Get Ready For The Roaring 20’s, Party Animals

Are you ready to party? Because the “roaring 20’s” are on their way. World War 1 followed by the Spanish flu pandemic ensured that the 1920’s also got off to a bad start. But when the world got back on its feet, there was one hell of a celebration. A decade of bacchanalian debauchery ensued. Booze fuelled parties, flappers, orgiastic escapism, cabaret, jazz, the Charleston …. Well, I suspect that our impending post quarantine revelry will make the “roaring 20’s” look like a Mormon prayer meeting.

My only worry is, have I forgotten how to party? Invited to my first big bash since lockdown ended, I dug out my favourite stilettos in a flurry of anticipation…But after months in birkenstocks, my attempt to totter about on high heels resembled a toddler taking to the ice.

And what to wear? Working from home it hasn’t mattered that it looked as though I’d been dressed by Stevie Wonder. Determined to spruce up, I took my party frocks out of mothballs – only to discover they’ve mysteriously shrunk. Downing endless Quarantinis during Locktail Hour means there’s an elephant in the room… um, yours truly.

To avoid too-tight-dress stress, I then opted for my sexiest leather trousers… Sexy? Who am I kidding? The zipper stalled at half mast. Why would any man want to get into my pants, when even I can’t? A bloke who climbed aboard now would worry about burning his backside on the light bulb.

Clearly the only way I can ever have sex again is to have a fantasy…as in fantasise that I’m someone else, say, Margot Robbie or Beyonce.

Chastened by the fact that if I left my body to science, science would contest the will, I stripped naked in front of the mirror and gave myself a good talking to – I talked myself into a slice of cake to assuage my angst about lockdown weight gain.

Okay, the body’s a write off but what about my face? Having been foundation free for months I expected my unclogged complexion to be glowing. Dusting off my magnified mirror, at first I wondered why I couldn’t see my reflection, but after parting my eyebrows the visage staring back at me resembled the victim in a horror movie who’s just seen The Creature. To be fair, I do look pretty good for an 80 year old… Shame I’m only 61.

Girlfriends suggested I invest in a tub of emergency rehydration cream as expensive as caviar. But with every work gig postponed, all I can afford to use on my face is an old tube of heel balm – which clearly explains my tendency of late to put my foot in my mouth.

With an hour to go till party lift off, I slapped on some makeup. Lack of practise meant I ended up looking like a dog’s breakfast. At least my career prospects have increased; I can now be employed to sniff luggage at the airport.

As kick off approached, my nerves shrieked like the unoiled hinges of a screen door in the wind. Teetering nervously into the boisterous BBQ with blobbed make-up, wearing a dress baggy enough to double as a yacht spinnaker, anxious about the imminent asphyxiation associated with trying to breath while holding my stomach in, I then started to worry about my mental muscle. What would I talk about? Months of boxset bingeing has atrophied my brain. I’m now so forgetful that I only have a vague recollection of starting this article….

Well, it’s now dawn and I’ve just sashayed home from my first party in over three months. For anyone suffering from FOGO (Fear of Going Out) don’t fret. I’m happy to report that nobody was judgemental. Guests were far too busy pouring cocktails into our ears because our heads were jerking around like hooked fish to smile, laugh, banter and rejoice at the pure bliss of being with friends again – and vowing that we’ll never again take this simple joy for granted. So, party on, people!