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After several drinks at the pub the other night – and then several more drinks – my flatmate Barn Dog and I wandered the short distance home from the pub to discover that the house across the road was throwing a party. Quite a big party, too. There was loud music, there was drunken shouting and squealing, and staggering shapes were spilling out onto the front lawn, standing in groups, falling into bushes, and snogging each other. Thing is, we weren’t surprised at all. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. 

Because, you see, the house in question has been a bit of a pain in the arse, if truth be told. It’s hot here in Canberra, Australia this time of year. You have just gotta sleep with the window open or you will expire. Thing is, it’s hard to sleep with the window in my bedroom open because most nights some fucking ruckus is rolling forth from the little tits living across the road from us. Yes, I sound like an old man (I am 32, you know) but everyone’s allowed to have a bit of a whinge every now and then, aren’t they?

I had no idea what the people who lived in this house were like… all I knew is they were in a band, and I was guessing it was a shite band, too, because the bloke singing at the top of his lungs and playing the guitar most evenings only ever seems to play covers of Green Day songs. So as Barn Dog and I stood back and surveyed the Party House, we knew what we had to do.

It was time to meet the neighbours.

The first people we encountered as we approached the house looked about ten years old. Ok, I’m exaggerating… everyone looks young to me since I turned thirty a couple of years back. But jeez, these blokes couldn;t have been much beyond 18. I greeted one of them.

“Hey, how’s it going dude?” he replied. He then shook my hand using the old two-stage handshake (first the normal handshake, then the arm-wrestling position handshake) but it had been a while since I’d done it, so I was a bit awkward. I think he could sense my lack of cool from those opening seconds.

“So who’re you guys?” he asked.

“We live over there.” I point over yonder.

He suddenly becomes defensive… but then I realise why and explain to him, no, we’re not here to complain about the noise – we just came to crash the party. I decide to butter this guy up a bit, break down some barriers. “So there’s a band living here or something, right? I’m always hearing some bloke playing guitar and singing. He’s pretty good.”

His eyes light up. “Yeah dude, that’s [INSERT NAME I HAVE SINCE FORGOTTEN HERE. NO, ACTUALLY, LET’S JUST CALL HIM TONY]. He’s about to make it big! Their band [FORGOT THE BAND NAME TOO. LET’S JUST CALL THEM “THE BOGSHITES”] is about to get a break on Triple J!”

So after an awkward farewell handshake with this dude, Barn Dog and I enter the Party House, wander through the throngs of sozzled teens, and out into the backyard where we can smoke and look cool.

It was about this time I started to feel like a dirty old man mincing around outside a pre-school. They were all so YOUNG.  Would the older guy thing seem cool? Or would we be treated like teachers on playground duty?

 We spoke to a few different people, and no shit, they all harped on about Tony and the Bogshites like they were the next Beatles or something. There was some serious hero worship going on… It had me wishing I’d kept up the guitar, because I had no doubts that Tony – and probably most of the Bogshites – were going to get some lovin’ before the night was through.

Funnily enough, this whole Emo thing had passed me by until this night, but in this one night I saw a lifetime’s supply of the curious little critters. They were everywhere. Most of them would stare at you with a single, solitary eye, the other being hidden by a long fringe that disected their face. A young Emo with braces on his teeth was sitting on the ground strumming a guitar and singing “Under the Bridge”. Some Goths stood in a dark corner, barely perceptible.

I’m sorry to say we didn’t last more than ten minutes in there. Started sobering up, and then BAM! Suddenly I realised I wasn’t Frank the Tank from “Old School”; I was just the oldest guy at this party, and I was sobering up by the second. So we left. Never even got to meet Tony, either.

So I guess that’s the end of my days of partying. And also my first blog entry. G’night.

I do words for money. Or tinned food.

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