Friday, 29 April 2016

Peter and Jane and The Birthday Party

Peter and Jane are having a birthday party.

In the interests of economy, both of her bank account and her sanity, Mummy is making Peter and Jane have a joint party.

Peter and Jane are having a disco party.

Mummy has organised lots of different sorts of parties for Peter and Jane before, like a swimming party (just the one near drowning); a go karting party (Eddie Simpson only has to wear the neck brace for a few hours a day now) and a tobogganing party (Sarah Smith has learned to cope very well without the fingers she lost to frostbite). 

Mummy is pretty sure nothing dreadful can happen at a disco party.

The day before the party, Daddy tells Mummy he cannot help at the party, because he has to go to his office to be busy and important in air conditioned peace and quiet.

Daddy says 'I am very sad that I will be missing Peter and Jane's birthday party.  I was really looking forward to it.'

Mummy thinks this is the most blatant and barefaced lie she has ever heard in her puff.

Daddy is not the only one being a useless fucker.

Several of the more pointless mummies have sent Mummy stupid texts whining that they are very busy too, and can Mummy please  arrange for someone else to give their fiendish monsters a lift to the party, because clearly finding out who else is going to the party and arranging a lift themselves is beyond their capabilities.

Mummy could arrange this, but she is not going to.  It is wrong to enable incompetent people, and it is for their own good that she is ignoring their texts, apart from muttering 'Fuck off, useless twatbag' every time one of them texts her.  They must learn.  Or call Uber.

Mummy  has hired a hall for the party.

The hall smells of other people's feet and disappointment.

Mummy bunts the hall regardless, and strews balloons with abandon.

It doesn't matter which filter Mummy uses, the hall still looks unspeakably Soviet.

Mummy decides to wait until the disco man has put his lights up and there are some children having a wonderful time before she puts a photo on Instagram, it will look much more enviable then, and everyone will think she is very fucking clever indeed.

The disco man has arrived.  

Mummy has only spoken to the disco man on the telephone, and she is disconcerted to find he looks rather like a stereotype of a paedophile.

Mummy is very worried she has accidentally hired a paedophile for the party where nothing is supposed to go wrong.

Mummy is actually quite relieved when he ignores Peter and Jane in favour of staring at her tits and trying to pinch her bum.

'Hurrah!' thinks Mummy 'The disco man is just a lecherous bastard, not a paedophile!'

The party guests start to arrive.

Mummy has brought some wine for any parents who would like to have a quick drink and a chat.

None of the parents are stupid enough to fall for this cunning ploy of proffering alcohol to lure them into staying and thus helping, and they all bolt for the door, leaving Mummy with the open bottle.

After some dancing and some questionable games arranged by the disco man, it is time for the party food.

Mummy has bought all the processed pork products that Asda had to offer (Mummy was not forking out on Waitrose for this rabble).

'Actually, I am now gluten free, as well as vegan.' says Perfect Lucy Atkinson.

Mummy shoves the token carrot sticks and tub of houmous at her.

'But I don't like carrot sticks and houmous!' wails Perfect Lucy Atkinson.  'Don't you have any julienned star fruit, with maybe a kiwi jus.'

'No.'  says Mummy 'I don't.  Eat the fucking carrot sticks, or fucking starve.'

While Mummy has been dealing with Perfect Lucy Atkinson's increasingly pretentious dietary requirements, WW3 has broken out over the processed pork products.

Johnny Watson has a mini chipolata stuck in his ear, and Olivia Long is crying because someone ate the piece of pizza that she had specially wanted.  Toby Jones is smeared in an unidentified red substance that Mummy is hoping is pizza sauce and not blood and the amorphous glitter ball that is The Tillymillylucykatiesophiejane Budgie is wittering dementedly because they have got sausage rolls stuck in their hair.

Mummy puts down the lemonade and pours herself a large glass of wine.

After tea, it's time for more disco fun!

Several children are complaining of feeling sick.  This does not seem to be stopping them from glugging down fizzy pop and demanding crisps.

The disco man is playing the Macarena.  

Mummy loves the Macarena.

Mummy edges towards the dance floor, but Peter and Jane bar her way, and forbid her from humiliating them by dancing in public.

Poor Mummy has another glass of wine to counter the sadness of being denied the Macarena.

Now it is time for cake.

Mummy has made the cake herself, and is very proud of it. The tears and sweat Mummy shed while wrestling with the sodding cake have hardly made the icing run at all and she has put many photos of it on every form of social media she could think of with suitably chirpy hashtags #homemadelove #birthday! #cake! #bakeoffnextyear? 

Mummy is looking for the matches to light the candles.

Where are the matches?  Mummy cannot find the matches.

'Oh fuck a duck' says Mummy when she spots Freddie Dawkins in the corner with the matches, starting a fire.

Jane takes advantage of Mummy's distraction removing the matches from Freddie the Firestarter to try to stab Peter with the knife for cutting the cake.

There is a lot of screaming and once Mummy has all the knives and matches in her possession again and has assured Peter that Jane has not cut his whole ear off, Mummy has some more wine.

The party is over.

The children have left, and the disco man has packed up and gone.

Peter and Jane have opened and broken all their presents, apart from the clothes that kind and sensible people gave them.  Mummy likes those people.

Someone, out of stupidity or sadism has given Peter a Nerf gun, with which he is attacking Jane, in revenge for the attempted stabbing.

Mummy no longer hears the screaming.

She has finished the wine and is dancing the Macarena alone in the darkened hall, lit only by the glow of her iphone.