I went to a James Bond party last night. It was a rather swanky affair with cigars, a Casino Royale and cocktails aplenty. Only problem is the cocktails ran out just after midnight so we were left with the choice of lukewarm champagne or some very dodgy leftover mixes (mango puree, blue curacao, lemonade and sambucca, how about it?).
The best part was seeing a bunch of high school buddies, many of whom I’d not seen since we graduated six years ago. Everyone’s scattered all over the globe now but it’s good that you can fall back into friendships like you never left them, even reviving old unfortunate nicknames. Typical reunion scene: someone screaming “SHAUN DOGGIE!” as they drunkenly weaved across the room.
At midnight I kissed as many people as possible, with as much gusto as I could summon from my booze-soaked bod, my reasoning being this is probably the most action I’ll see until the next new years eve, knowing my raging success with the opposite sex. One even came back for seconds, so that will do me til next year. Well, actually, it won’t bloody do at all, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The party ended rather abruptly around 5.30am when the dance-off got out of control. One old comrade, resplendent in fez and cravat, got a little too funky at the Disco Volante (a mirrorball and floors and ceiling covered in tinfoil) and went smashing out the living room window, arse first.
Now it’s 6.30 pm and I’m feeling very seedy and bleary, and according to an email confirmation, I got online and bought four Jamiroquai concert tickets sometime this morning. Hmmm. Well, have a great year kiddies!