Late last week I noticed a pavilion being erected in the field outside the barn that I rent. It irked me, because I was planning to pitch a tent in the very exact spot the next day, along with a shrubbery, but now a pavilion was being erected. As I stood watching I felt a strange stirring in my loin. Can one become aroused by a pavilion? As pavilions go, this one was as seductive as Ally Sheedy when she eats a crisp sandwich in The Breakfast Club.
It turned out that the pavilion was actually for the 21st birthday of Marcus Wethered. I had got to know Marcus a little by this time (see my previous blog ‘Man Of Steel – Not a Movie Review’) so was honoured to receive an invite from my illustrious and gloriously kind landlady, Diana™
I enjoy parties but have always had trouble mingling. ‘To mingle’ as the great philosopher Socrates oncee said “Is to subjugate the masses and produce a corporeal dystopian reality.’
Which probably explains why he hasn’t got a Facebook fan page.
Even so, I am drawn to parties. The socialising, the networking, the drinking, the flicking peanuts into the plant pots, the dignified vomiting. I am not a huge party-goer mind you. I remember the first adult party I went to was when I was 17 years old. It was at my sister’s, in honour of her surviving a cesarean section. It was full of people a lot older than me – surgeons and foreign diplomats. I can’t quite remember the guest list, but it was on pink paper with a floral border.
So next – what should I wear? I picked up an interesting Dickensian shirt from a charity shop in Devizes the other week. Should I wear that?
Nah. Maybe not. I found a pair of jeans and a red fabric shirt I had bought in a Nepalese shop in Newport some months ago, and walked down to the pavilion.
I had been watching the cars pull into the farm for the last hour or so and there were already a fair number of people there. I felt nervous. I was a lot older than them. These were all healthy, vibrant twenty-somethings at university. I was only 16.
42 physically but let’s not dwell on that.
I reached the glorified excuse of a tent and peered cautiously inside. I knew no-one. Coincidentally, no-one knew me either. Also, everyone was in fancy dress. I saw Superman, Hannibal Lector, Spiderman. I even saw Catwoman arm in arm with a Roman Legionary.
And then, thank goodness, I spotted Marcus.
“Marcus!” I said. “I guess I am gatecrashing.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Let me introduce you to some people.”
And he did. If only I was a suave and as debonair as him when I was 21. He exuded confidence like a sieve from Asda. I could barely say hello to the girl behind the counter in my local library without turning bright red when I was 21.
But in all seriousness, Marcus, Orlando and Theo had always been polite, pleasant and friendly towards me and I was grateful for that. However, they had an older brother and that is who I was introduced to next. Although they introduced him as ‘Tog’ which confused my tiny brain. Diana had told me she had four sons, naming Tarquin as her eldest. How was I to know their pet name for him was ‘Tog’?
I shook his hand.
“I’m Riaz,” I said. “I didn’t realise they had another brother. They never mentioned you.”
“They didn’t? The bastards!” he said.
I felt a bit awkward.
“Maybe I just forgot.”
“No,” he seethed. “They probably just didn’t mention me.”
Suddenly, in the tiny recesses of the thing that I call a brain, two synapses that had previously hitherto been enemies, suddenly became friends.
“Oh hang on a minute. Tog…are you Tarquin?”
“I am,” he said. And order in the universe was regained once again.
We chatted for a while and he introduced me to another of his friends, George. George introduced himself as a sort of dogsbody within the world of investment banking. Now investment bankers were the butt of many a Monty Python sketch and as he talked to me, I couldn’t help but smiling inanely. I think he picked up on my inaneness and general inaneability, but was too polite to mention it.
“And what do you do?” asked George.
“Well my day job is a support worker in a mental health rehab unit. But really, I am a writer.
“Oh yes,” said George.
“I’ve written a memoir. It’s called My Life With Kate Bush. It’s about me, growing up in a welsh town in the nineteen seventies and eighties.”
“A memoir?” said George. “Is it all true?”
“It’s not completely true,” I conceded. “I have embellished parts of it of course, purely for reasons of entertainment. And the conversations I had thirty years ago are, well, approximations of the truth.”
George nodded. “It’s a writer’s prerogative.”
“I mean, if I write up an account of this party, most of the conversations that I will put down on paper will be embellished. Do you realise I was once married to Sandra Bullock?”
George nodded and began to rise slowly into the air. “Anything to entertain the reader, I guess,” he said, and then exploded.
The food was free. The drink was free. And I took advantage of that – what author wouldn’t? I drank a few cocktails of something or another – I’m not quite sure what they were. As a direct result, my confidence suddenly knew no bounds and I went up to a girl dressed as Caligula’s best friend and began chatting with her.
“Hey!” I said. A bit of an opening gambit but its worked for me in the past.
“Hello,” she said and we began chatting.
“I am studying history and politics,” she said.
“Ah. They compliment each other,” I said knowingly. “History and politics. The two last bastions of the empire, aloof and yet not alone. Have you ever heard of Mark Knopfler?”
I realised that my confidence had now began to work against me and I was beginning to sound like John Noakes.
There was a pause. Possibly an uncomfortable one as her eyes started roaming around the room.
“Nice talking to you,” she said, “but I am just going to get a drink.”
This could be interesting…
TO BE CONTINUED…