Monday, 28 November 2016

Let Me Be Blunt

God, I hope the press have some tweezers handy to extract the splinters from underneath their fingernails where they've scraped the bottom of the barrel with the execrable headlines about Princess Beatrice slashing Ed Sheeran's face at a party with a ceremonial sword.  I've seen the pictures, and I'm sure he's done more damage shaving! 

It would appear there was some high spirited horseplay happening at a palace, and James Blunt mentioned he'd like a knighthood.  Princess Beatrice thought she might be able to do this as a proxy for ol' Nanny Betty, and grabbed a ceremonial sword with which to do the honours.  I'm not sure who owns the sword, to be honest I'm not certain if it's her father's residence where the party was or not.  Even if it's her father's residence, it doesn't mean he is the owner of the sword per se, but he might very well be its keeper and custodian.  Anyway, with all this goofing and tomfoolery as she tried to dub James Blunt (maybe she was attempting surgery on his vocal cords to spare us any more cat-on-the-bandsaw offerings a la 'You're Beautiful'), she ended up giving Ed's face a bit of a nick - well, it was more than a bit of a nick as it required hospital treatment.  But nonetheless, all is well in the land of Royals and Britpop celebrities.

To me, this is proof that none of us are immune to dumb-arse hijinks at a party.  It's a grander, marble-floored, damask-walled, suits-of-armour-in-every-corner, chandeliered-ceilings scale of  the silliness we all get up to at times when the olds are out.  At twenty-eight or so, Princess Beatrice should perhaps be beyond this dumb-arsery, but then I'm not about to judge too much.  Maybe she was house-sitting (or palace-sitting) for Prince Andrew, threw a party, and things got a little out of hand.  We've all been there.  It kind of reminded me of a time when I was in my early-twenties and a maiden aunt went on holiday, entrusting her unit to be house-sat by a cousin of mine.  My cousin was, and is still, a very responsible person.  She had no intention of throwing wild parties in our aunt's absence.  She did however decide to host a dinner party.  Guests included yours truly, her younger sister, another cousin of ours with her then-fiancĂ© (now husband), and two university friends of the younger sister, and younger sister's best male friend (who is now her husband).  Most of us prepared a dish for the repast, and it was a very civilised - mostly - evening.  Eventually, this uni friend - we'll call him Anthony because, well, it's his name - decided to open a bottle of Creaming Soda.  God knows what he'd done with it, because the very microsecond the lid was removed, the bottle's contents burst forth like an erupting volcano, and the kitchen floor, stove top, refrigerator, doorway to the living room, and living room carpet were saturated in this sticky, radioactive looking syrup.  I might point out that along with the furnishings, several of the party's attendees, your blogger included, were also sprayed copiously with the Creaming Soda.  The place kind of looked like a murder scene, and we the innocent bystanders or perpetrators who had been caught in the grisly backsplash as the victim bled out, the blood pulsating in spurts from the fatal wounds.  After a few seconds stunned silence, we set about mopping soft drink from the furnishings and carpet, and washing ourselves.

We never let Anthony forget it.  Every get together where he was in attendance was punctuated with the anecdote starting, 'Remember the night you sprayed soft drink all over our auntie's flat?'

Anthony eventually graduated from university and took up teaching.  By coincidence, one of his students was my nephew.  My sister went to collect her son one day.  Now, my sister has black hair, but will occasionally chuck in a rinse with auburn highlights.  I am guessing she had treated her hair thus, and she told me she also had her sunglasses on, because Anthony thought she was me.  He greeted her, and said, 'I still think about that party at your auntie's place.'  From behind her sunglasses, my sister smiled blankly, but politely, as she tried to place him.  'At Crow's Nest?' he prompted, and she gave one of those smiles you give when you're trying to figure out what on earth someone is on about, but did twig which of our aunts he meant.  'You must remember,' he went on, 'I opened a bottle of Creaming Soda and it went everywhere!'  My sister continued with the polite smile and polite 'mmmm' sounds, wondering had she been so utterly wasted at some shindig it had been totally obliterated from her memory.  'Your auntie was overseas and you guys had a party without her knowing,' said my nephew's teacher.  The penny dropped, and my sister told him she believed he was referring to a night involving her younger sister (and in case you can't work it out - that's ME!).

But yes, this was back in 1990, well before social media, and I doubt anyone would bother posting or reporting on this.  Or maybe they would, God knows people post the most asinine things at times.  Anyway, poor old Princess Beatrice can't get away with her shenanigans, trying to bestow a knighthood on James Blunt.  Well, the potential knight was 'blunt', but the sword was not.

No comments:

Post a Comment