t h e h e a d y s c e n t o f m a r a j o o a n a

it’d been a long time since i’d been at a party. years probably. they were never really my thing. anyhoo, an old old old friend of mine ian was having his fortieth and myself and hostess elisabeth were duly invited. along we shuffled.

ian has some… eccentric friends. yes, that’s the word i’m going for; ‘eccentric‘. we were introduced to a chap, who i told we’d met once before. he immediately launched into a long description of the problems he’d had in his life due to alcohol, i’m guessing by way of an excuse for not remembering me. “right” i think i managed “um, ok.”

there is a certain kind of forty-something, the kind that has spent their youth yearning in vain for some kind of facsimile of the rock and roll dream, and who seem unable to escape this fruitless search. these types live in a cloud of patchouli and indian fabrics, they wear leather jackets that probably wouldn’t do up over their beer bellies; they have that strange fragile, hollowed out air to them, casualties of their past excesses. ian knows a lot of these people.

it’s been years since i’d watched people pass a joint around and i know this will sound unforgivably patronising, but it all seemed so… quaint. yes, that’s the word i’m going for, ‘quaint‘. i have nothing against drugs at all, quite the contrary, it’s just that the whole idea of them seems to have nothing to do with me. very odd.

anyhoo, glad that the coats were upstairs and would therefore be free from the stench of dope, conversation went on, music played (still can’t quite get the fascination with reggae); general partiness ensued. a few people were taking photos. hostess elisabeth and myself were sat by the open window (no doubt singling us out as ‘squares‘) when all of a sudden something flew through the air, hit the window and fell to the street below.

it turned out that one of the people taking photos had taken this one particular wiry psychotic looking chap’s photo and he had asked them not to do so. they’d done it again and he’d reiterated his objections, possibly with some form of profanity. they’d taken his picture again and the wiry psychotic chap had duly snatched then launched their camera out of the first floor window. the photographer left to retrieve his camera and didn’t return. can’t say i blame him. televisions? pah. rock and roll is all about the cameras out of windows. you have been told. rock on.

o, and half way through the evening the ‘smokers’ had been reassigned upstairs. to the coat room.  and so our jackets soaked up the aroma of the, if i might go all middle-aged for a moment, ‘wacky baccy’, anyway, thus forcing a cracking open of the febreze when we got home, around one.

we are so hardcore.