James: Due to the immense greatness of this party, James’ Shit Party comes complete with two separate written accounts. First, here is Gazz’ experience. And once you’ve finished this (you might want to make a cup of tea before you start), move on to Peafield’s experience as a James’ Shit Party guest!

Gazz’ Account

Everyone has a different outlook, opinion, point of view and subsequently style. For example, if James was doing the write-up we might get an opening blurb to run down the background to why the party happened, three paragraphs on the entymology of the word ‘Party’ [including several jokes that you think you get, but you're not sure] and then the conclusion rounding out the general experience of being at the party.

When I write it, which I am, you're more likely to get a chronological story-telling of MY personal time line [which will have a lot of asides confined to box brackets] and it'll be three or four times longer than James' and'll be full of words, phrases and definitely in-jokes that you think you don't understand, but you're not quite sure.

This week it's me, but that's not to say that mine is the only story to be told. There are fucking LOADS of people's stories, because there were loads of people there. I was shocked too! Last time we had a party, and I'm sure if he had a mind to, James will include a link to the event somewhere in this sentence, it was very touch and go for a long time. Hoss wasn't even gonna come, and until Claire showed up with a bunch of folks we were in danger of being them spods that had that shank party that time.

House parties stress me out, even when I'm only attending them, because inevitably you're surrounded by people you don't know and the person you came with who you do know does know them and so they go off and talk to them leavin’ you on your bill to talk to people you don't know... and I don't like talking to people I don't know. Sheeeeeeeeet, I barely talk to the people I DO know. Hosting a party is even more problematic because firstly you can't go home if it gets really shit. Secondly there's the drop out rate. These days everything is done on Facebook. If it's not on Facebook, it's not happening, and the event page for this particular soiree was called May Day and had an accompanying picture of James as a child with a party hat photoshopped on to his head. Why? Because it was billed as his birthday party.

Same as last year, technically speaking, and also technically speaking it can be said that the May Day party was MY birthday party, what with my birthday being 3 days before James'. Only I hate my birthday... and parties as I say. Ludicrous amounts of invites were doled out. Luda-Cris amounts! Rick-Diculous amounts! SMALL AMOUNTS! There were about 37 or so ‘Yes’ clicks returned, some ‘No’ and some ‘Maybe’ [I hate those maybe fuckers. Get off the fence and make a fucking decision you lily-livered, yellow-bellied, indecisive waffling meandering faffing procrastinating cock bags!] and then a shit ton of ‘Awaiting Replies’, as is almost always the case with any event. James wasn't worried. He'd invited a bunch of D&AD people and a handful of his outside friends, and for my part I'd broken a cardinal rule and invited some work types [the best ones. The ones I like] and made the reach up to Nottingham to drag down Hoss as a general rule. You need Hoss. The only reason that last party happened for me was because Hoss was there. And Green Shirt. He helped no end.

Me though? I was shitting it. What if no one comes? Or worse still, because if no one comes at all then it's just like every night where James sits in his room working on the site and I drink tea and watch The Wire, but what if SOME people come... but not many people... then it's a fucking social disaster! 4 or 5 desperate wankers all sitting in the living room, trying like fuck to spark a conversation or get a drinking game going just to keep from ripping a Red Stripe can in half and slicing their throats open with it. Then they talk about it forever! "Remember that God awful party we went to?!"  "OH GOD YEAH IT WAS PAINFULLY AWKWARD!". I don't need that on my conscience.

I tried to convince James to call the whole damn thing off from the instant he suggested it, but at the Zero Hour a call was placed [via Facebook... no one actually CALLS each other anymore, you soil eating luddite caveman, smashing the spinning jenny in impotent rage!] to ensure us that not only would Hoss be making the trip, but also Hinge! Hinge, for those who are unaware, is three things.

1) Nick's Youngest brother
2) Ginger with died blonde hair
3) The Worst Person on Earth

Having him around is immense because firstly you know he's gonna try to fuck everyone in a skirt or pair of leggings that happens by his eyeline. He's just built that way. Like one of them novelty seaside toys where you pull a string and it gets its cock out. More importantly though, he encourages Hoss. He's like the little voice in Hoss' ear, telling him that the idea he just has about drinking all that vodka and then taking his shirt off will be entirely as funny as he thinks it will be, and he should get to doing it straight away. They once went camping and ended up crashing a wedding in a country house shirtless with pen all over them.

Shit me.... I've gone WELL over a page here and strictly the party hasn't even started. This is turning into more of a James based write-up than anything. I best crack on.

Me and James sheen to TESCO and pick up about £70 worth of booze and some Doritos [you need that. Doritos make the heart grow fonder] and when we got home Nick, Hinge and Hoss were waiting for us under the tunnel. They'd been there about 4 minutes but Hinge had already bust the seal on his party offering [a bottle of Lambrini] and supped 1/4 of it. Hoss was reasonably sober, and that came as a disappointing shock if I'm honest. In doors we didn't dick around. Nick had created a brand new Power Hour MP3 with 50% new material and all the classics kept in, and we were keen as Robbie to put it to work. I should mention actually that James and I weren't the only ones in TESCO buying drinks. Emma was there, coaching it 7 odd hours from North Yorkshire to attend what might have been a party of 5. My stress levels were somewhere around Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s hairline.

