Drunk and disorderly

The Not So Neighbourly Neighbours have been at it again for the past two Saturday nights. Blasting doof-doof music, lots of loud “woos” and “drink it down, down, downs”. Heaps of laughter and general merriment that makes me so cross I want to scream.

How dare they have fun in suburbia? Don’t they know middle-aged folk go to bed at 10pm?

We don’t dance around drinking and having fun. We need our sleep. I lay there in bed imagining things I could put in the Sprogs’ pump-action water pistols – urine, food colouring, beetroot juice, chook poo – and spray all over their house the next morning. I pondered dressing in head-to-toe black and sneaking into their garden to turn off the electricity. I even contemplated calling the police, but I was too shagged after four hours on the glow-stick stall at the school disco.

When I woke yesterday, I resolved to calm my righteous anger by remembering all the loud, socially irresponsible things I’ve done while drunk. I recalled how my hands shook after 14 solid nights of drinking scotch on the Fairstar. And the time I spewed in a friend’s beanie then hid it under his bed at a party. Actually I don’t remember that, I just remember him finding it two weeks later.

The night I lay giggling on the pavement outside Newcastle Tattersalls Club and looked up to see my ex-boyfriend staring down at me pityingly. Those long, loud Get Merry On Kerry Christmas parties at my first house in Petersham (so named because I prepared the nibbles using the contents of a Xmas hamper provided by my employer, Kerry Packer). And that wild, unforgettable Easter party when I served rabbit party pies to all my guests. (Initially repulsed, they felt far more comfortable eating the Easter Bunny after a few champagnes.)

There was the time I took my new boyfriend home for our first shag, after watching the sun rise from the first floor of The Courthouse Hotel (so romantic). I pulled a large box filled with hundreds of condoms out from under the bed and urged him to “pick a condom, any condom”. Later I fretted about looking like a massive slut (when it was really that I was writing a story on condoms for Cosmopolitan magazine and merely had the condoms to give to friends to test-drive) (honestly). Remembering all those things didn’t fill my heart with forgiveness for the Not So Neighbourly Neighbours. But it did give me a much-needed blog topic.

Thank god, I was about to use my “emergency blog”, which is about a fart dream I had recently. You’ll know I’ve got a serious case of writer’s block when that sees the light of day.