After The Party
My head’s thumping like a drum! I tell you, that was the weirdest night of my life, The way he was screaming, I thought they were going to kill the bastard or something. Which, come to think of it, might not have been a bad idea.
I wish I knew what I’d drunk. Truth of the matter is, I have no bleedin’ idea. There was some orange stuff, I know that - kind of fizzy like weak lemonade - with all bits floating around in - something ‘punch’. It landed one on me, that’s for sure. Then I think we had some beer. And maybe some gin or vodka or something. And then someone - oh, shit! I can’t believe I did it - someone handed out some tabs of neon. I never take that stuff, me. Never. I don’t like stuff that screws around with my head. No bloody wonder I feel like a soddin’ zombie.
I wasn’t the worst, though. Not by a long way. There was that blonde woman, the one on the telly, in some comedy or soap opera or something. I never watch that stuff but I knew her face and someone told me she was a big star and she was especially big at the moment because she’d been dating a pop singer - one of them New Romantics, I think - and it was all over the tabloids, which I didn’t know because I never read them. Anyway, she wasn’t there with a pop star but she was all over some bloke who someone told me was a footballer, which I also didn’t know because I never watch the football.
And there was another woman, who looked like she was forty but said she was twenty-six, who tried to get her hands down my jeans; she said she was a TV producer or something and she could introduce me to all sorts of people and I said, yeah, I bet you could, and then I said I had to go for a pee and when I came back she was chatting up some kid who only looked like he was about sixteen.
The toilet, incidentally, is something to behold. It’s about the size of my entire flat and it’s got marble walls and subdued lighting and mirrors everywhere and gold fittings and carpets that are white and furry like soddin’ polar bears or something. Why anyone would want to have a crap in a room like that beats me, but that’s the way they are, these rich geezers, they got so much dosh they don’t know what to spend it on so they spend it on fur-lined bogs and rococo loggias.
A loggia, by the way, is like an upmarket patio and Frankie Fischer has a rococo one which I wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t told me - which he did, as a matter of fact, about twenty times. “This,” he said, “is my loggia. Rococo. Marble from Italy, awnings from Harrods.”
Not sure what you’re supposed to say when someone says stuff like that. I just said, “Oh,” or something. To be honest, I can’t really remember what I said. Not towards the end, anyway. I was too far out of it. Tell you the truth, I don’t even know when the party did end. I think it was still going on when I left. Yeah, it must have been. If I’d have been the last, I’d have remembered it, but I don’t so I can’t have been. If you see what I mean.
The thing I do remember was all the bloody commotion when that silly bastard turned up. Must have been around midnight. No idea what the silly twat was doing there, really. I mean, the story I heard was that there’d been some kind of bust up between him and Frankie Fischer a couple of weeks ago. Not that I ever figured out how a cheap little tart like Welsh Willy got mixed up with that lot in the first place. Though I can guess. Anyway, the way they were carrying on last night, I don’t think he’ll be invited back. He spewed up all over Frankie Fischer’s bed for one thing. Shit, what a bloody mess! I wouldn’t be surprised if that gets in the papers. Someone said there were some reporters there - gossip columnists, or something. What the fuck did he invite gossip columnists to a party like that for? I mean, Frankie bloody Fischer is supposed to be a family favourite, nice, stay-at-home, clean living kinda guy and all that. My gran loves him. But that was more like a fucking orgy than a party. My gran would have nightmares if she found out. I mean, it stands to reason, if stuff like that gets in the newspapers it’s the end of Frankie Fischer’s career, isn’t it.
Anyway, I don’t know what happened in the end. Frankie and old baldie took the kid off to one side for a good talking to, I know that much. I got a feeling they might have given him a bit of a slapping while they were at it. Which, to be honest, he deserved. I think he gate crashed, as a matter of fact. I definitely got the impression that Frankie was not glad to see him. The air was frosty between them, if you know what I mean - and that was even before he puked all over Frankie’s bed.
Still, that’s not my problem. My problem is my head. Which, at the moment, feels that it doesn’t really belong to me. Which I wish it didn’t. The way it feels right now, if I lost it on the buses I wouldn’t bother reclaiming it. The thing is, I never normally touch neon or any stuff like that. To tell you the truth, I don’t even remember who gave it to me. It might have been that blonde actress from off the telly for all I know. Shit, I hope I don’t end up in the papers...
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