Image by cliff1066 via Flickr

There’s an old line, oft repeated, that goes ‘it looked better on paper’. You’ve got to admire the brass balls of someone who, in the face of the most horrendous f**k up, admits to an element of planning.
Myself, I’m too impulsive to let something like preparation lead to catastrophe. I prefer just to stroll straight on in with my head held high…

Several weeks ago, I received an invite to a fancy dress party. The theme was Pirates and Princesses, narrowing my potential outfits down somewhat as I don’t have the calves or ankles to pull off a pink tutu.
Those who belonged to the aforementioned planning school would have had a field day with their anal little lists; written neatly on a piece of paper to be adhered to the fridge by means of a comedy magnet - perhaps one which suggests ‘dull women have clean houses’ – it would read:

1. Visit fancy dress hire shop
2. Hire pirate/princess costume
3. Attend party

That, I fear, would have been too simple. Myself, I conjured up an image of a pirate – Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, a film which I have seen more times than I care to admit to (once) – and decided that I could rummage the necessary items together from around the house. This I duly did approximately twenty three minutes before the party was due to start.

It’s another universal truth that along with things looking better on paper, they often look better in your head. My costume would, I imagined, be the epitome of accuracy; a splendid recreation of Johnny Depp’s flamboyant attire. I found an old leather overcoat; a white silken shirt and a thick fabric belt. A raggy waistcoat; tight jeans and a pair of Wellington boots. I embellished this with a pair of clip on earrings, some eyeliner and a hastily concocted paper hat. In my head, Keira Knightly would not have been able to tell us apart; in the mirror, I looked like a mildly dangerous hobo.

Six minutes before the party is due to start and you really just have to run with it…and run with it I did. You see, careful planning would have led to booking a taxi. I, in my infinite wisdom, decided to take the bus. Have you ever tried to board a bus looking like a tramp and carrying two four packs of Strongbow in your hands; squinting from the unfamiliar sting of mascara as it streaks down your face in the rain?

A two mile walk and I arrived; spectacularly late, even by my low standards of punctuality. Not wanting to appear ungrateful to the hosts, I threw myself into the festivities, keen to be the life and soul of the party. Themed games had been arranged, and I endeavoured to win every single one as I made my way through the buffet like a hurricane through a Texan trailer park. Though I looked like a pirate, I drank like a fish and swore like a trooper; bobbing for apples and fighting my way around the room with my cardboard cutlass.

Later a friend took me to one side and asked me in no uncertain terms to leave. In my cider fuelled haze, I hadn’t really noticed that I was the only one drinking.
My antics – surely boisterous at best – had been deemed offensive and unsettling.
Waving the plank around I had, apparently, scared some of the other guests. Several had burst into tears, and at least one had wet themselves.

Such is the chaos that ensues at a one year olds birthday party.

Apparently, the fancy dress had only been for the children too.

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