Smacked bottom

I just had what was - by all accounts - the best house party in the history of all house parties.

There was a naked wrestling match between five of the male guests, who decided at 2am to take their clothes off and start throwing each other around my living room. One of the guests fell asleep in the spare room, only to be woken up by an Irishman who had thrown Betty on top and was attempting to surf her. Half way through, a few guests disappeared to the local bar where they got on stage for an impromptu musical performance, complete with guitar, and then came back with printed out photos to show everybody. Baba - when I turned up with a male friend to borrow a wine opener - was delighted that I had finally found a potential husband, and arrived ten minutes later at the party with a huge bottle of sho-chu and strict instructions that I was to go nowhere near my scooter. There was a misunderstanding between three friends, which resulted in a lot of drunken crying, the boys took turns putting on my scooter helmet and punching each other in the head, and the girls took turns rolling their eyes at the boys. There was a tickling contest; Billy the 2Pint Bong was brought out, and brand new lifelong friends and possibly soulmates were made. It was, according to reports, the most fun anyone had ever had, and nobody will ever have that fun again. Ever.

And I say according to reports, because sadly I wasn't there for any of it.

I was there in body, obviously. That was the whole point. I was throwing a party because I've been so wrapped up writing that I've seen nobody for weeks and weeks, and I needed - desperately - to let my hair down and see my friends. So I didn't just plan a party: I spent the day cleaning the house, buying ice, alcohol, crisps, rearranging furniture, borrowing futons and cushions, and purchasing a brand new lipstick. I scrubbed and scoured and decorated and set up fairy lights in the living room. I even cleaned the spare room, and I never clean the spare room. So determined, I was, to let my hair down and have fun - and so nervous, I was, about being around people after so long on my own - that as soon as Yuki turned up I cracked open the rum, and by the time the second guest arrived, I was drunk. By the time the third and fourth guests arrived I was hammered, and by the time Shin rocked up and forced me to drink almost 2 pints of rum and whiskey with a dash of coke from a Bong (which - for the sake of my grandparents - is a long tube with a funnel that forces alcohol down your throat at lightening speed, although as my grandad used to be a policeman he probably already knows this), I was explaining to Yuki that whenever I pee into a Japanese toilet I end up peeing on my right foot and attempting to faux-demonstrate behind the sofa.

And that was the end of the party for me. I vomited, fell asleep wrapped around the toilet - which I haven't done since University - and was carried to bed where I stayed, unconscious, for the rest of the night. Apparently I was involved in some of the wrestling, in that for about five minutes they moved it to the bedroom for my benefit and for a little while I was sleeping underneath it, and I have a vague, dreamlike memory of running to the toilet to vomit again and being aware that none of the boys were wearing any clothes, which seemed quite normal at the time (my friends like getting naked: I blame onsens). But other than that: my party ended at around 9.30pm. Everyone else's ended seven hours later.

"What happened?" I asked the two remaining stragglers when I woke up this morning.
"Best party ever," they said. "Seriously. You throw awesome parties, Holly."
"Oh you're kidding me," I snapped. "I threw an amazing party and then passed out for the whole thing?"
"If it helps, you woke up when we were wrestling on top of you, punched Shin in the face and then immediately passed out again. So at least you did it in style."
"Oh for God's sake. The whole point of having a party was for me to actually have a party. Not to prepare one, sleep through it and then clean it up afterwards."

This morning, when Baba turned up to help me carry my rubbish to the bin (grilling me the entire way about why I couldn't get a boyfriend), she asked me if I had had a fun time.
"Not really," I said. "I drank too much too quickly, vomited and fell asleep after an hour and a half." This I told her via the international language of a drinky drinky charade.
"Horrreee!" she cried. "You are very naughty!"

And then she whacked me hard on the bottom. Which is exactly what I deserve at the grand old age of 29 if I haven't learnt by now that you can't transform yourself from teetotal hermit to party-girl hostess in fifteen minutes flat without suffering repercussions.

It is now Sunday lunchtime, and all I have to show for all of my hard work on Saturday is a smacked bottom, a stonking hangover, a rearranged house, four bowls of stale popcorn and approximately 24 bottles of half drunk coke in my kitchen. Which means that I'm going to have to throw another party in March so that I can finally have some fun as well. During which I will be staying well away from hard spirits, naked boys, Shin and/or his Bong.

After all, it's all very well and good throwing the best parties in the world, but there isn't a lot of point if you spend the whole time in another one entirely.