I write this with a tongue as dry and shrivelled as a raisin and a head that feels like it’s been hosting an illegal rave for several days. Christ knows how he’s feeling. I’m pretty sure he was still drunk when I last saw him, and that was at 5pm yesterday afternoon. How I wish I’d gone through with my plan to stuff pistachio nuts up his nose, because he’d probably still be oblivious to their presence. Still, my wicked sister and I did the best we could with opportunities available to us, she wrote ‘I’m a wanker’ on his chest in eyeliner, and I scratched a drawing of a cock into the icing on his birthday cake.

Although that wasn’t my idea. That was the dastardly plan of Mr mjohnson, the Dime bar of Sarf London. His exterior may be smooth and creamy, but on the inside, he’s definitely dark and crunchy. He’d probably take great pleasure in getting stuck in your fillings. He made some very disturbing statements about black pudding, and was the purveyor of the worst bottle of whisky since my dad used to top ours up with cold tea, to disguise the fact that he’d necked it all. Despite the whisky being immensely unpopular, it did mysteriously disappear at some point during the night. My guess is that some 15 year old gate-crashers locked themselves in the bathroom with it.

That whisky made me really angry actually. It was suicide whisky, the kind you use to wash down several packets of Nurofen and follow with a Night Nurse chaser. What were you thinking Johnson, bringing that along? I’m sure it was responsible for the hasty exit I had to make to the bathroom, although I am very proud to report that my dress, hair and shoes all remained splatter free. I haven’t been sick in seven years Johnson! You’ve RUINED my world record attempt. And where were you whilst this was going on? Discussing Lenin, drinking rose and shaking your thang with my sister. Your crunchy interior well and truly revealed itself.

Anyway, before any of this took place, I was impressed by the following things:
* upon our arrival, a man who had clearly done one too many chemical cocktails staggering up to my brother and slurring ‘fuuuuck Joe, are these your sisters? Fuuuuck, you are a beautiful family. What do your parents look like? Bring them down for the next party’. (Loosely translated: ‘I wanna fuck your mum maaaaan!’)
* an impromptu dance display to the Labyrinth soundtrack

Urm, well that’s about it actually. Shortly after the dance display, I needed to have a little lie-down. But I found the strength from somewhere to get back up, go downstairs (puzzled by mysterious scratch marks which had appeared on my back and gave everybody the impression that I’d been enjoying illicit sex in the bathroom, rather than having my head pressed against the lovely cold floor), and carry on carping with Cath, who was desperately trying to wind the remaining guests up.

She suggested spin the bottle. None of the girls seemed interested in that. In fact, we were the only girls that wanted to play. Despite a noble attempt by Johnson to get things hotting up with the face rape of a very hairy and not terribly hygienic man, it all fell a bit flat. Cath eased her frustration by shouting ‘fuck you’ out of the window at anybody who had the audacity to leave before 3am. This was a mistake, as a complete stranger, who I suspect had been walking his dog and just tied it up outside, scrambled through the window and tried to join in.

So we turned our attentions to two men, whose names I really can’t remember, but who Cath christened Julian (he did not like that one little bit, miserable bastard) and the Fruit Smoothie, because he was sooo sure of his ability to woo the ladeez. He demonstrated this by trying to stick his hand up her skirt several times. Julian gave an impromptu performance of his latest song, but nobody was interested in that, or giving him any of the love he so clearly craved, so he got a bit aggressive and started having what I’m now convinced was the beginning of a breakdown. He had a dance off with the Fruit Smoothie, which culminated in tearing his shirt off and lying on the floor. I think he was sobbing. Somebody really should have taken him home to Narnia. Maybe he’d overdone it on the sardines.

At 5am, I attempted to raise Johnson from his alcoholic slumber. That took ages. I was just about to call an ambulance, when he woke up and decided we had to go home, immediately. I was with him on that one. Joe was chest bumping anybody who dared to get up and dance with him, and Julian was looking like he could turn nasty and start throwing punch at people. Cath had lost a shoe, and so we decided to leave her at the mercy of the Fruit Smoothie. She brought that one on herself. I had the foresight to remove the knives from the kitchen drawer, just in case Johnson turned out to be a homicidal maniac, but he restrained himself admirably, and even made bacon sandwiches for everybody in the morning.