Every year a crazy friend of mine makes us all partake in fancy dress for her birthday. They are usually themed and are definitely a highlight of the social calender. Unfortunately mixing fancy dress and unsettling amounts of vodka; wine; champers; toilet duck has always led to the demise of one's social character. I've attended four of these themed events and each time I have pushed the boundaries of my drunk and disorderly talents.
The first year I didn't quite make it to pre-drinks in the birthday girls house, the usual starting point for the night of degradation, I think I was working in some hole possible a glorified poncy bakery in Clontarf. Anyway I joined the motley crew in all their glorious attire (the theme was 60's & 70's) in Radio City. At this point I was hardly friends with any of the group as I was really just a newling to the scene, however I was delighted by efforts in costume making... velvet leotards for crotchtastic times, afro's, gold tight pants etc. That night I ended up in a session somewhere in Howth, a house I have been to many times since yet fail to have ever met the person who lived there and was hosting the party. I'd say I've been there around four times and still have no idea who they are. What I do remember is attempting to use their exercise ball and smashing my back on their radiator in the middle of their session. Also waking up in the morning to find myself and a friend stranded in this house whilst the lovely boys we knew kindly legged it getting a lift in a car. This left us with one of the longest walks of shame I have ever known. Not only did we not know where we were, there was no phone to call a taxi and no address to send it too. On walking out of the house we soon realised we were somewhere very far round the back of howth hill, we walked all the Sutton in fancy dress. It was horrible.
The second year was Pimps and Hoes. A beautiful chance for all our friend to dress up as whores!! Getting to the party was quite the embarrassing ordeal. Basically pink velour hot pants, stripey bra, garters, fish net stocking and jonnies hanging out of your lingerie. I had finallly found my niche in the group and was well settled into the motely crew at this stage. So comfortable in fact that I proceeded to do an irish gig in the aforementioned costume in front of the Birthday Girl's entire family... included aunties, uncles, parents and possible younger brothers. One of those fine life cherishing moments where one should have definitely reigned it in!!! I do believe this memory of my is still ingrained on the families mind. I finished the night by leaping off a chair on to my newly injuried knee (skiing accident) and having to be carried home. Great.
The third year, well, a classic of all classics. The theme was punk. And boy I acted like a punk. After spending a good four hours and seven litres of industrial strength hairspray on back-combing, 10 sticks of eye-liner and one million safety pins I proceeded to drink twelve gallons of rose wine. We got to the pub and I decided it would be a great idea to leg it off to a random party to meet a new aquaintence. This is all well and good and if you've ever been to my local you'll know it can be as happening as a bag of oul wan's knickers so to get out of there and invited to a random session was a great idea. Also there was a high couple to single person ratio at this years shindig so I was dying to leave!But under intoxication I totally forgot the costume I was wearing. So I hopped in a very expensive taxi to some random house in Malahide all the while laughing with the taxi man about how much I actually didn't have a clue about the person I was going to meet and the random session I was going to. I get out of the gaf and some stranger answers the door... I soon realise this party is full of people wearing tracksuits and all wondering why the fuck i'm covered in eye-liner and saftey pins!!! Cringetastic. I then proceed to smash a bottle of absinthe and have some awkward conversations about ice-cubes up people's vagina's with some of the lovely guests there. Cue the wonderful moment where my friend suggests we move on to a more 'punk friendly' session at his friends house. He forgot to mention his friend's house is covered in plane porn, and when I say porn I mean just thousands and thousands of pictures of planes. EVERYWHERE! I'm not sure there were any pictures of family members unless they were standing on, in or beside a plane. It was quite the collection... luckily that night I managed to sleep in a tardis. Again the next morning was fun sitting still dressed as punk not knowing the exact where abouts of my location. Later finding out that I was the only one in the room not to use hair straighteners (the room being male populated) was another delightful treat.
Never the less this year takes the biscuit. Not only was my costume questionable but my debauched behaviour also. So everyone was dressed up as a cowboy or an Indian (native American) bar one lady dressed in a Sari with bindi (nail art sticker). To cut a long blog short... I dressed as a wolf. The link here may seem tenuous but all I can say is 'Dances with Wolves" and "The wolf and the Indian once lived in harmony..." blah blah. Following a lot of drinking, possibly seven different types of liquor, a snow storm, lantern lighting, a boogie bus and some shots in Tamangoes (The place I hate) I decided to head home. So rushing off in my woooolfy attire; I'M NOT A FUCKING CAT, I'M A WOLF, I hopped in a taxi and pointed to the peninsula. Where by I reached 50 yards from my door and decided to hop out for a night cap at my local. Still sporting a black painted nose, grey face, torn clothing -wolf style and small pointed ears. Much to the delight of the drinking strangers in the pub. To ease the pain of my awkward fancy dress lacking a fancy dress party I decided to take up smoking and headed to the beer garden. There I met a few nice polite lads from swords who I freaked out with odd conversation whilst pilfering their nicotine sticks. They soon got bored of my solitary wolfness and I found myself alone with my vodka. But this didn't kick in a polite cue to go home... oh no... I just decided to take myself across the road to another drinking establishment to further my reputation as a weirdo with the local neighbourhood. As I made my way through the faces of 50's to 60's age bracket I seriously began to feel a little uneasy, but not as uneasy as the people looking at me! I made my way to roof where my craving for cigarettes had suddenly reached that of an addicts... I then gatecrashed the local Centra's work party taking all their cigarettes before telling them that I would pop in to see them all the next day when I would most likely be buying bread and nurofen with my crack- I mean house mate. Follow this with a few hiccups, another encounter with someone I actually know, one more vodka, some teeth grinding (I wasn't on drugs) and I wake up in my coat in my bed still in wolf's clothing at 12pm the next day.
Oh and just for good measure there are candles lighting all round the apartment because of some raw chicken smell escaping from the bin. Well wolves do kill chickens right?