Three Weeks in '98: Whitey!!!!

I’ve realised that out of these three weeks I said I’d write about from time to time I have only told two stories from one night out of the twenty-one.

Before I get into it I have to say that Titch, the unabashed anti-hero of my last (epic) tale, also features prominently here and I can only apologise to him that I’m tarnishing his good name.

It was one week following the terror which had quickly ebbed into hilarity of Titch’s rampage and it was another party. It was a quieter night this time with roughly only fifteen to twenty people there, just some of my closest friends at the time and some pretty girls that most of us barley knew.

It was about midway through the night, possibly about 11 o’clock when I was sitting on the floor with my back against the couch talking to Jim and Elaine who were sitting on it. The side of the couch faces the door to the living room and looks out on the stairs. All three of us looked sharply towards the direction of the stairs when we heard a stumble from the top hall which was soon followed by the blur of someone falling down them at great speed.

Sober as I was and always am I was able to refrain from the racks of laughter that seized Jim and Elaine and ran out to the hall to see if whoever it was that had fell was okay. Titch was struggling to his feet when I got out, the level of alcohol that caused his fall had also spared him from any pain from it, and so he was okay. However, although he was physically intact it seems the sudden fall must have caused an odd turn in his stomach. He threw up in an exorcist fashion where he stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Now I don’t really mind sick, being the only non drinker in a crowed full of heavies I’ve cleaned up more than my fair share, and I certainly could appreciate that the guy had just fallen down a flight of stairs, so I honestly didn’t mind. See I’d left my shoes at the back door.

Perhaps it was revenge from the previous week because it was as if he had been aiming for them. At least one of every pair of the shoes that my guests had kindly left at the front door was hit. Some a little bit, some not so little. I’m not sure if it were any consolation to anyone but the shoes that had been hit worst by Titch’s spray were his own. They were the only trainers that the vomit had gone inside and they were made from material rather than shoe leather.

Now that I think about it, David’s shoes must have been alright too given that he had disappeared a few hours earlier to get something from the shops and would not return for quite a while yet. But that’s another story…