The festive season isn’t what it used to be. Good thing, say the PYTs. Gmph, say I. Muchly disappointed that we can’t order a truck-load – truck-load? Not even a head-load! – of authentic mince pies. Blitzed by hoardings and full-page ads about parties on New Year’s Eve. Confused about where and when The Gang assembles. Aching from misguided efforts towards the corpore sano … oh, OK, can’t blame that on the season, it’s a year-round constant.
WHY must ALL ads for these parties feature LARGE pictures of nekkid (well, almost) women? Are they trying to attract hormone-driven male teens who’ll shell out 3K to see skin? Do women form no part of their target audience? How do these joints think they measure up on the value-for-money angle? Face it, the bug-eyed male they’re aiming at could probably get far more direct satisfaction for the same amount of money. Beats me. A young friend (who is not unknown in the blog rajya) pointed out that the clubs, at least, also hold the promise of PYTs in TLDs (Tiny Little Dresses). I suppose that holds some appeal. Me, I knew I was old and past it on
As for ourselves, we shall aggregate (a) selves, to wit, about 30 people who have been there, done that and don’t want to go there again, thank you (b) booze, with due attention to Smirnoff green apple and (c) food, large amounts, duhleeshus, from Bengal Club. We shall then hie ourselves to the terrace of a friend who combines the tools for a bonfire with the skills for a barbecue, where we shall stuff and irrigate ourselves till sleep overtakes us. Since we shall play our own music and not be at the mercy of some baseball-capped DJ who insists on playing house / HNeemesh, we might even Dance. All in all, a plan.
Pity about the mince pies, though.