Ain’t No Party Like a Mclevey Party ‘Cause a Mclevey Party is Just Fucking Weird

I don't even know what's happening in this photo. I think it was something to do with the cat. And probably testicles. Testicles are usually involved if it's Shamu and Steve.

We might be a curse if you want a nice, normal, sophisticated party. Just don’t invite us, because it won’t end well. It’s not that we behave badly. Weirdness just somehow attaches to us the moment a party is discussed.

Our hosting of parties tends to be a bit odd. Other than our wedding, which did have some vaguely strange aspects, our parties are generally set to some theme. We’ve had the Ass Party, to celebrate the donkey sculpture that was finished and ready to be collected (almost two years later, it’s still in our garden). There was the New Year, Take 2 Party, in which we decided that the new year had started off a bit crap so we declared a do over. One of our most recent parties was the Cheese Party, to mark British Cheese Week.

This was only a few hours into the party, too.

We don’t do the usual reasons for parties. Things like birthdays are generally spent out of the house. But every few months, we like to have a handful of people over. There’s always far too much booze and always enough food to feed the guests about 7 times over. It goes into the night and usually the next morning. For some reason, our bigger parties end somewhere around 5:30 am, no matter how many times I say beforehand that we’ll start earlier so that it can end at a reasonable time. I forget, time and time again, that there is no reason at our parties.

The Mclevey party quality isn’t limited to our own soirées, though. No, that would be too easy. If you invite us to your party, something will happen. There will be something that occurs at the party that will be more notable than anything either of us do, even if Adam breaks into his gas mask dance. There will be pink elephants in mucky streams.

I’d like to spin the Mclevey Party Effect (MPE) as something good, though. We bring people into conversations, lower the threshold of taste, and make your guests feel comfortable enough to talk about where to keep the alpaca or the best way to get a blowjob off a swan.

Somewhere in my head, I have this dream that I’ll eventually grow into a sophisticated bitch and be able to throw luxurious dinner parties that would make both Martha and Nigella weep in envy. Each party is thrown with grand designs, where we all sit around drinking paired wines and laughing at witty stories. In this same version of the world, our guests take notes about cheeses so they can ask their local cheesemonger for their favourites.

Instead, though, our guests feast, get severely drunk, and then stories get told. We recall accidental racism over the first course and by dessert, we’re passing around a gollywog doll. We talk about pets over hors d’oeuvres and at dessert we’re killing stick insects. We push things farther, farther, farther, until all the guests are bound by some sort of shared trauma, some deep emotional oppression.

At a later date, I’ll write about the related, but slightly different, wine days. And the days out. And how, if you want a quiet life, you should probably never meet us.

And never, ever challenge us to a YouTube DJ contest. We always win.

Advertisements

Tags: , , , ,

About jeninher30s

A writer and procrastinator.

3 responses to “Ain’t No Party Like a Mclevey Party ‘Cause a Mclevey Party is Just Fucking Weird”

  1. vivisunoriginal says :

    things happening at other people’s parties…like rearranging cutlery, changing ant powder to pant powder, spraying graffiti on doors but using Lynx rather than paint, getting banned from local pubs and acquiring random high chairs…I’ve partied Mclevey style, I bear the emotional scars to this day.

    • jeninher30s says :

      Just to clarify, the ant stuff was changed from ‘Ant Killer’ to ‘Panty Killer’. Get it right, Viv… Sheesh!

      And that high chair was donated to Romanian orphans. So that’s kinda like a good deed, right?

  2. vivisunoriginal says :

    As I typed it I knew that pant powder wasn’t right, but the kitchen is, what, 2 feet away from my desk and I really couldn’t be assed to walk all the way out there to look at the bottle – your readers will have got the gist.

%d bloggers like this: