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In The Worst Possible Taste

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Bright yellow trousers? Check.
Outrageous rainbow tanktop? Check.
Outsize afro wig? Check.
Dad’s brown corduroy jacket? Check.
Large kipper tie? Hell yes.
Suitable attired in this spectacular get-up (three layers thick, hence the enormousness of me in the photos), Michelle and I pottered off to Jac, Alex and Tony’s Watford farmhouse last night for what was billed as a Bad Taste barbeque party. The theme was inspired by the September 11th date and the host, never one to shy away from a challenge, managed to outclass us all with the most politically incorrect costume to date. As we arrived, the weather took a hold, and the customary barbeque rain started pattering down on the grass. We grouped in Jac’s room, surveying each other’s attire with amusement.
And so it was that myself (“Badly Dressed Man”), Michelle (“Blood-covered Surgeon”) and Jac’s brother Ben and wife Carole (both wearing t-shirts sporting a photo of a distinctly naked Jac) kicked off a splendid night’s entertainment. Ben took command of the cooking, tossing burgers and rolling sausages with all the experience of a professional griller, while around 25 others set about demolishing the beer and food mountain that had been laid lavishly before us. Highlights include:
– Jac losing his beer at least seven times, only to find that Ben and I had simply moved them all to a secret location throughout the night. The cries of “WHERE’S MY BEER?” every few minutes, followed by frantic searching around the house set me chortling for a wee while, the uncontrollable laughter almost giving me a mild hernia.
– Jac finding his suicidal teddy bear, “Rory”, hanging by a cord from the overhanging light. You have NO idea how much this 25 year old man loves his teddy bear.
– The karaoke machine. For a full 2 hours, we belted out hits from Bon Jovi (Michelle), Meatloaf (Me), Matchbox Twenty (Jac and I), Alice Cooper (Me), and so many more the haze of alcohol has rendered immemorable. I managed to clear the room on a regular basis while Jac, true to form, managed to find a spelling mistake on the karaoke lyrics mid-song.
As the night drew to a close, Jac strummed away on his guitar, giving us his trademark renditions of singalong songs (including “The Only Gay Eskimo” and “Postman Pat”), before we all staggered off to bed, all agreeing that it was a cracking night of frolics.
What’s that you say? What was Jac’s outfit? Well, as Kenny Everett said, it was all in the worst possible taste. He came as… a Russian schoolboy. Complete with bullet wounds.

Over The Hill

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So, Jac’s 25. To commiserate, we all popped up to his farm in Watford on Saturday night for jolly knees up with him and his housemate Alex, who also happily his just turned the birthday corner. There was a theme, as ever – this one was outrageous ties (not, as his invitationary email clarified, loud men from Thailand). A quick scour round Guildford on Saturday afternoon resulted in two splendidly outsized foam ties for myself and Michelle, which were received with pleasure by the group as we turned up that night. Such excitement, in fact, that the entire group managed to tear their eyes away from the graphic lesbian porn that was playing loudly in the corner of the room.
I should take a moment to counter the impression you may now have of Jac. His farmhouse isn’t a seedy establishment, you understand – you may have visions of men in long anoraks feverishly ogling nubile forms on cheap, discreet televisions, in a dimly-lit room slit with light poking through the slatted blinds. No, Jac has standards. The televisions, for instance, are classy Sony numbers, placed prominently in the room. He has curtains. The videos and the anoraks, though, are just as you imagine.
We all bundled out in a fleet of taxis at 10pm for a trip to an 80’s nightclub in Watford town centre. The weather was dribbly and cold – enough even for me, with my substantial natural “insulation”, to feel a chill. The club, though, was a touch of genius. 80’s music blared out at us from the street; inside, giant rubik’s cubes hung from the ceiling when animated pacmen were chased by monsters round the walls. This was heaven.
We drank, we sang out loud, we spilled drinks and marvelled at the revolving dancefloor (at least, I think there was a revolving dancefloor – it may have just been the drink). Michelle and I even made friends with a ginger man. And then, we managed to get home, wet, windswept and full of late-night Quarter Pounders with cheese.
Happy birthday, Jac and Alex! You’re halfway to 50 – make the most of it…