I went to a house party on Friday night about which I can remember very little. One very clear memory however, is my “friend” Sharshar inexplicably dragging me over to talk to the boss of a centre where I was going to work, but who I had turned down with a curt email. Sharshar obviously did not give me enough time to think of a convincing and inoffensive reason why I had refused the offer, and the brief but intense moment of social awkwardness which ensued was dispelled only when I realised that Almost Boss guy was so completely pissed that he would not remember the conversation – nor indeed meeting me. It turned out that he had reached this astonishing level of intoxication in record time by doing Ouzo shots. Sharshar discovered this after Almost Boss became particularly animated during a discussion about the human rights issues surrounding the niqab case (the conversational tone at the party was initially high) and spilled his glass all over the sleeve of Sharshar’s suit jacket. The sleeve subsequently spent the rest of the night trying to seduce the female guests before throwing up over a plant.
Gombaz demonstrated that sisters are still doing it for themselves by identifying a Man Target and cutting through the mingling party-goers like Moses traversing the parted waves of the Red Sea. She claimed subsequently that she was “going to get food” and that she and Man Target’s eyes had just happened to meet as she
wrestled him to the ground was choosing a selection of mezze.
Sharshar – who usefully doesn’t really like to drink and is therefore the always and forever designated driver (despite the intoxication levels of his jacket sleeve) – spent most of the evening like a UN peacekeeper: allowed only to observe the course of events without himself being permitted to join in the action. He demonstrated good will and forbearance towards we, the drunkards, however. Like an indulgent granddad, he patted the Pig’s hair while the Pig patted his in order that they too could join me in marvelling at the rich textual difference and associated sensory variation experienced during the process of patting their two curly hairs (Sharshar: think Tom Jones. The Pig: Glen Medeiros.)
At the end of the evening Gombaz and I line danced (or is the past tense lone danced?), she elegantly and fluidly, me flailing and limping, to house music. This is possibly the first recorded instance of such a juxtaposition of the two art forms, and is certainly so within the middle east and north Africa region. Gombaz then walked on her hands, and the Pig performed a magnificant football player-style shoulder spring (again at my insistence) which transformed the party into a small-scale suburban Cirque du Soleil, minus the dwarves.
We eventually left after the hostess called out from the other side of the room telling Gombaz and me not to keep changing the music, or else she would send us to our bedrooms (while we sniggered). I was eventually bundled into the car and the next day happily examined mobile phone photos I have no recollection of taking. Always a sign that a good time was had.
Update: Gombaz is insistent that she will teach me to dance the ‘electric slide’ and has made me download two country music songs in preparation. I am delighted to discover that the songs in question are by ‘Trace’ Adkins (the best names are verbs), and the songs are entitled ‘Ladies Love Country Boys’ and ‘Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.’ I am sold!