< fx: Orff's Carmina Burana >

Saturday witnessed the event - nay, the phenomenon that is the semi-annual Hat/Comedy Facial Hair Party. We're getting pretty good at this by now, and the whole flat moved like a well-oiled machine throughout the day to buy fucking shitloads of booze and mixers (a good 100 big ones' worth) and to rearrange our embarrassment of chairs into a more party-friendly configuration. We borrowed an extra record deck from a friend and Josh set up the trademark two-deck one-CD bad boy DJ booth that has served us well in the past.

I had the old pre-party anxiety after about 9 pm (yeah, I know. Too early. I'm a square) when the only people there were the ones that really had no choice but to come (flatmates, girlfriends, you know who I mean), but a brace of beers sorted that out and then, as if by magic at 10 pm, the place just filled up. It was briefly astonishing to see the sheer number of people that turned up over about an hour or so. Zero to par-tay in record time for us!

Party observations:

• Whisky sours: just say no. Have a white russian instead.
  
• Further to the previous comment, bringing a bottle of kahlua will make you the favourite party guest, at least until someone else turns up with an even bigger bottle.
  
• Open a fridge onto your forehead hard enough and it will hurt. A lot.
  
• Cigars make you look cool. Steal them if you have to.
  
• Vodka sours: just say yes. Especially after a few white russians have softened you up. Also, the alcohol will dull the pain of your throbbing forehead.
  
• Teeth marks go away surprisingly quickly if administered in a 'playful' manner. See also previous comment about alcohol/pain relationship.
  
• My left arm hurts. I am not entirely sure why.
  

There were perhaps marginally fewer people than last time, but it was still enough to fill the entire flat (minus Josh's room, which was already filled with everything breakable or valuable we own). Up on last time, I reckon, was what I'm going to call the friendliness ratio. It's especially gratifying to see a good mate get acquainted with one of your own previous lady friends while one discovers that the date set up by said mate actually wasn't the crushing disaster that it had first appeared to be.

Which is nice.

A load of new people turned up about 3.30 am, including a couple of DJs to relieve Josh of his duties for a while, and things finally started winding down around 5 or 6. I flaked out about 5.30 (I think); getting completely hammered on a variety of expensive, complicated drinks will do that to a man.

This morning (ish) I was rescuing my CDs from around the flat, and some brave soul had compiled a set consisting of:

• Mogwai
  
• Jesus & Mary Chain
  
• The Thrills
  
• Looper
  
• The Charlatans
  
• Teenage Fanclub
  
• Primal Scream
  

Obviously trying to commit some bizarre kind of musical party suicide.

On a final note: coming to work just as it starts getting dark the day after a good party is quite possibly one of the most soul-crushing experiences it's possible to have. And so ends this rambling, not-entirely-coherent account of the weekend's entertainments. I'm off to do some work, or possibly hold my head in my hands muttering "For fuck's sake. It's Sunday," a lot. Haven't decided yet.