Chapter 2 - Over the hills and far away

Some New Year's eve party we attended a few months ago. Definitely NOT Roady's best chronicle, but a rare case where a party goes so smoothly that Roady cannot take any shots at arse-combers. A frustrating experience, in retrospect.

It is a matter of human decency to attend a party completely tanked up on booze. Not that our host did not know the business of organising piss-ups, but we made a point of not arriving empty-handed. And it being the season of good-will, an unexpected X-mas bonus had provided us with a keg of beer and a few bottles of wine we thought would come in handy.

We picked up one of my mates and then decided to shop for a few more beers, just to be on the safe side. After driving around in circles for a while and cursing the one-way streets, we finally arrived at a supermarket, which turned out to be a contender for the gloomiest discount store ever. We got lost a couple of times trying to find to entrance of the car-park - a scarcely-lit winding driveway that ran right next to the ring-road. Getting out of the car was the scary part. We were literally metres away from the endless stampedes of cars rushing by at 110kph. Suppose one of them lost control, it could very well crash headlong into the store window and probably kill a few dozens of people.

Inside we grabbed two extra cartons of beer, wine, and a bag of onions. Halfway towards the checkout, I also picked up a 10kg sac of potatoes. 'I can't remember the last time I had chips', I told them. They sniggered. We got back into the car and fucked off towards the mountains.

It was a good two-and-a-half hour trip, so my two travelling companions decided to crack a few tubes to kill time. We had some cans of cheap strong lager, the kind you'd see urine-soaked tramps loaded on on public benches. Because it had been widely announced that the coppers would be rampant tonight – it being new year's eve – I did not care to be done for drink and driving. On top of that, they would probably test my saliva for pot. So I only had a few sips, just to make the journey vaguely interesting. For a brew that cost something like 40 cents a can, it was surprisingly good with an – obviously unintended – after taste of honey.

It must have been around 8 when we finally arrived at Shaggy the Camel's house, nested on a hill that overlooked the Vallée-du-chorizo. The view would have been quite stunning if there had not been a town sitting in the valley – snowy mountains surging dramatically from the ground and disappearing into the clouds.

We walked in. Shaggy and his cousin had also prepared a fair bit of food: a whole cheese set was waiting to be scoffed, alongside various other dishes and puddings. The rest of the crew had begun sampling champaign. I have never been a fan of those sugary bubbles – something pretentious and aristocratic about them – but the long drive had taken its toll and I gladly downed a couple of glasses. Could do worse, I suppose. Still, I needed to wake up and fight off a nagging cramp in my left thigh, so I produced a small brass pipe and loaded it with a brand of Super Skunk, a highly energising kind of herb. I passed it round and enquired if and when Archibaldo would be around tonight. “Yeah, he shouldn't be too long. He's coming over with Ringo Sewage and a couple of mates”, answered Shaggy. “They shouldn't be too long.” Ringo! Now there's entertainment value. The crazy bastard is much admired for his legendary drinking and his ability to light up the dullest party with his mere presence – the way he speaks, laughs and generally behaves. This immediately placed the show under the sign of licence and unpredictability, with a slight touch of eccentric grotesquery.

More people arrived in medium-sized groups. We soon had a decent crowd of circa 20 people. Not a bad figure, considering how remote the location was, but, to be sure, enough to have a few laughs. Some of our pot-growing mates began rolling big fat doobies of their latest crop and passed them round. Good stuff, it was, too; more interesting than what I had, but definitely not as electric.

Soon, we had ourselves a massive collection of good wine and beer. The beer we put outside to keep cool and kept uncorking more red wine. We all got drunker and drunker, gradually working ourselves to a state where we would be wanting to dance.

Sometime around midnight, one of the drunker birds decided to have a sledging bout outside. The geography of Shaggy the Camel's outside made it an challenging ride. Like many houses in the area, the natural inclination of the hill had been flattened out so that the owners could have some sort of lawn. This meant that the sharp slope abruptly gave way to a flat surface without any progressive transition whatsoever. Predictably, she was thrown off the sledge when she reached that critical point and tumbled a few metres away, laughing her head off and not caring about her loose skirt.

This gave Ringo Sewage a great idea. He would also slide down the mighty slope, but without the need for a sledge. Sensing something big was boiling, everybody gathered on the patio to watch the show. Accompanied by one of his close companions, he climbed up and expertly scrutinised the slope. The key was to aim between two young conifers that had recently been planted there. After half a minute of tension and expectation, he started down the slope and majestically glided down, still standing up – a skier without skis, if you will. With the crowd loudly cheering his technique, he narrowly missed the two conifers, but when he hit the flat surface of the lawn, he inevitably lost his footing and crashed head first into a young shrub - that still had a plastic covering for the winter – and literally flattened it.

