Any perverted internet customer who should happen upon this page in their daily grapple with the office firewall for a sexual experience even a professional footballer wouldn’t pay for, could be sorely disappointed after this, the first paragraph. Because yes, the event is named XXX, a no-name, all-encompassing ‘code’ for adult-rated material, but the content is nothing of the sort. Such disappointment however, will limply fall away along with your erection as soon as you crack on with paragraphs two and three. So ‘Why then.....!’, I can almost hear you scream from the future ‘...have you named the event such?’. Well it’s a 30th Birthday isn’t it. That’s right... someone’s been alive for 30 years, and they’re celebrating it – as you would. But to only say... ‘30th Birthday’ is not exciting, it is not enticing and intriguing either, and it is least of all engaging. Boring isn’t it? Admit it, I write ‘30th Birthday’ at the top of the page and look away, when I look back, you’ve got the tissues ready, you’re cock-in-hand and you’ve already streamed 66% of Yummy Mummies 4 – Review coming next week.

Thankfully, this 30th was no such borefest. I can explain to you exactly why I believe that to be true as well. It wasn’t because it took place across an entire weekend, it wasn’t because it involved costumes, 80s Costumes! It wasn’t even because there were cocktails and fireworks, or a big-ass Morning-After Breakfast – although all of those totally happened and helped somewhat. Nope. It’s purely because I was there. For this reason, I’m not even going to mention whose birthday it was. Slightly because it’s not nice to point out someone’s maturity, especially when it’s recently stretched itself over the rounded 30 mark, like their skin being stretched over its face during the Overnight Procedure ‘gift’ from their mother. But mainly because... what’s the point? It involved me, so already you know it was the party of the season.

Our story starts on Saturday morning. When the girls left the house to get their legs waxed and talk about stickers and bebo, and Orlando Bloom (or whatever nonsense it is girls spend their days doing), and left me to heroically clean the house in preparation for our guests. They (as most people) knew that my skills in this area are second only to a Student’s mum in an advert. So I accepted their request by pinning on my pinny, donning fluffy gloves and bent down to get my knees mucky like a school tart on an Geography field trip.

By mid-afternoon, the house is ready, and so arrives the first of the guests. But they’ve brought trouble with them, or so I imagine I would say if I were someone’s dad. As what they’ve actually brought, is not a bottle of wine, a game of Twister or a long-brewing car argument, but their 20 month-old daughter, and she’s no trouble at all. Alas we never were introduced properly, the poor little mite was a touch shy. Or so I assumed when my extended, mentally waving hand was met with an uncertain sound and search for hiding place (found in an ingenious position, behind her mother’s leg). The afternoon was happily spent chatting away, making various cocktails – Winter Pimms, Gin & Soda, and the speciality Bramble:

Crushed Ice

2 Parts Gin

1.5 parts lemon juice

0.5 parts Sugar Syrup (which you can buy in shops. In M&S for your information, Sainsbury’s shop attendant!)

Topped off with crushed ice

0.5 parts Chambord – or any liqueur I guess... but Cherry is nice, and the Chambord bottle is sexy and glamorous.

Then my finishing touches included a raspberry, sprig of mint, and a straw.

They went down slowly but surely believe me. I managed to somehow think ‘1 part’ would be the same as ‘1 egg-cup’ – we don’t have any shot glasses, so we were done with the litre bottle of gin after about 5 drinks. This meant I’d occasionally shout “Who wants a cocktail!?” to which, everyone who’d just arrived would mail in their RSVPs. Strange thing was, I kept finding abandoned glasses lying around in various places, worktop, fridge, cistern. But always managed to find the owner and hand it back to them – to their relief.

After the cocktails and finger buffet, and most people had either left or passed out on their face in the middle of the garden, it was time to play dress up. Speaking mainly to the hoard of people’s mums at the party, I realised everyone had put a huge effort into their costumes. Officer and a Gentleman, Indiana Jones, Marty McFly, Slash, Dallas, Teen Wolf, He-Man... frigging He-Man?! “What about you” they’d politely enquire, the bastards! “What are you going as?”. I didn’t have a fucking clue. I was just planning on doing what I assumed every heterosexual guy does at an 80s costume party, roll the sleeves up on his suit jacket. “Oh... Well I...” and they sort of walked away. ’Got to think hard about this’ I thought, and think hard I thought! ‘What have I got with me...?’ Jacket, white shirt, couple of ties, some gel I nabbed off Gazz for 80s hair. That only makes a mess. But to my eternal good luck and pitying thanks, one of the girls had some face-paints for her costume. Add those into the mix, pop up the shirt collar, loosen the tie, and chuck the other tie on your wrist, and what have you got? Adam bloody Ant. Team it with a few moody pouts – I was planning on ignoring everyone and pouting my way through the night anyway, and you’re sorted.

The pub/party itself would actually be pretty boring to hear about. You’ve been there before. Everyone forming the costumed ‘craziness’ into conversation starters before realising they don’t know each other and actually have absolutely nothing to say, before wandering off to have a chat with Gordon Gekko. I left early enough to get the last tube – suddenly realising I was by myself, in the middle of a Saturday night in Clapham, and I was all costumed and done up in make up. I was about to get beaten-up. Luckily as part of my costume demanded, I was able to present the slight look of the mental and avoid incident. Before softly settling down into a free seat and falling, softly to sleep, dreaming of where I could buy a He-Man costume. *YAWN* I may have only been 5 years old when the decade finished, but even now, 20 years later, I can’t stay out past midnight without seriously needing my bed.