Another millennium, another continent
Ah. Warm fuzzy memories of growing up in suburban South Africa. Picture 80s US teen films with smaller cars and better music. As I spent most of the time pissed, and the parties and attendees were pretty much interchangeable, here are a few of the things I remember:

End-of-high-school party. I forgot to take any alcohol along, so I found an empty pint mug, and wandered around asking for donations - the ultimate cocktail. Not. Woke up on the patio next to a BFO speaker blasting out Marley's Exodus, sweating gin. Never touched the stuff since. There's allegedly photographic evidence of me trying to seduce an ex-girlfriend while she was lying on top of her current boyfriend. I bet she'll sell them to the tabloids when I'm rich and famous.

Farewell party for the guitarist and drummer of our pet metal band - they were pissing off back to the UK to avoid army service. Guitarist's little sister Laura had a few of her goth mates there and, after a few beers, I defected to the goth camp. Ended up having red wine lovingly dribbled into my mouth from hers, with spilling a drop - a bit like two people sharing spaghetti, getting ever closer. This, of course, happened in front of her parents, who found the sight of a couple of legless 19 year olds behaving like kids quite endearing. Result!

My farewell pissup before army service. Parents out of the country, a bar full of alcoholic delights, and a liquidiser. Very few of the cocktails we created that night have taken off, for some reason. More photographic blackmail material of my mate Neil with his willy in his hand having a slash on the pavement. He's a high-level nuclear physicist now.

First weekend home during army basic training. Warned of all sorts of legal nastiness if we got into trouble. Some twunt at the party (come on up, Mr Swale) started kicking neighbour's wall in after sniffing petrol from somebody's bike tank, neighbour called plod, and plod arrived as I was driving away. I think it was my no-lights-on stealth technique that alerted them that things weren't quite right. Chucked into back of police van, driven about a mile, then dropped off back at the party and told to behave myself. Needless to say, I had to beat the girlies off with a cheesy bell-end. Result!

The no-lights-on car chase around the back streets of Birch Acres was fun - I'd backed into some proto-chav's Cortina at Fat Ann's party and smashed one of his spotlights. Lost him for a while, then went back to the party, pulling into the driveway to the sounds of 22 Acacia Avenue, which mentions Charlotte the Harlot. This, coincidentally, was the name of my conquest-to-be for that night. She said no. Another night of mad passionate failure.

My mum had a vague idea I'd had a party when she noticed a used tampon in her en-suite toilet. I'd forgotten that the local bicycle had been bestowing her favours on a mate of mine. He forgot to tell me that she'd been on the blob. There are many things one can talk one's way out of, but trying to convince my mum that a used tampon was part of a phase I was going through wasn't one of them.

Length? Girth? I never lie about those things. It makes the baby Jesus cry.
(CaptainParalytic, Tue 18 Apr 2006, 16:05, Reply)