So much meat on the grill, so much beer, wine and vodka in the ice barrels. Fifty odd people, but more than four of everything each. A plate of tomatoes and cheese, plus two small bowls of new potatoes barely touched by the end of the evening. A strawberry cheesecake mountain of cake, fruit and whipped cream demolished early on, mostly by the oldies who know a good thing when they see it.
These particular party animals had agreed early on that the young people were all just so odd looking. The older ones didn’t look odd to the young ones, they just looked old: a vague sea of sensible denim and cottons, the people floating in it unseen. The youngsters wore their own uniforms depending on dimensions, age and gender. Guests were friends with the girls the party was being held for, or of their parents.
The very overweight girls favoured too-tight cut off shorts with cheeks dropping out behind and chafed thighs. Their tops were chosen with flesh in mind too: off at the shoulders and grazing the uppermost rolls of teenage midriff. A couple of more considerate girls had made an effort to contain their challenged BMIs, but the very tight short velvet outfits paired with Doc Martens were not widely appreciated. These girls stuck together to buttress their confidence and pretend they were part of the herd after all.
The men and boys were dressed in jeans and workclothes, with the occasional dress shirt over chinos. They were differentiated mostly by how dirty their hands were and how much body odour they could waft without moving too much. The older men did, and the younger men did not, notice the girls. Some men moved between the groups of young and old, but mostly they sat close to the food and the alcohol.
The old people were an accidental blend of horse and farming types, mixed in with London deskwallahs. They ranged in age from midfifties to seventies, occasionly more. These better preserved examples wore colourful clothes more in keeping with the current decade. The less well preserved favoured tee-shirts with horizontal stripes or loose fitting untucked shirts and jeans. Occasional renegades were somewhere in between with floaty colourless tops mostly over dresses, skirts or more rarely shorts. Eye-catching patterns and exposed wrinkly flesh were a definite no-no. Older party guests tended to move in groups, anxious not to get too close to the scary looking youngsters and their boisterous momentum.
The group of not-so-fat girls also wore unforgiving clothes. The only difference was a preference for tight dresses instead of cut-offs and the girls’ relative slenderness. Still this side of curvy they had yet to place a foot on the blubberflub stair. Their already tired hair hung long, parted in the middle, heavily bleached to Barbie blonde and mostly straight. Locks enhanced with fake hair had enough length for large loose ringlets that bounced fetchingly whenever the wearer swung her head to show them off. When this happened the girls would drag their long, augmented fingernails to lift up the ringlets for greater effect. They did this with care, not to inadvertently dislodge the fake tresses. The enhanced hair and nails look skated dangerously close to pantomime dame territory, where beauty turned into tragic artifice.
The fascinated oldies tried not to stare at ballooning Zeppellin lips, their hard lined edges and their surfaces glazed in industrial strength gloss. It wasn’t easy. The lips bulged and glistened and peculiarly cushioned smiles hinted at compelling demonic menace. The girls wore false eyelashes so thick they could double as bookshelves for little pixies. Whether the girls could see out was a matter of conjecture. The oldies all agreed that it was a pity to see such prettiness and youth’s glorious beauty entombed in such peerless ugliness. But the grossly obese and the fake faced girls shared more enduring enhancements.
Oldster Catherine, ever chatty and inquisitive couldn’t help herself. “What happened to your arms and legs?” she asked a very plump young girl loading up on burgers and sauces. Catherine imagined some strange accident, perhaps involving a fan or kitchen equipment. Suzanne wiped ketchup from her chin and swallowed her mouthful: “These are from when my mum left. It was years ago now, when I was thirteen.” This last said in a knowing older-and-wiser tone picked up from a counseller. But Catherine still didn’t get it. “But what happened?” The bossy retired teacher in her persisted. “A scalpel I nicked from school. I wanted to see the blood. I started to cut. Stupid I know. As if that would make her come back, eh?” Suzanne rolled her eyes at the very thought of it then added “and as if I’d want her to” as she took another bite.
Catherine’s face paled as something she remembered she knew was suddenly and unexpectedly made real. Suzanne was still talking and Catherine came in at the end of her explanation. Suzanne was pointing at her dimpled thighs “… and these are blokes I’ve slept with. Not ashamed to show them off, shows people who I am yeah?” Horrified Catherine smiled a feeble smile. “It’s probably better to find another way, don’t you think?” But Suzanne was laughing at her new friend’s shock and concern. “It’s alright, I’ve stopped. It hurts. Never used to feel it, but now I do and it’s not worth it is it really? I’m thinking tattoos instead. I’ll get them done over the scars.” The girl’s combination of pride and pragmatism levelled Catherine. She slowly sank into the deep end of her years. “Good. Yes. Good,” she said. It took Suzanne a nanosecond to get over the conversation. Catherine, struggling to keep her head above water, tried putting the conversation into the perspective of age. Failing and still a bit dizzy with shock, she turned her attention to the man in the shiney shirt.
