THE DINNER PARTY IS BACK
Your Wine Made My Cat Faint
Your Survival Guide In 9 Simple Steps
So lockdown forced you out of your favourite restaurant and back into your kitchen, huh? You discovered that you’re less a cook and more a kitchen terrorist. Your weapon of choice: food. Grub that better serves as a hunger-strike manifesto. Something to chant to keep you from eating anything more nutritionally sustaining than your own fingernails.
Fear not! The smug twats that live next door have installed a new kitchen extension and want you to know how much better they are than you. That’s right, they’re throwing a dinner party.
Unsure of dinner party etiquette? Need a few pointers? Allow me.
Your host will receive you in their home with a carnival of ceremony and affection.
It’ll feel like you’re being groomed the way a catholic priest’s hard drive might.
Unsure how to reciprocate? Here’s a pre-starter of Do’s and Don’ts.
1. Bring wine. Remember not to take the vinegary piss they brought to your house, which, when opened, made the cat faint. If your taste in wine is so poor that waterboarding a foreign spy with it would extract an immediate confession, then have a friend select something a little fancier.
2. Evacuate your bowels before you arrive. Leaving a shit in their toilet that has other guests suffering past life regression to their time in a Russian gulag? Doubtful you’ll get a second invite.
3. Don’t talk about yourself all night. We don’t give a fuck about your golf handicap, Nigel. Your mother is the only person interested in the narcolepsy inducing minutiae of your existence. One of two things is going to happen:
i) We stop listening to you in favour of committing ritual suicide with a butter knife.
ii) We lock you back in the toilet to suffer the toxic fallout of your pestilent arse, you dull, smelly c*nt.
4. Gush over how delicious everything is. Even if it tastes the way you’ve always imagined plutonium would. Apparently, your salad is ‘organic’ and ‘wild’. Maybe if it wore sandals, got a tattoo and had a back-alley shag with a nightclub bouncer. Smile like a sex-deprived pensioner having his prostate examined and praise your host gushingly.
5. Assure your host that the beef isn’t overcooked. Despite wanting to sing it a couple of hymns, read it a misty-eyed eulogy, and bury it in a south-facing plot in a local garden of remembrance.
6. Don’t go rooting in their bedroom drawers after nipping back to the loo to see if that shit has flushed yet. You’ll likely discover a leather mask, whip, handcuffs and knee-length P.V.C. boots. They’re probably not masked superheroes in their spare time. They’re just kinky, and the boots are probably his.
7. Be gracious. Yes, you’d rather be caught in a sex act with the neighbour’s dog than sit next to ‘Karen from accounts’. Rumour has it, she can suck a bowling ball through a garden hose. And you’ve not had a shag since dressing like Crockett and Tubbs from Miami Vice was considered the zenith of fashion.
8. Don’t drink too much. Particularly if you’re prone to expressing your feelings through experimental dance. Singing show tunes you don’t know the words to isn’t treating your fellow guests to a slice of off-Broadway. Chances are, you’re going to aggravate your haemorrhoids with a poorly executed scissor kick. Leave getting ‘lightly steamed’ to the veg.
9. Go for the tried and tested ‘thank-you’ text on the way home in the cab. This will land far better than an impromptu boob squeeze. Also, classier than offering a three-way on the dining room table once all the other guests have departed.
So there you have it. Follow this fullproof survival guide and before you know it, you’ll be sharing a cab home with Karen, to play superheroes with some of that kit you stole from your host’s bedroom.
I may be new to this platform, but I believe the done thing, if you’ve laughed and a little wee came out, is to clap your hands until they fall off. Also, follow me on here like you’re collecting injunction orders. Perhaps rename a child after me? And most importantly, send me brown envelopes overflowing with obscene amounts of cash.
Still Hungry? Why not check out my article, ‘Sore nipples? We’ve got just the cure’ It’s the perfect after-dinner treat.
