My parties were never this posh.
Quite for no reason
I'm here for the Season
And high as a kite,
Living in error
With Maud at Cap Ferrat
Which couldn't be right.
Everyone's here and frightfully gay,
Nobody cares what people say,
Though the Riviera
Seems really much queerer
Than Rome at its height,
Yesterday night —
I've been to a marvellous party
With Nounou and Nada and Nell,
It was in the fresh air
And we went as we were
And we stayed as we were
Which was Hell.
Poor Grace started singing at midnight
And didn't stop singing till four;
We knew the excitement was bound to begin
When Laura got blind on Dubonnet and gin
And scratched her veneer with a Cartier pin,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
I must say the fun was intense,
We all had to do
What the people we knew
Would be doing a hundred years hence.
Dear Cecil arrived wearing armour,
Some shells and a black feather boa,
Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb
Made of bits of mosaic from St. Peter's in Rome,
But the weight was so great that she had to go home,
I couldn't have liked it more!
People's behaviour
Away from Belgravia
Would make you aghast,
So much variety
Watching Society
Scampering past,
If you have any mind at all
Gibbon's divine Decline and Fall
Seems pretty flimsy,
No more than a whimsy,
By way of contrast
On Saturday last —
I've been to a marvellous party,
We didn't start dinner till ten
And young Bobbie Carr
Did a stunt at the bar
With a lot of extraordinary men;
Dear Baba arrived with a turtle
Which shattered us all to the core,
The Grand Duke was dancing a foxtrot with me
When suddenly Cyril screamed Fiddledidee
And ripped off his trousers and jumped in the sea,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
Elise made an entrance with May,
You'd never have guessed
From her fisherman's vest
That her bust had been whittled away.
Poor Lulu got fried on Chianti
And talked about esprit de corps.
Maurice made a couple of passes at Gus
And Freddie, who hates any kind of a fuss,
Did half the Big Apple and twisted his truss,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
We played the most wonderful game,
Maureen disappeared
And came back in a beard
And we all had to guess at her name!
We talked about growing old gracefully
And Elsie who's seventy-four
Said, 'A, it's a question of being sincere,
And B, if you're supple you've nothing to fear.'
Then she swung upside down from a glass chandelier,
I couldn't have like it more.
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4 comments:
spiffing, old chum!
Is it just me, or are there other people out there, who suspect that they are just not making "Saturday Nights" like they used to, back in the good old days?
Not that my Saturday nights were ever anything like the poem, but yes Mr E, I do. A little while ago, I was having a yarn to Witchy* about my first night out at a pub in years and how shithouse it was. A room full of twenty-somethings sitting in near darkness, being blasted by music and sipping their drinks while they played with their phones. No conversation, no dancing, no nothing. The only thing that "happened" was a group of young fellas got shit-faced and made a big mess staggering around the place trying their luck with anything that moved (and yes, even me).
I know people have a tendency to throw a coloured light on their memories, but Christ, I'm sure things weren't that depressing. Maybe it was just the wrong place on the wrong night. Dunno. What've others' experiences been like?
*That reminds me Mr E, I got an email from Google suggesting that I add you to my circles or whatever. Is that okay with you? I'm not sure if you're supposed to ask about these things or not.
That reminds me Mr E, I got an email from Google suggesting that I add you to my circle
Problem is, I don't own a drum and have no real interest in purchasing one.
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