kitchen, same amount of part-used booze to round up, same number of receptacles waiting to be cleaned... Ugh.
'Idiots', indeed. I am sourly inclined to think that there's something about a party that turns people into idiots. There was so much gob-smacking bad guest behaviour at mine, I was just about ready to hit someone by the end of it.
Yes, I was disappointed by how punily most people drank. There are some empties in that big black bin bag off to the bottom right, and a lot of the bottles on the table are half empty, but still... it's a pretty piss-poor effort really.
Idiots at parties - like the guy who stood in my dining room last time (where the heat sensitive food was placed) and ate cherries, spitting the stones onto the floor without any attempt at civilization. He's off the list for RibFest 2010.
Every bar is a memory.
And all the memories huddle together for company, so that in my mind it often seems as though every bar I've ever been in is on the same street, or at least in the same neighbourhood; every great drinking session I fondly recall happened on one night, or over the course of one weekend; and everyone I've ever drunk with fuses into a single person, the idealised Drinking Companion.
Sometimes it seems to me also that the melancholy that infuses so many of these memories had but a single cause, an idealised Lost Love.
Some of these memories I will now try to share with the enormous, faceless, blog-munching world at large.
These, then, are the mental voyages of the boozehound Froog; his many-year mission to seek out new drinks and new places to drink them in, to write The Meaning Of Life on a napkin.... andnotlose it on the way home.
Froog is an escaped lawyer - but there is no need for alarm; he is only a danger to himself, not to the general public. An eternal wanderer, he now lives in an exotic city somewhere in the 'Third World' *, where he is held prisoner by an unfinished novel (or, more precisely, an unstarted novel). He spends a lot of time running, writing, taking photographs, and falling in love with women who fail to appreciate him. He also spends a lot of time in bars.
[* OK, I'll come clean: I've been living in Beijing since summer '02.]
6 comments:
One of the reasons I so covet a courtyard... to be able to throw an outdoor party. But I guess the amount of clearing up is going to be the same: same burden on the kitchen, same amount of part-used booze to round up, same number of receptacles waiting to be cleaned... Ugh.
'Idiots', indeed. I am sourly inclined to think that there's something about a party that turns people into idiots. There was so much gob-smacking bad guest behaviour at mine, I was just about ready to hit someone by the end of it.
Er, looks pretty tidy to me. In fact rather like a house before anyone has arrived. Especially that table with all the drinks on.
Ah, Harvster, didn't know that you frequented this blog as well.
Yes, I was disappointed by how punily most people drank. There are some empties in that big black bin bag off to the bottom right, and a lot of the bottles on the table are half empty, but still... it's a pretty piss-poor effort really.
Not enough Oxford men there.
Idiots at parties - like the guy who stood in my dining room last time (where the heat sensitive food was placed) and ate cherries, spitting the stones onto the floor without any attempt at civilization. He's off the list for RibFest 2010.
I drop in from time to time but not as often as I should.
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