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.

 

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6 thoughts on “Drunk and disorderly

  1. See and there was me saying only last Sunday morning. “Well if OUR neighbours couldn’t sleep they would have just knocked on our door”. I totally mistook their silence for them not hearing any beer n vodka swilling, doof doof karaoke, yelling over the doof doof karoake, trying to get everyone naked and into the pool though we don’t even have a pool…(which worked incidentally) and of course running down the street looking for naked escapees.

    In the interest of good neighbourly relations they really could have just popped over the fence and simply asked. Really, it’s a terrace row for chrissake Not that far to walk peeps…

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