Saturday, 1 December 2012

December 1st: The party where a series of minor events happened

I have concluded that there are no better means to incinerate your taste buds than to sip on a series of fruit-flavoured spirits all night. Waking up the next morning from the evening's exploits, I was disappointed to find that the salty scrambled eggs before me carried a pungent and bizarre raspberry vodka aftertaste that was not in the least desired. Complete with Spongebob Squarepants in arms- TV characters have a longer shelf life in Spain- my friends and I ventured to our first December event of the holiday season- a house party for someone who did not live in the house at hand.

ERASMUS connections are intrinsic to year abroad survival. As well as providing the much-needed attention that stops one watching Friends reruns whilst eating cheese by the mouthful is always a good reason to associate with others. Furthermore, the people you meet, cynically and admittedly, provide connections that have the potential to come in handy later on in life. Take Señor Party Time, for example. Deciding to use his position at the Embassy to full advantage, the cheeky chappie decided that his current dwellings were not up to scratch for smooth house party success, so opted to persuade a mutual friend to host his leaving party at the palatial mansion that wasn't his home. My own friend, who was lucky enough to live in the abode, was left fraught with confusion, whilst my other friend, also his current flatmate, wondered why on earth their flat wasn't up to scratch in the first place. This was perhaps not as delicate as the fact that we had decided to turn up to the event, having met the person in question for a brief introduction the previous night. With two bottles of table wine red in tow, I was surprised to find not only a DJ, who had far too much of an attachment to the dubstep genre for sober guests- but a free bar, staffed with an unimpressed waiter and a series of infallible spirit choices. As well as being assigned to his swanky and unexpected station, the waiter seemed to have secured an advertisement deal with a very popular beverage company.

"Raspberry vodka and lemonade, please," I kindly requested.

"Raspberry vodka is okay miss, but we don't have lemonade," said the waiter.

(I veer at the bottle of Sprite standing to the left of my poison of choice)

"Raspberry vodka and Sprite, please," I said.

"Coming right up."

I am too cruel to the man who relentlessly served me alcohol to the brink of collapse all night. As I began to wave my arms and brutally fashion my hips in a manner that at a stretch could be referred to as dancing, I realised that I had left my non-Spanish speaking housemate at the helm of toilets without loo roll, as well as three very obnoxious Americans, hitherto referred to as VOA's. 

My other flatmate was out of range, as she began to dance solo.

"Hannah, open the door, I am worried for your safety!" I (think I) bellowed.

As I brazenly knocked for a further two minutes screaming words of comfort and anxiety, the door swung open to reveal the unimpressed waiter, with his trousers down, happily enjoying his shit until I walked in.

"Oh shit, sorry! Not literally!" I barked, as I found my flatmate waiting at the door. 

"I hate the VOA's who just walked in," we said in unison. Neither of us wanted to admit they probably had more claim in attending the party than we did. 

Averaging a 5 " 11 height and the decibel strength of a common garden banshee, the girls paraded the party in their Clark shoes flats to get off with any guy that they saw. Unluckily for them, and for me, another Very Obnoxious Person with short man syndrome was left unattended. Vodka, being a generally angry person led me to point out the golden rule of a house party to someone in his own home- snide remarks can never be acceptably aimed at volatile and unwelcome guests.

My flatmate continued to dance solo. 

"So, hasn't your friend left already?" said the person in question.

"Yeah, she went out, why?"

"Don't you think it's a little weird that you are still here, when she's gone?"

"No. I think you're being incredibly insulting actually. I happen to be very good friends with Señor Party Time (lies) and plenty of other people here (lies), such as my dear friend..."

"I also live here, you know."

"Well, I've been here a lot, and you've never been around. I'm not sure if you're lying."

"Name one person you know here."

In perfect timing, one of the three people I was in common parlance with at the event appeared.

"Melissa. Meet this guy!"

I decided to rescue my flatmate, who continued to dance solo. This may have been the point when there was only four of us still dancing. 

The DJ no longer wanted to even listen to me request the Spice Girls, and had made a swift exit. People began choosing who would make the drunken liaison cut, and others began shoving dorito bowls into the sink. The VOA's, the only people left standing, began to hurl unwelcoming looks in our direction as we criticised their thinking that Rihanna was even considered to be a "music option".

As I began to think about throwing their iPhone into the direction of their overworked faces, we realised that we were slowly being edged towards the door by the Very Obnoxious Person. As I realised that my flatmates had lost the ability to speak, I decided to shed my fruity ways to get them home in one piece. It still pains me to think that I did not get the last word.

My dear friend then went on to vomit out of the taxi door whilst I ranked up a list of the many people I would like to give a vodka-induced telling to. What can I say? Santa by day, Scrooge by night.

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