The party was fantastic. It was one of the best nights of my life. Marcella, despite my previous rough treatment of her in this here blog, had sorted everything out, had decorated and shifted furniture, had organised incredible food and was flexible about pricing and payment methods (though I would have been pretty flexible confronted by a stuffed envelope full of flipping great wadges of cash! And I'm nearly forty!). Still, she did an excellent job and I'm assuming did a lot of business. Litro was my wife's choice of venue and in this as in all things she proved herself wise beyond her tender years.
Shouts-out to Row, Gwen and Mike for getting to the venue before me and setting up all the equipment in the down-stairs rumpus-room and again to Mike for actually DJing (and of course latterly to Douglas who repeatedly hurled himself at the decks in his boozed up pomp to play Big Marker tunes at tooth rattling volume).
Kelly arrived looking luminous and regal in a way that must surely have compromised her politics. It was incredible showmanship; the whole room seemed to surge toward her, sucked in by the gravity of her charisma. She held out remarkably against the strains of the day; hob-nobbing like a pervert with a cooker fixation and even essaying a couple of ill-advised dance moves (from memory they were "American Smooth" and "the worm"). My mother arrived, snootily announced that the decor wasn't to her taste (it wasn't - it was to Kelly's taste. That was the point!) and turned her nose up at a carafe of the house-red that somebody had bought for her. That didn't last long - she was soon downing them in quick succession and having a rare old time.
The sainted but evil Ange Calaco - McGaw made the most amazing birthday cake in the shape of a pink Parisian poodle, which was recognised by everybody as being me in confectionary form. Its little feet had neat stockings of child saliva long before I worked a cake-slice through it ( and the small rash of indentations in the liquorice hooves would be traceable back to a certain Rose Love without recourse to dental records!)
Special mention must go to Julia Postill for being a blizzard of entertainment all day. To Chris Kasch for not getting me in a head-lock (summoning every ounce of will-power to resist - his buttocks were clenched white all day!). Thanks must go to Sarah, Sinead and George for coming all the way from Scotchland (the latter two incognito). To Tori, Archie and la Bloor for reprazentin for the Spa-Town Massive. To Jen Warren whose thank you letter was longer than her stay at the party and to three fifths of THE RED ATLAS who were as emotional as I've ever seen them: I think Martin took his jacket off at one point and Si raised his hairier eye-brow (Ben was stripped to the waist and fucking anything that moved as soon as Mike dropped the needle on Dave Bowie - but that's quite usual). More thanks to the members of my family who were on delightful form and have managed to produce such remarkable children. And of coure DaveEvans who was much drunker than me! Oh and Daniel Howes for leaving the manifold delights of Norfolk to walk among us city bumpkins. But really massive thanks to everybody who came to send us off it was a truly lovely time. And I haven't even mentioned the gifts! I need never wear the same pair of socks again! I'm like Prince!