Hearty, sporty party yahoos !

Gaston de Rosayro

Yes I believe some of you may heard of this one before. But all you being party animals, the ‘nava gilunath band choon’ types I am sure will enjoy this amended little spoof lifted from ‘The Serendib Spirit,’ my book on satire.

Pains me to admit it but they’ve taken all the fun out of parties these days. Yes I believe you may heard of this one before. The so-called parties today have become an inquisitorial, monotonous ritual where everyone stands around in immutable little bunches, belly-aching about the soaring cost of living, perversely relishing someone else’s divorce or comparing notes on their beastly little tykes.

After one of these torpid get-togethers, it amazes me to hear departing guests lying through their back dentures, assuring their hosts that they have had a delightful time. If this is your idea of a party you are welcome to do with it what the monkey did with his nuts. But please leave me off the invitations list, thank you!

But if you are the type who cares for a bit of asinine over-indulgence, then we seem to be on the same wavelength. With a little imagination and temerity you can be assured of a memorable party and achieve near immortality as an incomparable impresario. Now if you have never witnessed my imitation of a pansy boy or of a garish Hindi film star, you may possibly have existed but decidedly have not lived.

Most of my friends acknowledge the performances to be utterly unusual in their verisimilitude, although a spiteful minority have been sometimes heard to remark that I suit both roles admirably. This is generally mentioned in an undertone because being of a somewhat beneficent disposition I am inclined to dispense the contents of my glass on the malefactor with a baptism of alcohol. Rather altruistic, I feel, although I do so with constraint unless, of course, the liquor is of the hoi-polloi variety.

During those laboured lulls in conversation my Winston Churchill and Ronald Reagan impersonations bring back a sparkle of roistering animation to the gathering. The slightly exaggerated characterisations never fail to promote gleeful tremors from the assembled company. But aping blood-curdling Apache war-whoops, initiating the infectious ‘Mexican Tequila Laugh’, the pulsing Sri Lankan ‘baila’ and that utterly unprintable parody of ‘The Old Ash Grove’, are usually saved for later in the evening when the guys are beginning to enjoy themselves and their spouses and consorts are beginning to demand that it’s time to head for home.

I am then up in a flash with my blood-curdling, savage whoops to excite their curiosity. If the majority takes up the war cry, the party is bound to end on a successful note. You will have realised by now that I am a heck of a guy to have at a party though any typical party-man will tell you that times have become disquietingly strenuous for the territorial comedian.

Time was when the tumbler eaters joined in the jollification, crunching away at a host’s glass, undoubtedly one of a prized set. But any self-respecting tumbler-eater will tell you that one look at a hostess’s supplicating eye and he will not have the heart to begin his vitreous mastication.

The strip-tease act, within the bounds of common decency, that is, always had the party gathering convulsed with laughter. But today it has become a case of one inebriated imbecile being encouraged to divest himself of his clothes by a lot of other inebriated imbeciles.

I believe that it is actually the anti-climactic note that actually sparks their vexation. Besides, I am merciful enough to realise that keeping my pants on will save quite a number of less-endowed males from suffering all sorts of inferiority complexes. It must be remembered, however, that all these drunken idiots were none the worse for their exertions and everybody gathered round to join in the wild impetuosity. The cowboy confrontation always went off with a big bang when one picked out a predetermined adversary and you and he would fling vicious vilifications at each other. With hands over hips in the traditional stance of Dodge City mayhem, one would drawl: “Make you play,” followed by “Draw.” The last to get his cigarette lighter out and flick it into flame would fall clutching his abdomen in simulated agony and roll over the floor in the hideous contortions of death.

Always amusingly stimulating were the rather off-colour limericks. They too, are now regarded indecent and reprehensible by obstructive and conceited bores. But in the old days, we always had practical pranks conjured up for interfering bigots which would have made the atrocities of Hitler’s goon squads seem mild by comparison. We also devised psychological methods of driving away the killjoys and stuffed-shirts with diplomatic finesse.

There was also the creative ‘Bull-Lingo’ caper where a few of us would invent a type of nonsensical jargon which nobody understood, least of all ourselves. The trick was to converse loquaciously in gibberish with a friend you introduced to your hosts and other guests as a person hailing from Mauritius or Latvijkaja.

The unintelligible chatter was sure to draw everyone’s attention, particularly the target your little group had been targeting with covert glances. The drivel is then interspersed with a couple of disapproving ‘tut-tuts’, gales of guffaws and a few more offending glimpses in the direction of the victim. The stratagem has seldom failed judging by the scores of sitting ducks who have left such bashes in a huff.

The tempestuous mob would then break aptly into song with: “Will he ever return, no he’ll never return, and his fate is still untold..” or “Return to me, Oh, my dear, I am so lonely.” But that was when the wild party-goers were in the majority. Thrifty hosts too, were given a broad hint when the wild bunch repeatedly sang the refrain “God only knows how dry we are,” though not without a touch of reverence. The same line was repeated over and over in different mournful cadences until the skinflint was forced to crack open a few more bottles.

And so the modern day round of parties grinds over and over again, with the inhibited, perfunctory progression of long discussion periods taking precedence. Talk about drinking seminars! As for me, give me six irrepressible yahoos whose noise will compel the neighbours to call over and complain in the wee, small hours of the morning.

As an alternative give me a bottle of scotch to help me reminisce about the riotous good times and watch the rest of the world go hang!

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