Because of my tendency to roam around, I have only celebrated one of Annie’s birthdays with her since we met: her 23rd. That birthday party – which involved acid tabs, public nudity, rooftop falls, a dildo covered in glitter, leather harnesses and quite a lot of blood – was, it’s safe to say, the reason for my anxiety on the morning of her 30th birthday party in Oakland.
It’s not that I didn’t enjoy all that stuff at the time – I did! It’s just that — well, as you’ll know by now if you’ve skimmed my more recent diaries, I’m not really that guy anymore. These days I can only handle one, maybe two big sunlight-through-the-curtains seshes per year, and each time it takes me about seven days to fully recover.
I didn’t want to tell Annie I was nervous for her party, however, because I didn’t want to make it about me, so I just kept quiet and helped Annie and Tayler organise the event. It was a hell of a project compared to my own lacklustre 30th night out. My 30th birthday party saw me, my brothers and four friends going bowling dressed as goths, which of course sounds quite amusing but was actually very odd because the venue I chose was filled almost exclusively with childrens’ birthday parties. My friends and I spent the whole night looming uncomfortably around the lanes in our top hats and billowing cloaks like the sheepish attendees of an annual summit for Child-Catching mega-nonces.
NEVER AGAIN
Anyway, Annie’s birthday was much better planned. They’d hired an entire venue – a swanky LGBTQ-friendly restaurant – and on the day of the party we arrived early to set up. Tayler made an enormous charcuterie board, and Annie set up her DJ decks, speakers and multicoloured lights. I put glow sticks on each table and blew up balloons shaped like aliens.
I was shocked at the expense they’d gone to – the venue hire, the food, the staff, the free bar, the extensive guest list. I was once again reminded, as I so often am in London, that I am not a man of refined tastes. I didn’t know what half the food they’d put out even was, never mind the cocktail list. Tayler works for a high-end drinks company, and her knowledge of ‘elevated’ foods and drinks is pretty intimidating. As a man who usually buys – and genuinely enjoys!!!! – the cheapest beer on draught, I often find it hard to converse when the subject goes in that direction.
“It’s a smoky, burnished flavour that’s softened by the notes of rich Colombian caramel, but the acid from the shavings of Sri Lankan lime really gives it a zestiness that’s just more immediate.”
“Aha, yes. It’s really – guh – nice.”
Annie’s family came by, and I spoke to her dad at length about India and our respective travels there. After that I got into my usual party rhythm where I end up sitting with random people for 10 minutes each, having friendly chats until I’ve spoken to everyone in the place. I made friends with a Brazilian girl working as a DJ to make money while she studies for the bar exam, and I spoke to an old colleague of Annie’s who chatted to me about video games. I met a girl with family in Morocco, I met her boyfriend who was the only other straight guy in the whole 40-person party, and I met a girl who makes strange taxidermy-esque art pieces and sells them for lots of money. She showed me a lamp she’d recently sold: a long, dead fox was wound all the way up it.
Annie was in good spirits, naturally. She DJ’d, she told people she loved them, she made speeches on the microphone (she brought a microphone), and, later on while very drunk, she took the mic and freestyle rapped to everyone for a solid 10 minutes. ‘I was born thirty years ago’ was a common refrain. I watched from the sidelines, smiling to myself, proud of my friend and her charisma and her silliness.
I was pleasantly surprised by the company Annie keeps. Part of the reason I’d been so anxious for her party is that I‘d imagined her guests would be aloof, sailor-tatted hipsters too cool to even deign to look at me. In reality, while everyone was certainly very cool, they were also very sweet and kind, full of smiles. It made sense in retrospect: Annie wouldn’t hang out with bastards.
When the venue closed for the night, fifteen of us went to a dive bar called Stork, full of smoke with booths of red velvet walls, stickered mirrors in the toilets, and swivel-eyed people playing pool. We drank, we chatted, I felt good and happy and safe and glad to be out. I’d missed it – the endless talking, the roster of strange characters, the artsy-fartsy dress, the casual exchange of unthinkable debauched tales.
And, in the blur of the oily night, I felt a long-dormant part of me stir; the part that still yearns for this. The part that longs for the candle-lit chats of smoky Berlin, the constant comings and goings of subterranean artists with raucous unbelievable news to share, the witching hour discoveries and the wonders found in shadowy corners. Suddenly my life in London seemed altogether beige: pious, gentle, neutered. I found myself wishing I had access to this world again, that I could find somewhere like this myself near my home. Not because I want to get fucked up – not because I want to do bad things. I just miss the company of people who make a mess – people who make craters. I like people you can just look at and see their mind ticks a little differently. They make me excited to be alive; they make me want to write.
We made it home at around 2am, and I sat up talking with Annie until 3am, sharing a whole ‘nother bottle of wine in the meantime. Yes, silly, yes, excess – and happy, yes, for old time’s sake.