You know how it is, a couple of drinks and your curiosity sneaks up on you and strikes you on the back of the head with a swift and stout "I wonder what's going on at that party? How does it differ from this party?".
Well my friends, the self same thing happened to me only last night. I was helping a friend of mine to celebrate her birthday by demolishing a few bowls of punch. At some hour of the night, we noticed a bit of a gathering occurring at a house that backed onto her garden. They were playing shit music, so I decided to go and see just how shit a group of people they were. It turns out that they were very, very shit...
As I scaled the fence and crawled across the roof of their shed, I was feeling good. Like a flaming Commando. A flaming booze Commando, with a secret mission to execute a daring raid on these mysterious creatures. Well, not a raid as such, because I had bought my own beer and ciggies, and wanted for nothing but to fulfil my own curiosity. Which I did.
I dropped down from the other side of the garage and sauntered around the corner, introduced myself, explaining that they need not be alarmed as I was merely there to see what was happening. I was offered a seat, which I accepted, and got chatting to a chap from England. He was a chef, and quite a nice chap. There was a big Scottish chap sitting opposite me. He was an absolute cunt.
Time wore on, and their company was starting to grate on me. Mine on them also, I should imagine. So I sent a text to my friend to let her know that I was about to jump back over the fence and I would see everybody shortly. I made my excuses and was about to ascend the shed that led to the fence, when I realised that I was no longer in possession of my telephone. So I turned around and asked if anyone had seen it, and if somebody could possibly call it so I might hear it. It went straight to voicemail, which was strange as I had sent a text from it not two minutes before. At this point the big Scottish bastard flew into a rage, threatening me with all sorts of mistreatment and unpleasantries. He then threw me out the back gate and left me stranded in an alley, lost without my phone.
As you may well remember, I had not arrived at this party in the conventional manner. So to be faced with such a conventional method of departure threw me more than a little. I wandered down the hedged lane, trying to, firstly, piece together exactly where I was and where my friend lived in relation and, secondly, trying to piece together exactly what had just happened.
I eventually came to the conclusion that I had found the correct house by a devious method that I like to call trial and error. My friend met me at the door and I told my sorry tale. By this point it was evident that I had been robbed. The thought did cross my mind that I may simply have dropped the phone, but this didn't explain the staunch reaction from the party, or why it had gone straight to voicemail when called. So I decided to telephone the authorities and explain my situation to them.
Ben, the gentleman to whom I spoke at the switchboard, informed me that a Police car was on it's way to my friend's house, and could I wait outside to hail them. So I did. After about 10 minutes, a Police car arrived, and I could see three figures inside. And there was an unmarked car following them. Now, I was the first person to think that this show of force was perhaps a little unwarranted, but this is New Zealand, and I am but a foreigner, and therefore it is far from my place to start questioning the Authorities on their protocol and procedure. I arose from my perch on the wall and went to greet the officers in the marked car.
As the doors opened, I was greeted by a blinding influx of incandescence, a young lady with a clipboard and two police officers. It took me something of a while to process all of this new information, but I eventually came to the solid conclusion that I was about to make my television debut on some sort of fly on the wall police documentary.
I asked if the camera crew were really necessary, to which I received no reply from the officers; they merely delved in to the case at hand. So I began to narrate the very same story of which I have just told you, along with the very distinguishing features that my phone possesses, along with my particulars. Including my phone number. Who says that officers of the law have no sense of humour?
Particulars in hand, the officers and the film crew went to find the house and investigate my claim. Truth be known, I wasn't feeling too confident about being reunited with my property, but it was a matter of principal now. The manner with which I had been dealt was unsavoury to me, and by the power of my balls, justice would be served.
Lo and behold, the Police (camera man in tow) came back up the alleyway. One officer approached me and, with something of a flourish, produced my beloved telephone. I was amazed. He informed me that they had found it by a fence, and I am intrigued to find out where exactly, but I'll have to wait until Police 10-7 is aired in due course to find out.
So maybe I had just dropped it after all, but my friend's neighbours are definitely an inexcusably useless shower of shits.
THE BOTTOM LINE
STAY WITH YOUR FRIENDS AT YOUR OWN PARTY. THE NEIGHBOURS ARE PROBABLY WANKERS