I settled RIGHT down when the Power Hour began though. I love that thing. If you didn't download it the first time it was mentioned on the site, perhaps our WebMaster will include another link for it right here so you can. Essentially it's a 1-hour play list of songs cut down to 30 seconds or a minute’s worth each. At the end of every clip you're ordered to “Drink The Beer” and must down one shot of lager [or Cider if you’re James]. It's an endurance thing really, with the Power Minute [one shot every ten seconds] usually weeding out everybody except for Hinge. After the first run through, during which Ross was assembling a pair of camp beds between shots instead of doing other shots like he usually does, I went for a piss. That's what you need after 6 cans of lager in one hour. Another thing you need, if you're me, is to be violently projectile sick for a little while. It's not a big deal for me at this point. I'm always sick if there's a lot of drinking to be done, so I rocked the spew, wiped my mouth and got back to beer. A Tactical, as it's known in the business.

Official Guest Number One was Richie, a work type who got right into the spirit by joining us in the circle game [not the biscuit based one, but the getting punched in the arm based one] before Nick suggested we liven back up again with yet another Power Hour. Not quite sure how far we got into that before the rest of my work people turned up, and Des’ree too [James Girlfriend, who declines to be featured on the site for reasons of taste, decency and she doesn't like having the contrast turned way up on pictures of her] and with them came yet more booze. Playlists were decided upon in the kitchen while I fucked off for a smoke [of my Henri Winterman cigar no less] and this is where the party sort of branches off into just my version of it.

Swoop, a workman, sheened off for some chicken and returned minutes later with an exciting discovery. Texas Chicken, up the road, give you Crinkle Cut Chips with your chicken burger! We were AGOG to say the very very least. I'm pretty sure we talked about that for a good twenty minutes. I separately told Odette and Akin not to speak to each other, since I didn't want it to seem like we'd made the only 2 black guests sit in the corner and have their own party. I will not brook apartheid, especially near my fridge! That alone should put you into the mind of how drunk I was before the thing really got going.

I did my usual Round of Applause for Everyone schtick that I've become famous for, making absolutely certain that not one person at the party went without. I'm told most people got two or three, a fact that my red raw hands could attest to the next morning. People started to pair off. First I discovered Hinge and Emma in my room, on my bed... ‘Talking’... then Hoss and Linsey started pashing up a storm on the stairs [I'd pre-informed Linsey about Hoss at the pub a couple of days before, showing her a handful of his best Facebook pictures... because I am a good friend!] and then some time later Akin drove Odette home in a blatant violation of the decree I'd cast upon them!

But that didn't happen until near the end.

I made punch, as was my wont back in the LeedsMeUp days, by pouring unmeasured amounts of every bottle I could get my hands on into a big frying pan and then chucking some fruit in for taste. Back then I'd name the concoction [one that springs to mind is The Neon Island] and then pronounce it ready to consume by dropping in a small wooden doorknob I stole from a restaurant in Prague. I've long since lost my knob, so had to make do with handing a plastic cup’s worth of the bright red brew to the nearest guest, a lady named Charlotte [or Amy] who took a tentative sip and pronounced “This is not punch, because punch is meant to be good to drink... and this is not good to drink."

I needed no more encouragement and, armed with a pyrex jug of ‘St Martin's Revenge’ and a pouchful of cups [I was wearing a hoodie... I don't carry a pouch or anything. I'm not Robin Hood or one of those gnomes you attack for potions on Golden Axe]. I stalked the party dishing it out to unsuspecting guests, most of whom wanted nothing to do with it because someone had flicked fag ash into the jug without my noticing. I turned around, picked out the ash with my fingers and came back a minute or so later with a ‘Fresh’ supply that they were more than delighted to drink [and in the case of one tiny Welsh girl, sick up into the kitchen sink before bed time].

I had a right chuckle with a guy who's name means Justice but who's face looks like John Belushi [James: these were two different people], and then I think the punch got to me a little bit and I felt the need to retire to my room. Didn't fucking stop people from bursting in there though, every couple of minutes! You get sick of that. I fucking did, and there exists a video captured by James of me threatening murder upon the next person to touch my bedroom door. Someone did touch it, trying to be funny, and I took his drink off him and whipped it over the balcony... only it hit Hoss and Linsey in their faces and I had to slurringly convince her not to up and leave.

Every single solitary word that has preceded the next sentence was for nought, because the only thing anybody talked about the next [and even now, four days later] was the thing I am about to type for you now.

Hinge got a girl to go Ass To Mouth in my bathroom.




Absorb that, if you dare. We fucking had to. The story goes, and this is 2nd and 3rd hand mind you, that Des’ree went into James' bedroom to fetch something and couldn't get in. Something, or someone, was shoved up against the door. She's a relentless sort when she gets going, and strong for a vegetarian accountant, so forced her way into the room to find Hinge and a girl from work who's name is Morgan [and who won't even slightly mind that I said that for reasons which will become clear very shortly] trying to commence the jiggling. She knew James wouldn't like that. Having to move out of his room because of the taint put on it, so she sat herself down and resolutely staged a one woman sit in until they fucked off to other pastures. Other pastures meaning the bathroom. People were pushing, thumping, heaving and other doing words to try to get inside, but once again someone was up against the door. This time that someone was bumming the other someone, before that other someone got down on both knees and handed him a gobble. Grim.

Emma finally made the final move on the bathroom [anal sex dungeon] door and managed to get it open. Yet another female vegetarian overcomes Hinge as a basic door stopping device. They'd finished up though, so there was nothing to see here, and everyone could have gotten on with their evenings had Morgan [that's M-O-R-G-A-N] not casually announced the toings and frowings and back-shottings she'd endured to all and then separately to sundry.

Beyond that, I'm done, and so is this write-up. There's enough drink left in our kitchen for another party, but the floors are so sticky now that if you turned the gravity off in the flat nothing would move, and we've had to condemn the bathroom for health and safety reasons. One party a year. That's the limit.

James: Great! Wasn’t that brilliant? Now to fill all the gaps left by Gazz, and just for another version of events from a different point of view, head to Peafield’s account now.