The Birthday Party

Birthdays aren’t something I hold particularly significant, at least not compared to some other people. For many it’s a good excuse to have a party – or at least a celebration of some kind, even if it’s a small one. But I’m not really into doing that each year.

I am, at best, a reluctant host – as the vast majority of my friends who’ve never seen the inside (and many not even the outside) of the home I’ve lived in for just over two years can testify – because the idea of ‘entertaining’ scares the crap out of me. Admittedly, some of that is due to the fact it’s a small two-bedroom unit which would struggle to fit as many as ten in the dining/lounge area - and that’s if I moved stuff around; there’s also the fact that it’s a bit shabby; and, finally, I just find that having people in my place makes me really uncomfortable.

Don’t ask me to explain why; I’ve got no idea. Just add it to the (long) list of things listed under the heading ‘things Jamie is weird about’.

Thinking about it, I don’t believe that, even when I lived in a share house of reasonable size (and I’ve lived in several) that would suit a party – at two houses in particular, Norwood and Payneham, we had plenty – I ever had people over for birthday drinks. The last time I can distinctly remember a party at my own place was at about age 15.

18

Anyway, there have been a few significant birthday hootenannies over the years. First was my 18th; I was still living in Bowen, so I went on a pub crawl with a few friends to celebrate. But it would be a few years before I did anything of significance to mark the passing of the year.

21

My 21st, typically a big event these days, was anything but for me. After I’d finished school we’d moved from Bowen to the Sunshine Coast where I didn’t know anyone and, because I was going to uni in Townsville, didn’t have any way of meeting anyone. As a result, my 21st was a How To Host A Murder dinner with my family. Yeah, it was okay – but not exactly spectacular.

22

My friends decided that, because I didn’t get a proper 21st, we’d have to do something special for my 22nd. I ended up staying in Townsville for the holidays, rather than going back to Maroochydore, and we had a huge bash at the house five of them shared.

It was a very big night indeed, at least for me. I got very drunk – we played ‘goon lotto’, aka ‘goon of fortune’ where the bladder from a wine cask is taped to a Hills Hoist clothesline and everyone stands in a circle and spins the cask. Whoever it stops in front of has to drink. I got unusually lucky and ‘won’ a disproportionate number of times.

What I didn’t realise, in my drunken naïvety, was that it was rigged – and by ‘rigged’ I mean someone out of my line of sight was grabbing it and making it stop in front of me. But hey, I was getting drunk so it’s not like I minded. Back to the action.

I also got very stoned, since the first of the gifts I got was marijuana. Unfortunately, as I learned later, getting drunk and stoned at the same time isn’t necessarily a good idea. But more on that later.

So, quite stoned. This is when it seemed like a good idea to bring out my big present – what I thought was a cake. And no, I wasn’t so stoned I’d lost the ability to tell cake from not-cake; it was big, covered in icing and adorned with 22 (I assume) candles.

‘Blow out the candles!’ was the cry. I complied, and blew them out. They lit back up again – since they were the relighting kind. I blew them out again, laughing. They lit back up again. I laughed some more – remember, I was quite stoned at this point – and blew them out again. I didn’t want to stop. I was having far too much fun with the candles to actually bother cutting the ‘cake’. It took someone to yell something helpful at me – ‘just cut the fucking cake!’ – before I did.

Let this be a lesson to you all – as funny as relighting candles are, they aren’t suitable for stoned people.

Anyway, I cut into the ‘cake’, which – despite being covered in icing and topped with candles – turned out to be a box. A very special kind of box from Ireland, St. James Gate in Dublin, to be precise; home of the Guinness brewery. Aware of my (at the time) fondness for the blackest of the black, had bought me a carton of draught stubbies.

I was very happy. They did make me chug one, which – if you’ve ever drunk Guinness you’ll know – not an easy feat. But I got it down and held it down. Well, for a few minutes at least. I did have a fairly spectacular power hurl not long afterwards. But I didn’t let that stop me.

