Shortly after the New Year party that George threw recently, I received an email from my dad down in Milford on Sea. I have copied and pasted it word for word so there is no embellishment from me, it is as received. It appears that despite not attending, he enjoyed the news of the party, seeing it as some sort of gleeful revenge for the events of years gone by.

Hi Bob    –    Happy New Year
Just read your blog. Brings back memories of I think your 21st.       You said “can I have a few friendsround”
We (Mum & I) said “How many”
You said “oh about a dozen”
Getting around 200 turned up  — about half of Tadley’s youngergeneration plus a few old lags like
Cider Bill.
Happy days. The chickens come home to roost !
Cheers    –   Dad

I am afraid to say that my dad is lying, he has got his facts wrong…………..his name was Cider Bob not Cider Bill, though the other two hundred plus is a fair estimate of an impressive turn out. It would appear that George has in his gene pool the attitude that if you are going to do a party you may as well do it in style, my brother Bruce is just the same. However, what my dad may or may not know is that whilst I leaked the party information to all the lads and lasses of my age group (admittedly more than a dozen) my late mother was as much, in fact more actively campaigning for a high turn out than I was.

My mother had more faults than a British Leyland car, but throwing a party was not one them, she would have rather been associated with stealing pension books than being held responsible for a party that turned in to a damp squib and in me she had the perfect alibi when dad became concerned about the increasing numbers. The fact of the matter is this, mother took me on a pub crawl on my actual birthday (the night before the proposed party) that featured The Ship, The Pineapple, The Cricketers, The Falcon and vitally, The Fox and Hounds, home of the Tadley piss artist. In every pub she campaigned and lobbied like an MP on the eve of a general election and by 10.00pm I was nervously confident this certainly would be a party to remember, such was the expanding guest list I would be held responsible for, despite my protests.

By 11.00pm on the evening all was calm, all my friends had arrived and the numbers were manageable, then at around 11.30pm all Hell let loose, the sheer volume of numbers arriving would have fully justified the fitting of a turnstile. Meanwhile, dad was gently simmering towards boiling point and mum was blaming me, she was putting on a vintage performance of innocence, despite nearly blowing her cover by revealing, out of nowhere, enough food to feed a Royal wedding. She knew exactly what she was doing and the fact was she couldn’t stand the thought of throwing a 21st birthday party without it turning in to utter hedonistic chaos, she also knew that gatecrashers better not show up, because every tough guy in the area had been made welcome, you don’t get a better bouncer than Gerry Brady.

By the morning, bodies were strewn all over the place, some I recognised, some I didn’t, but the house was still in tact, though I knew I had some explaining to do as I pitifully joined in the clear up operation and prodded people out of their slumber. Dad used to always whistle in the morning, on November the 19th 1988 his lips stayed silent, a sure fire signal that I was deep in the shit. Legend always had it that I had organised this house party to end them all, but the fact was at least seventy per cent of the blame laid firmly at the feet of a mother who used all the devious tricks in the book to ensure her reputation as a great thrower of parties would never be tarnished.

Here’s a funny thing though, if I had found out only six people turned up to George’s party and they had proceeded to play Monopoly and drink coke, part of me would have been devastated.

If you can’t have a proper party, don’t bother at all.