My Christmas was very jolly, although slightly different than previous holidays of my experience in that I’m not used to quite so much binge drinking, cocaine, and raw pineapple on Christmas Day. Must be an English thing.
I knew it would be a great Christmas when my friend V rang me up at noon in a panic, asking if I could bring her a pair of trousers. She was flat-sitting in Kilburn and had only brought one pair of jeans, which she’d popped in the washing machine the night before only to discover them sitting in a foul-smelling pool of water the next morning, the machine having apparently ground to a halt mid-cycle. I saved the day with a nice pair of green trousers (the same ones I bought the morning after my Christmas party, incidentally – they are officially Emergency Trousers) and we set out for an aperitif at the pub before going to our friend’s mum’s place for dinner.
Since we hadn’t bothered eating, the pints warmed our bellies nicely and we arrived for dinner in an appropriately festive mood. V and I found ourselves at our own little table, which was conveniently loaded with about four bottles of wine. We put back a fair bit during supper, and by the time our hostess put on a singalong video entitled ‘Irish Songs You Know’ we were in fine form. “Whoa! Check out the perm on that one!” “I bet this was filmed at somebody’s wedding.” “What’s with this guy? He’s not even singing! He’s just walking through a park with his hands in his pockets! Is he masturbating?” We were a hit, I can tell you. Fortunately our friend’s mum is worth her weight in gold and took our boisterous merrymaking in her stride.
After cramming ourselves with as much food and drink as we could hold like a couple of Dickensian orphans, we retired to the Good Ship for a quiet after-dinner tipple. When the bar closed (I played bouncer for the evening – um, unasked – which made me happy because I got to shout a lot), V made a general announcement that festivities would carry on at her place, and those of us who could still walk headed back to her borrowed flat.
Along the way we made a pit stop at the inimitable Food City for emergency provisions (i.e. beer and cigarettes). One of our number headed straight for the produce section and grabbed an enormous pineapple. “I need this!” she said, holding it aloft like a royal standard.
“Obviously,” I said.
Back at the flat, as everyone else sat around drinking and smoking and ingesting various illegal substances, as you do, she parked herself at a table with a gigantic carving knife and methodically reduced the pineapple to confetti – with remarkable precision, too, considering that she was wearing black wraparound sunglasses the whole time. At one point she stood up and walked to the kitchen door, then turned around and brandished the giant knife menacingly. “I need a smaller knife!” she announced. Everyone sort of looked at each other nervously and agreed that this was a very good idea.
The pitch of the party increased, and things got a bit manic. One strange conversation actually resulted in someone uttering the phrase, “It’s the Scandinavian Palindrome Conspiracy!” (that might have been me, now that I think of it), which is probably a historical first and would make a great band name. I was in the middle of a witty and very loud anecdote when somebody shoved me towards the kitchen and told me meaningfully to “go check the ice”.
“Check the fucking ICE?” I bellowed. “That had better be a fucking euphemism or I’m going to be VERY PUT OUT.” Of course there was a line of coke on the counter: I’m not quite sure why the subterfuge was necessary, as I hadn’t noticed any undercover cops or Mormons at the party, but I think cocaine naturally lends itself to conspiracy and paranoia. Which is what makes it so much darn fun.
I rang my parents from the party at about 3.30 in the morning (thank God for that seven-hour time zone difference) and babbled incoherently at them for ten minutes. Merry Christmas, mum and dad! I’ll send you a card from rehab!
The next day, after struggling feebly back into consciousness in the early afternoon, I decided to head my hangover off at the pass – it’s the holiday season, after all – and made it to the pub for 2.00, just as my hands were beginning to shake. I got a few bracing pints down me whilst watching Liverpool grind Newcastle into a fine black and white paste (nice career move, Michael Owen! Every close-up shot showed him shaking his head in hopeless disgust), then went back to the Good Ship, because without my presence the place would simply collapse into a pile of rubble and dust. That’s my theory, anyway.
I stayed at the bar until close, which made ten straight hours of drinking and reduced me to the sort of state where you know you’re only hanging onto sanity by a thread and can no longer be bothered with social niceties. I was approached YET AGAIN by a madwoman whom Frenchie dated for an entire two weeks and who has been stalking him ever since – she seems to think that because I’m female I have some sort of kinship with her and will plead her case to Frenchie. Interestingly, she also seems to think that I’m fucking him, and has been expounding this theory to anyone who will listen, much to my amusement.
“Robin, can I ask you a favour?” she said.
I turned my head blearily. “Maybe.”
“Could you just give me some idea about what happened with Frenchie? I mean…he just left me out in the cold. It’s doing my head in. I just want to know what happened.”
I put down my drink. “Look,” I said. “I’m Frenchie’s drinking buddy. We go out, we get drunk, we go home. That’s it. I don’t have any particular insight into his personality. I wish I could help you here, but I just don’t have any information. OK?”
As I turned away, I heard her slamming her purse down on the bar. She spent the rest of the night complaining about me to poor V (“She just should have shown me some respect!” Really? Why exactly?). I feel a bit bad about being rude, but it’s OK because I could totally beat her up. So, good fun!
Yesterday I mostly ran errands and hated myself; and today I’m ostensibly at work, though not actually doing any. I tell you, if I make it through New Years alive I will know for a fact that Baby Jesus exists and truly, truly loves me. Amen.