About a month ago, we got invited to another fcuking dinner party. Now i'm as gregarious and outgoing as the next alky, but they're not my idea of fun. The food was great and the conversation was ok, but it's just not me. For one, there's never enough swearing and the anecdotes are generally a bit watered down for my liking. I always find myself just about to tell a story, before having an internal dialogue and squashing the tale because it won't pass the rigourous low-quality control standards in operation.
The problem is that the people we're dining with aren't my mates, hand chosen through years of booze vetting by the Chartered Institute of Bezzerers. They're playground pals that my wife has made. She gets matey with the lady while they're dropping the kids off, and before you know it, it's dinner round at theirs and best behaviour all round. Now I don't mind doing this annually, but she uttered the dreaded words "return the favour" as we were leaving.
Gastric oblivion. The AB croutons would not let the vile, gut-churning goulash out of the system, which would only be compounded by the evil Devil's Bladderwater we know as screech. The other ingredients would only add to the "onmyfcukinggodi'mgoingtodie" sensation.
Your guests would be quaffing Gavoscon like it was going out of fashion before heading off to the vomitarium. They would not return.
Dinners partys, gawd save us. As a kid growing up in BAOR my poor parents became stuck in the same quagmire. My father told me, when I was too young to really understand, the following tale.
But I understand now....
A chap arrived at the unit, and invited his peers over to his quarter one night. Most of the men were of a certain type, in that they had seen action, many of them in WW2, and others in Korea, Aden, Borneo and the like. They were practical, affable and generally unassuming.
Their host, (for it was he) greeted them cordially and offered them some lovely German wine. Wine? they all thought. Most were beer men, and wine back then was seen as an affectation and somewhat effete. His wife was wearing a figure hugging catsuit, remember this was 35 years ago, and he was wearing a crushed velvet jacket with a frilly shirt, and the sound of the Carpenters or somebody, was playing in the background.
Canapes were handed around, and while I cant remember the actual menu, the food was "stuffed quails and larks tonges inaspic" type of fair.
After a stilted dinner, during which most of the guests were acutley embarrased, more so for him than for themselves, he rolled his brandy around his glass and was heard to say, with all the heights of sophistry he could muster, " we like to relax when we're at home" .
Revenge was arranged. One of the chaps hatched a plan. He in turn, together with his barbie doll, was invited to one of their houses. On entering, they were met with the assembled chaps and wives, sitting mostly on the floor, all of whom were wearing an assortment of old great coats, gardening trousers, thread bare swaters, shirts with holes in, unshaven, and generally unkempt.
They were sitting on the floor and eating pigs trotters, frikadellen, bratwursts and chips from the paper and drinking pils from the bottle.
The host of the evening, after belching said..."we like to relax when we're at home"