I don’t remember much else, though there is one incident that stuck in my head; my friend and future flatmate Kristy waving a cigarette lighter around chanting ‘We want Chilly Willy’ a la Barney Gumble in that episode of The Simpsons where Moe is trying to convince the Red Hot Chili Peppers to play at his bar. There’s even a photo of this. I’m lying on the ground and my face is purple – literally, purple – from laughing so much.

Drugs are bad, kids. Trust me. Sometime later I passed out - in a beanbag. I think everyone else continued on and had a good night. I know I did.

30

It would be another eight years – and a move interstate - before I’d attempt another big birthday celebration.

But, six years later, I can’t remember what exactly prompted me to do it. I suspect it might have had something to do with the significance of the age I was turning – 30 seems to be getting more popular as a ‘landmark’ age to reach – and perhaps some pressure from people around me as well.

Anyway, I chose the Brecknock hotel in the city – possibly because they have Guinness on tap; I was still drinking it back then – and told everyone to show up at 8pm.

Now, one of the more interesting things that differentiate South Australians (at least the ones I’ve met) from Queenslanders (at least the ones I was raised around) is that the latter will generally arrive at a function close to the time it’s supposed to begin. South Australians, on the other hand, don’t tend to be as punctual. So, when no-one had shown up at 8.45, I was getting quite annoyed – I was there by my bloody self. But eventually people showed up, so it was okay.

Quite a lot of people, actually – certainly more than I’d expected. But there wasn’t anything especially notable about the night, other than the fact I had an excellent time – oh, and I got some cool stuff, including a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and (continuing along the same them) an awesome Harry Potter pencil case.

36

Last year it occurred to me that I hadn’t had a birthday party in a while – for starters, the last few years my birthday had always coincided with a theatre production - so I was just getting my head around the idea when my friends Dan and Amy decided they’d get engaged and announced they’d be having the engagement party on the closest weekend to my birthday. And that was enough for me to decide not to do anything.

This year I had no such excuse. It was time for a party.

And party we did, at the Maylands hotel – the nearest pub to my place - at which I’d booked a room a couple of months back. I went to dinner with some people from work first and then we moved into the function room I’d hired to await everyone else – I’d learned my lesson from my thirtieth and made sure I wasn’t waiting on my own – and had a few glasses of the complimentary champagne.

People showed up, which was good. A few people (who shall remain nameless) didn’t for a range of reasons, which was a bit disappointing, but that’s the way it goes, I guess.

Over the course of the evening I got very drunk. So drunk that there are sizable segments of the night I don’t remember at all, and others that I only recall only vaguely. It may well be better for all involved if those gaps remain; I have little doubt they contain things that I’m better off not knowing.

Because, while I don’t change much from my sober self when I’ve only had a bit to drink, when I’ve had a lot to drink I get a little, um, silly – for want of a better word. Silly in a sentimental, blabbering kind of way. Which can come as a bit of shock for people who’ve never seen me in that state before – since it’s a far cry from what I’m like the rest of the time.

But, from all accounts, I had a good time. And so did everyone else. The party wasn’t the end of the night for me, though; I went to another pub for a while and then into town for some bad drunk dancing. I was still in a good mood when I got home so I sent a (surprisingly coherent) Facebook message before dragging myself to bed; the timestamp indicates that was at 3.30 Sunday morning.

Next morning I wasn’t so great, which was a problem ‘cause I had the first rehearsal, the read-through, of a show (Arsenic and Old Lace) later that afternoon. But a couple of mugs of strong tea, some Vegemite on toast got me on the road to recovery, and a trip to Hungry Jack’s for some medicinally greasy fast food took me a step further toward normality.

I had a good time, and - despite my asking people not to bother - some cool gifts. We didn’t trash the place and, as far as I can tell, I didn’t manage to insult or offend anyone. I call that a success.

40?

I imagine that, since 40 is one of those ‘big’ numbers I’ll be doing something big for that, too. No idea what, exactly – but at least I’ve got a few years to plan.