The man in the shiney shirt was the official entertainment. He’d been playing vintage Barry White and Creedence Clearwater Revival following the rule that the old ones are the best. His audience had responded with lazy swaying as they downed their warm-up lagers and white wines. Shiney man’s trust grew and soon he was singing along with his karaoke machine, encouraging people onto the dancefloor. They didn’t come. After a lengthy set he announced a break; five minutes was all he needed. Soon he was back in a glittery suit with no shirt and his jacket button undone, writhing convincingly to Jail House Rock. The choice surprised most of his onlookers. The old people were impressed with his agility and tight glutes. The young people weren’t quite sure what they were looking at, only that this bloke’s head and chest hair were really grey.
Sweaty and happy as he danced and sang along, the exuberant man on the stage could see dogs relieving themselves on the expanse of grass that was the still unused dancefloor. He could see the guests of honour and their parents and saw that one was flouncing off, coordinating the rhythm of her hair toss and leggy strut. He guessed her dad was less than impressed with the uplift bra presenting a bulging young bosom oiled and shining like a couple of giant sticky buns. Glitter man reckoned dad was also not much impressed with the lacing and chains that held the rest of his daughter’s clinging outfit together. It had taken barely a raised eyebrow, a turning away of the head and a deep swallow of lager to send his little girl tottering in her too-high shoes into her mum’s arms. But her mother was well past tipsy or caring. She committed the terrible sin of laughing off her daughter’s distress. Matters worsened when she tried to be understanding, but couldn’t keep a straight face.
Arms entwined they retired to a bench at the party’s edge. A pasty-faced young man followed in case he could help, pushing aside the fear his love inspired in him. His experience with grade A flounces was limited although he was pretty good with tears, so he reckoned it was worth a go. He sat on the bench in sympathetic but unacknowledged solidarity. Isaac felt left out and a little tired. It had been a long day. He slurped warm cider from a can and soon let his attention shift to the slowly filling dancefloor. The ancient songs the sparkly man was singing confused him and he didn’t recognise Chiquitica’s opening bars. His gaze landed on the gaggle of fat girls karaoky-ing along and Isaac found it disconcerting that in shape they reminded him of the porkers his dad was fattening up at home. Isaac pushed this image away and focussed instead on their impressive singing. They knew all the words and could hold a tune. They implored in loud unison: “How I hate to see you like this” (air punches in time with two hefty drum beats); “There is no way you can deny it” (pointing at each other); “I can see that you’re oh so sad, so quiet” (heads drooping). Isaac closed his woozey eyes and put his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, but the flounce was still running. She shrugged his arm away and leaned into her mum. Her mum’s glass was empty and she was bored with this latest drama, even as it weakened to force 4. But she returned the lean, mainly for comfort, struggling to parse her daughter’s mumbling.
As Chiquitica faded the next song was up, one of mother’s favourites. Gloria Gaynor surely had no idea of just how long I Will Survive would indeed survive or how deeply it would resonate across generations. Mother was up on the grass in a bound, joining the porky girls and leaving her unsuspecting daughter to collapse bruisingly into the arm of the bench. More woe so she nestled instead into Isaac who started to wonder what should happen next.
On the dance floor there was an awareness of being careful where to tread but no one bothered to pick up the dog poo. Waving her arms, mother got father up and out of his sunlounger. He in turn pointed at a young man to go and clean it up. Erik dutifully handed his can of dark ale to his girlfriend, and moved towards the dancefloor. Sonia was newly 21 and already placing her foot on the blubberflub stair. Unlike her friend whose outfit benefitted from chains and lacing, Sonia relied on her curves to keep her clothes in place. Due to unexpected expansion of breasts, belly and hips this wasn’t working as intended, so her tiny skirt rose up unaided and the super stretchy top did the same. Her movements when standing were a constant tugging down of top and skirt into more flattering but elusive shapes.
“He’s going well at the moment but he really doesn’t like this ground.” “Well, it’s understandable, with sidebone you can hardly blame him.” Sonia was leaning in for another bottle of bubbles and heard this exchange. She wondered what a sidebone was and where she could get one. It sounded sexy and through a bubbly haze she laughed “sounds good to me, I’ll have a bit of that.” She wobbled away for a little sit down, waiting to find out what Erik knew of sidebone. The two older women watched her drift off and tried to resume their conversation, puzzled, sober and with no concept of how ‘sidebone’ could be anything other than hardened cartiledge in a horse’s hoof. Fascinated but slightly wary of their fellow guests, they had thought horsey chat gave them safe haven. Agreeing that it was a mistake to stand by the booze station they moved back to their husbands, now onto their third helpings of charred barbequed meats. The night was drawing in, so they tugged at elbows and Catherine said “the midges are out, shall we go?”