This sent the whole crowd roaring with laughter. Half crippled with guffaw, Venetian Blinds helped him up and tried to fix the poor tree. Ringo painfully grinned at his audience and proceeded back up the slope. The second attempt was even more dramatic. Having studied the first run, and thinking he would not make the same mistake, his mate accompanied Ringo down. But although the first part of the slide was highly impressive, both wound up doing further damage to the tree.

And to themselves. The rest of us, struggling to control our laughter, barely noticed Ringo get up and painfully limp towards the house. It turned out he had twisted his ankle and that his mate had buggered his wrist. And there was I earlier bitching about my driver's fatigue. It all now seemed rather irrelevant after this hilariously surreal act of burlesque.

Sensing that we had entered the climax of the evening, I decided that it was time I put on my Jesus Christ costume. Walking past Ringo, who had some ice on his foot, he immediately gave his trademark, slow, high-pitched laugh, whining uncontrollably about how I looked like a two-bit hippie. I danced my way over to the couch and rubbed my arse against him. Soon, I became the focus of the whole party. Everybody was stunned by the impromptu visit of the Messiah and some decided to have a photo session with the Son of God.

By then, I was deeply stoned on skunk and wasted on red wine. But I wanted something to happen and started whoring Shaggy the Camel to invite his neighbours for some New Year drinkies. Eventually he buggered off to find them and re-surfaced an hour later a lot more loaded and smelling of strong alcohol: “They offered me a snort, he explained. That's why it took me a while. But they're coming over.”

It was probably around 2 o'clock when two smartly-dressed middle-aged couples arrived at the party. Good old drunken Archibaldo had fixed us some of his typical 60s tunes and at least half of us - including a one-footed Ringo Sewage – were dancing frenetically. Though I was not the host of the house, I felt compelled to bless our newcomers. “Welcome, my Son. Go in peace, Sister. Drink, for this wine is my blood.”They looked confused and mildly ill-at-ease, but bought the joke. Ringo then rolled an eccentrically-shaped reefer – the “mustache” - and passed it over to the fellow dancers. Pressed by Messianic injunctions, some of the neighbours joined us on the dance-floor for a while and eventually headed back home for some shag and kip.

Here and there, drunkards stumbled around the place until they were tired enough to crash wherever they could. Needing to stretch my legs, I wondered off to the basement and found Shaggy in the wine cellar, chatting up Margarita with his knowledge on booze.ⁱ The moment he saw me, he opened a bottled of plum liquor. Why not. I bombed a glass and soon started to feel our confined cosmos spinning round. We were joined by Venitian Blinds and Archibaldo, who was a lot more blasted than I was. Presently, a whole crowd massed up and started hitting the booze, to the point where Shaggy had to hide the bottle. The Drunk Monks drummer rolled a doobie and seemingly deliberately let go of his glass, which noisily tinkled on the cellar floor. Pissed as a cunt, Archibaldo went on to his trademark ramblings and even became a little racist. More people arrived and started singing loudly and out of key. I fucked off to bed.

I was aroused of my stupor by someone crashing next to me and did not sleep for the rest of the night on account of the half-drunk bird convulsively snoring in my face.ⁱⁱ After a long and harrowing wait for people to emerge, I finally got up. Still high on pot, I felt surprisingly charged and raring to go. I put on some clothes, went down to the kitchen, bade everybody good day, and went to the car to pick up a bottle of grapefruit juice I knew would come in handy. Gazing at the hills while briefly bathing in the late afternoon sun and downing a few gulps of of cold juice was more than I needed to begin the day.

Back inside I found a hungover Archibaldo sucking at a beer, adamant that it was doing a great deal to help his stomach. “We hardly touched our stockpile, he told me. Might as well start early.” Good. I also remembered we had saved some light-hearted white wine for breakfast and I opened two bottles – only Venitian Blinds joined me. Someone rolled a splif and I was back in business.

Ringo limped into the kitchen. The poor bugger had hardly slept a wink because of the pain. We gave him some aspirin that he swallowed with long gulp of wine. He and his mate were to spend New Year's day in casualty.

Feeling in great shape, I put on the stereo and began telling everyone to grab some wine and get on the dance-floor. Save Archibaldo, who politely wobbled his arse to the beat of Surfin' Bird, the answer to my request was “shut the fuck up, Roady!” At which point, I realised, with some melancholy, that the party was over.

iAs a scornful Roady, I can never resist to call someone an arse-comber. Although nobody rightfully fitted the description on that night, this kind of behaviour almost warrants labelling.

iiI know some of the more cynical readers who know me will argue that I was restless because I was not man enough to rape her. Well, I piss down your throats.

Copyright by Roady, 2001