Party Time!
There appears to be a cycle that you fall into, if you're not lucky, of really shit New Years Eves. Things are OK when you're young - I clearly remember back in the day attending a festival of debauchery at our local pub with some mates, which involved fancy dress, joyfully shit music and precious little concern that none of us had yet attained the legal drinking age. I remember subsequent events that involved a touching act of faith by one friend who let me crash in his parents' bed, apparently unconcerned that I might fill it with diced carrot, or urine (which I did not), and sundry acts of lust carried out on someone's lounge carpet. Yes, those were the days - the parties were long and the hangovers short.
Fast forward a few years and for some reason everyone grew up and became sensible. Sure, people still had parties, but they were the kind of party where people played Pictionary, and we weren't invited in any case, possibly because I'm shit at Pictionary, but more likely because no-one wanted their lounge carpet defiled after midnight.
There were still parties at pubs and clubs, and for a few quid, or dollars, you could go along, drink crap beer to excess with people you'd never met before and end up wondering why hangovers, like hemorrhoids or arthritis, never bother you until you get older. But if you don't go you end up at home watching the most utterly fucking shite television in the history of the known universe. Inane and witless presenters fill the air with drivel until what seems like a hundred thousand morons count backwards from twenty and the new year is ushered in, pretty much like the old one, i.e. full of morons.
For that reason I have to admit I've turned in early a couple of times over the years, but recently we've fallen in with a bad crowd of people in our neighborhood who know how to see in the New Year in style. The event always involves lots of well-aged Scotch, so this year I brought along some good rye whiskey, just for a change of pace. My 2009 theory was that if I drank nothing but whiskey all night I might be spared the worst of the 01/01/2010 suffering, and let me tell you that it's a great theory, if for no other reason than that it gives you an excuse to drink whiskey all night.
This year, however, the host's teenage daughter was having a party of her own downstairs, giving us all a chance to vicariously relive earlier excesses. All the attendees were considered responsible enough by their parents either to drink sensibly, or to refrain from drinking, which made it that much more entertaining when the non-drinking girl whose over-protective mother had made a special point of showing up to have a few words and check out the party, ended up draped around the toilet bowl, yurking her champagne-and-cake mixture into the depths.
At least she made it to the bog, unlike the boy who yakked up some orange regurgitate in one of the bedrooms. There was beer pong, but not much else, and I have to say that I was pretty disappointed in the youth of today - if you're drunk enough to vomit orange in a stranger's house you ought to be drunk enough to sing, dance, do the conga, attempt to shag someone or stagger out into the street and throw a bottle at a passing car. They just sat around and did nothing. Generation Y, or whatever they're called, can't even figure out how to have a good time unless someone scripts it for them and hand-holds them through it.
There was one blonde girl, all of eighteen, with the kind of wonderful boobs that make you question how any bloke could seriously bear to be gay, and no-one was on top of her under a pile of coats at any point during the evening. You could suggest that this was because of her virtue, or the restraint shown by the fine youth of St.Louis, but frankly that's just bollocks. Restraint be buggered - if you're going to chunder fluorescently in someone's bed, at least make the drunkenness worth your while.
In the end I was just happy to be spared a Pictionary marathon, watching Dick Clark's prune-like visage, an evening with Ryan Seacrest (Jesus!) or an early night like a sad wanker. I also decided that rye whiskey is an exceptionally smooth way to drink through an evening and that I still like big eighteen year-old boobs. But then again, who doesn't?
Copyright © 2010 Edward Bison
Fast forward a few years and for some reason everyone grew up and became sensible. Sure, people still had parties, but they were the kind of party where people played Pictionary, and we weren't invited in any case, possibly because I'm shit at Pictionary, but more likely because no-one wanted their lounge carpet defiled after midnight.
There were still parties at pubs and clubs, and for a few quid, or dollars, you could go along, drink crap beer to excess with people you'd never met before and end up wondering why hangovers, like hemorrhoids or arthritis, never bother you until you get older. But if you don't go you end up at home watching the most utterly fucking shite television in the history of the known universe. Inane and witless presenters fill the air with drivel until what seems like a hundred thousand morons count backwards from twenty and the new year is ushered in, pretty much like the old one, i.e. full of morons.
For that reason I have to admit I've turned in early a couple of times over the years, but recently we've fallen in with a bad crowd of people in our neighborhood who know how to see in the New Year in style. The event always involves lots of well-aged Scotch, so this year I brought along some good rye whiskey, just for a change of pace. My 2009 theory was that if I drank nothing but whiskey all night I might be spared the worst of the 01/01/2010 suffering, and let me tell you that it's a great theory, if for no other reason than that it gives you an excuse to drink whiskey all night.
This year, however, the host's teenage daughter was having a party of her own downstairs, giving us all a chance to vicariously relive earlier excesses. All the attendees were considered responsible enough by their parents either to drink sensibly, or to refrain from drinking, which made it that much more entertaining when the non-drinking girl whose over-protective mother had made a special point of showing up to have a few words and check out the party, ended up draped around the toilet bowl, yurking her champagne-and-cake mixture into the depths.
At least she made it to the bog, unlike the boy who yakked up some orange regurgitate in one of the bedrooms. There was beer pong, but not much else, and I have to say that I was pretty disappointed in the youth of today - if you're drunk enough to vomit orange in a stranger's house you ought to be drunk enough to sing, dance, do the conga, attempt to shag someone or stagger out into the street and throw a bottle at a passing car. They just sat around and did nothing. Generation Y, or whatever they're called, can't even figure out how to have a good time unless someone scripts it for them and hand-holds them through it.
There was one blonde girl, all of eighteen, with the kind of wonderful boobs that make you question how any bloke could seriously bear to be gay, and no-one was on top of her under a pile of coats at any point during the evening. You could suggest that this was because of her virtue, or the restraint shown by the fine youth of St.Louis, but frankly that's just bollocks. Restraint be buggered - if you're going to chunder fluorescently in someone's bed, at least make the drunkenness worth your while.
In the end I was just happy to be spared a Pictionary marathon, watching Dick Clark's prune-like visage, an evening with Ryan Seacrest (Jesus!) or an early night like a sad wanker. I also decided that rye whiskey is an exceptionally smooth way to drink through an evening and that I still like big eighteen year-old boobs. But then again, who doesn't?
Copyright © 2010 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
5:12 PM
1 Comments:
Just found your blog - hilarious. I couldn't agree more. Kids today have no idea how to have a good time. Of course, my idea of a good time this year included hugging a friend's toilet and throwing up out of the car window on the way home. My judgement probably isn't to be trusted.
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