Tufnell Park Towers hosted something of a slamming Good VS Evil party at the weekend. Tastefully, I attended in the guise of Harold Shipman, Housemate Louise was (and in my eyes, always has been and will be) Wonder Woman, and Housemate Reggae was droog Alexander de Large.
I’d mixed two different, but tres potent, punches for our party-goers. A rather pretty pink Good Punch, and a foamy purple brown Evil punch (secret ingredients of flour and chilli powder for spicy gloopiness). Upon copious sampling, both conspired to leave my beard in quite a multi-coloured state. It says much about the people in attendance that the Evil punch bowl had been drained long before the Good has even halfway done.
Attendance and costumes were both excellent. Everyone had put in a very good effort, so much so that when my fairly recent acquaintance Gemma arrived at the door dressed as Rosemary West I didn’t recognise her and introduced myself. Upon realising my error, it all felt a bit awkward, but neither of us could bring ourselves to mention my faux pas.
My personal favourite costume was that of Michael’s, who came as a tracksuited devil, or indeed, maybe even The Devil. Not an extremely elaborate costume perhaps, but the time, thought and effort was clear to see and the overall effect impressed me no end. Every exposed part of skin was painted a deep red (I haven’t discovered if he managed to remove it in time for work on Monday), and look: he even shaved his beard into two pointy bits. Whether this was a nod to The Devil’s tail, or just an attempt to attract attention to his chin, I don’t know. But it was bloody good.
There were two double-act costumes on show: The Great Bear and Mr Em’s Ying and Yang, and The Otter and Dr Crack’s Sid and Nancy combo. Any excuse for Dr Crack to dress like a lady and for The Otter to expose his chest.
Naturally, the flat was getting trashed. But in a largely good way: red wine splashes on the ceiling, fruit from the punch being smeared into the CD player, that sort of thing. Attendance of dicks was limited to, and mainly headed by, Reggae’s girlfriend and her ‘friends’, but their dickishness was of the Music Gestapo style, rather than the throwing TVs out of the window fashion. I just wish they could have left my 10-hour randomised playlist alone though. It took me an age to compile, and there’s only so many times I can stand having my favourite tunes interrupted so as to hear Bloc Party’s Banquet for the umpteenth time. Pesky nobbers.
Towards the end of the night I took to sporting a rather freaky mask and petrifying the remaining guests. And they were right to be scared: how an earth was I going to remove that hideous Guinness stain from my shirt?
By 6.30am, the music at was a level which was no longer shaking the building to its core and we were down to the last few standing. Some of whom were still paralysed by fear. The Otter, no doubt a bit tired by now, adopted his most becoming come-to-bed expression.
I awoke late the next morning still masked and feeling suitably ill. My bed, which had become something of a focal point for late-night in-depth and pissed-up discussion, had been liberally soaked in alcohol and tobacco, and I had to peel myself out of it. Moving down to the kitchen I surveyed the devastation. Then the smell really hit me. Stale booze. Yummy. Turning to the ‘cleaning cupboard’ I was slightly disgusted to note that my feet had come out of my slippers, which were stuck steadfastly to the dark brown and extremely sticky kitchen floor.
As I squelched across the living room carpet, examining the multitude of shades and stains it now possessed and marvelling at a pint glass full to the brim with ash and fag ends, something struck me.
Despite fair grounds for complaint, The Lynne's hadn't been round once last night.
5 weeks ago