The Covid Party.

I love to party. I can party like it was 1999. Like every day… well these days a bit less – maybe 4-6 times a year. But each time. Its epic. And if you are there, hang on tight. Because it’s what I do best – albeit increasingly briefly. The Romans could throw a party. They partied so hard they routinely had a vomitorium built into the house like a modern-day classy conservatory. You could eat, drink and be an absolute rascal, vomit and go again. The Romans. You have to admire commitment.  Greek Ethical hedonism is said to have been started by Aristippus of Cyrene, who held the idea that pleasure is the highest good. The Spartan’s always said it best. ‘I am Sparta’ – little did they know millennia later Gerard Butler fans from Oasis worshipping 90’s would be quoting that line after downing 13 Sambucca, 4 Tequila, 3.5 Aftershock and a quart of ‘MadDog 2020’. Heady times indeed. In retrospect the Romans were lightweights. They could never have had a quick snog after downing 13 Sambucca and kept it ‘romantic’ like. 

The consequences of the above were always wide and varied. Usually embarrassing, often painful, emotionally consuming… but always where memory allowed stories of life, love, loss and opportunity. For me the release was always more attractive than the act – the ability to lose yourself, to provide the excuse, to absorb your night into the pumping dance, the light, the crowd, the friendships, the anonymity and the crazy. If you could get it all right it provided the ability to lose the notion of care, embarrassment, blame, shame ... you could conquer anything. 

Covid brought new challenges to even the most courageous and carefree amongst us. Wave 1 was exciting, terrifying and exotic. We knew we were being driven home by a drunk driver but hoped that we would be safe, secure, wake up alive and well. Sadly, we all woke up in a ditch six weeks later feeling a bit cold, bloodied and sheepish. Wave 2 was even more shambolic; a little more destructive, immensely more confusing and a well of conspiracy rhetoric that would have drowned a whale with four blow holes and stolen gills.

Wave 3 however has brought the Tsunami of doubt to the remaining plausible masses. The madness has descended on the last bastions of sanity and resilience. The ‘final’ ultimate lockdown has produced a version of the Matrix which has eradiated the clapping, the Sir Tom cheering and sadness, the Zoom quizzes and the god-awful live singalongs. The ‘Groundhog Day’ of monotony is slowly grinding the most resilient of survivors down. We must remain ‘stoic’ my friends. This still isn’t the Blitz or Nam. 

And then. From the darkness. The former promise of the Roman Empire appears, led in by the harpsichord, melodic intro of Born Slippy; the dancefloor is heaving… darkness intersected by laser jets that dart and dot across the ceiling... smoke, energy, opportunity, Lynx Africa, laughter, bad dancing, rhythmic dancing … you walk towards the promised land and embrace. This day is coming. And at 46 I will be at the front. Glow sticks in hand. Heading to that dancefloor. For at least 14 excellent minutes legionnaires. But what a 14 minutes. 

PS. As long as no one plays Maniac 2000 we will be fine. Let’s restart gentle.