The past is another country


Or it is if you live round our way and believe that fancy-dress parties are less an excuse to wear something unattractive and more a pin-sharp reflection of yesterday. Actually the party that occurred last weekend was more an opportunity for guests to gossip loudly about drugs in the garden, dismaying your near neighbours who now know, for damn sure, that this party isn’t going to stop much before school on Monday.

It provided its own entertainment though, which started with the arrival of the note through the door the previous day. We knew it would be a big bash – we’ve never received a note before, and those oh-nothing-special events generally wind up at midnight, then pick up again around 2, when the hosts return from clubbing with a party pack of banshees and tequila.

To grant the gathering full party status there would be a theme, confided the note: ‘90s’. A 90s theme? The 90s are just ‘my clothes’ – or so I thought. I thought wrong. By positioning myself a foot or two back into the room and peering through the net curtains, I could see what the 90s look like to a bunch of drunk barely ex-teenagers.

Muscle T-shirts? Lycra onesies? Wait, string? I don’t remember them ever being hot off the catwalks. There was a girl wearing Britney Spears/School Disco stuff, which earned her a tip of my hat, but the real winner was the bloke who turned up wearing nothing but small pink underpants. I can only assume that he had taken a strictly autobiographical approach to the theme and had spent much of the 90s – his toddlerhood – thus handsomely attired. 


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