a side effect of no longer being in the pub game is that Lize and my social lives are becoming more varied. Our work lives have broadened and we are no longer surrounded by groovy young hipsters, tearaway would-be rockstars and struggling artists. Instead we get to spend our Saturday night in a draughty hall on the outskirts of Ballafornia at the engagement party of one of Lize's new work colleagues.
Sadly, it seems to be a doomed romance. The male part of the happy couple is a tool of the highest order, a half-man half-weasel whose credentials as a life partner seem piss poor. But hey the girls in love, or at least in love with the idea of getting married so good luck to her.
But the party was outstanding. I daresay in 20 years time parties like this will have died out in all but the most rural areas. Firstly it was in a hall. A big cold bugger of a place, brightly lit and ringed with plastic chairs, pink balloons and tables with baskets of crisps. A DJ was stationed at one end of the hall, a portly chap with a touch of the used car salesman about him given to rambling over the mike unintelligibly between songs. The catering was Oz classic circa 1970. Pies, sausage rolls, egg and lettuce sandwiches for the vegetarians and the crowning glory miniature saveloys. Cold cans of VB were the go, with a wine selection that boggled the mind. The sole red on offer came out of a box and was a cheeky fizzy number. Thats right folks, fizzy red! The white options also came out of a box and offered a sweet moselle up against a really fucking sweet lexia for variety.
As the night wore on and the speeches were completed the lights were eventually dimmed and the DJ truly came into his own. Firing up a barrage of strobe lighting, smoke and lasers that would do Pink Floyd proud he pushed up the volume, shouted a lot and packed the dancefloor with pissed aunties as the Shania Twain, Grease and Suzy Quattro blasted forth. Lize's boss and her partner revealed themselves as enthusiastic, disturbingly raunchy dancers.