All Night Long

by Jan Andersen on 07/05/13

To our neighbour's teenage daughter at No 35 and her friends:

Thank you for the all-night entertainment that we and the other neighbours had the privilege of enjoying from 9pm on Monday 24 June 2013 through to the technicolour vomiting finale at 6am the following morning. I am sure you are keen to read a critical review of your performance, which may be presented to your father upon his return from holiday.

Firstly though, I must congratulate you all on your ability to make such a small gathering of single-celled organisms sound like the social extravaganza of the year.

The opening scene was rather low key; the arrival of a small motley crew of chattering performers, one of whom was sporting hooped earrings large enough for performing sealife to jump through and another who had clearly dressed for the body she mistakenly thought she had. The invitees were armed with an assortment of alcoholic beverages, undoubtedly stolen from their parents' cabinets. The less fortunate hugged self-purchased imports at 1.99 max that would strip the most resistant of industrial paint off walls.

The cabaret gathered a little more pace when two of the crew appeared to have misread the "bring a bottle" request and had drunk a bottle instead before arriving. With arms around each other's shoulders, they proceeded to belt out a rendition of Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love". As top of the misheard lyrics' chart, "Might as well face it, you're a dick with a glove" only raises a vague chuckle amongst some hearing it for the first time, a groan from those who have heard it umpteen times before and a loud cackle from Mary at No 37. 

Unfortunately, this was the only line in the song that they knew; hence reciting it repeatedly until a voice from within the house yelled at them to "shut the f*** up!" This was uttered a millisecond before my partner was about to utter a similar profanity.

Once all inside No 35, the barely audible "thwump, thwump" of base music, excited discourse and the occasional shriek of mirth didn't lend itself much to our amusement, but did offer some reassurance that the troupe would have passed out before midnight. Perhaps a little prematurely, we decided to move away from our first floor vantage point and relax.

Cue the reveller on a moped that had less oomph than an electric toothbrush that needed recharging. Despite this, the owner was clearly proud of his little gadget; so much so that he announced his arrival by riding this motorised pushbike up and down the cul-de-sac like an annoying insect buzzing around one's head, until the in-house guests appeared at the front door.

The inmates of the menagerie temporarily spilled out into the garden - along with the alcohol - and the earlier, relatively controlled banter degenerated into raucous laughter, screaming and an element of discord between a couple of guests. During the bi-directional diatribe, we established the names of the latter guests as being "Bell End" and "Douchebag", both preceded by "Effing".

To complement the drunken melee, the other guests launched into another serenade: "Tell me why I don't like Mondays! Tell me why I don't like Monday-ees!" I could tell them why they weren't going to like bloody Tuesdays either.

It was clear that sleep was some way off, so I decided to take the opportunity to observe this month's super moon that had not been visible previously due to overcast conditions.  Instead, I was treated to the half-moon display of a male partygoer, enhanced by the glare of two other neighbours' security lights. I'd like to offer a couple of tips; if you're going to wear the waistband of your jeans at the top of your thighs, at least make sure that your underpants don't resemble a dish rag that's been festering on the side of the sink for weeks. And even if you were called Calvin Klein, why would you want it embroidered on your trollies? I presume this is for the benefit of the police if you forget who you are, where you are and why you're there.

To the lad who decided to fertilise another neighbour's plants: I'd keep it tucked away if I were you, unless you're planning to participate in Channel 4's Embarrassing Bodies.

The disagreement between Effing Bell End and Effing Douchebag had obviously escalated. It was like watching and listening to a couple of toddlers attempting to ward off a swarm of bees, using limited vocabulary - primarily beginning with "f" and "c". 

There was an interlude after Act 4 of this outdoor theatre performance when Effing Bell End decided to stumble back indoors, swiftly followed by Effing Douchebag and the rest of the ensemble.

The neighbours at Numbers 33 and 37 benefited most from the remaining acts as the combination of merriment and discord continued behind closed doors until the hurling finale at dawn. By all accounts, 5.99 had gone down, but 25.99 came back up. Lovely. Nothing like a great return on your investment. 

Verdict: 0/10 for Social Respect; 10/10 for Social Embarrassment. At least we had the small satisfaction of knowing that this cluster of Amoebas (or Amoebae, whichever "plural" you prefer) probably felt marginally worse the following morning than the rest of the sleep-deprived neighbourhood.