Despite a last minute change of venue, from luxury, stuffed arm chair surroundings, to a public house in Chavland or Faversham as it is commonly called, Christmas Day morning comes and goes as much as any usual morning does. A leisurely set up through the afternoon catches the vibe chilled with anticipatory thrills.
Well it would have, if we hadn't had to clean up the mountains of debris left over from the previous evening’s drunken festivities. Sweeping the piles of fag ends into huge piles and rearranging all the furniture we discovered our stapler to be no longer working due to the hardness of the oak beams. Shit, how to hang up the backdrops with only twenty drawing pins and a bit of cellotape. It was hard but we managed. Just.
Drinking copious amounts of chilled beer to cool our sweating bodies, we indulged in the usual pre-party banter. "Where've you put the fucking drawing pins now?" and "No, you're the fucking cunt!" resounding in the profanity drenched atmosphere. That done we await the presence of the holders of the two hundred invites dished out to our close chums during the previous few months. And as surely as night follows night they came. Well at least Walter did in excitement when he found an unconscious Nero in his bed later that night....
She had started off proceedings music-wise, with an unusually good set that contained noticeably less clashing beats than of yore. Then carried away by the euphoria of it all, she drank half a bottle of Stoli (in ten minutes) and by the time Oz came on at 3 she could be seen slumped unconscious behind the decks in most unbecoming manner. Imagine her heart stopping shock on waking 4 hours later to find the party over, and in Walter’s bed. With Walt looking over her shoulder grinning, and a room full of people laughing at her pityingly. Shit. Fucking good Sandals impression though. Poor Sandals, on a previous drunken, 'crashed out in Walter’s bed' scenario, found herself waking abruptly to, er, shall we say unasked for 'input' from the pervy Walter.
A most excellent night to have a party it seemed as usually, by Christmas evening, after having to spend the day with batty old relatives and vaguely disapproving parents, with over excited rug rats and farting partners, you are rewarded for your day of torture by most pubs being shut and a night of exceptionally shitty TV.
What a lovely change to spend it instead with your real family, where no behaviour is too outrageous or activity too debased, listening to excellent music, partying yourself stupid. Friendships were strengthened and ties reinforced in all the best ways as we reflected on the past years highs and imagined the ones yet to come.