party's over

The bad taste party happened. It seemed to go well. I blundered around in a room full of chavs, giant tampons (well, one), Virgin Marys (everyone thought they were terrorists) and golf victims (it’s in the family), and miraculously I knew them all. I was presented with a TV and video/DVD and was so overcome with gratitude that I turned round and called everyone ‘a bunch of wankers’ (I’ve never been very good at expressing emotions). I sported a tank top, orange-and-black spotted tie (‘washable’, is all the label can find to say for it) and cut-price combats with the ‘damaged goods’ label still attached (‘small hole in cruch (sic) area’, it reads). At least, I was wearing these until Linda, my cousin (once removed) insisted on swapping clothes with me ("Go on, it'll be funny."). One cross-dressing session in the disabled toilet later, I was in a tight pink T-shirt and pink afro. I looked like Jonathan King in his heyday. It seemed not to matter, so I must have lost my inhibitions - OK then, been temporarily relieved of a few of my (many) inhibitions. I hadn’t expected to actually enjoy myself - surely I’d be too on edge - but I was. A feeling of stunned gratitude possessed me, that so many people had made the effort. It’s a shame that the only way I could express it was by threatening everybody with a broken bottle and shouting incomprehensible obscenities. Sorry about that.