Crossing time zones from Cowley, where plans form slowly, we arrived at a fashionable 1am. Despite being invited, we were greeted on the drive of this ridiculously extravagant yard (turret and all) by a defensive formation of party goers, a human wall uniting to obstruct this threatening pack of gatecrashing, prospective heirloom pilferers.
When my compadres tried to explain that they had been friends with the birthday girl for 2 years, it was met with scepticism and someone called me a prick. Then mum, auntie and grandma burst out the front door, demanding we leave their property, assuring us it was winding down. With no pitch fork to hand, grandma even aggressively prodded my oriental brethrin; their tone softened when we were comfortably off their estate.
We retired to a bus stop a bit up the road, having remained completely friendly, polite and respectful, despite being pretty upset with the situation. Muhammad had left his phone in the taxi on the pricey journey there, so we waited for its return, drinking to the injustice of it all, occasionally being eyed like loitering reprobates by those peering from the battlements.
Then a while later some coked out self-righteous, vanilla-quaffed, holiday-challet-in-the-alps-inheriting-motherfucker from earlier, marches out, set on ridding his town of this menace. Oozing smugness and deluded heroism, he tells us to clear off, gradually getting more aggressive and rude, as we civilly explain we are just waiting here as it’s a seat.
His rants upgrade to threats, and we spent 15-20 minutes, calmly attempting to persuade this fucking fool to go inside while he simply insisted upon fighting us, goading us with laughable hockey-honed trash talk; when, if not for our jolly, peaceful dispositions, any one of us could have crumbled the oaf like a cube of feta. If we were the people he seemed to assume we were, then we’d have collectively stomped him out immediately. HESNOTWURFITHESNOTWURFITHESNOTWURFIT
Next, with a move clearly passed down from generation to generation, he poked me in the left tit. Now I oppose fighting (bar drunken friend on friend scuffles), but he provoked me to such a ridiculously degree, that I could stand for it no more. So I gently placed down my trusty cider and hit him square in the motherfucking facebook presence, with a painfully lengthy, scathing status 5 days later.
The schmuck then swings for Mr Lai, who circles him like a raging chimpanzee, raining down grizzly tupples and impossible kicks with stereotypical precision. Bodying the pumplex in the name of justice; cackling manically on the few occasions the strand of coriander landed a hit. Lai then wrestles him to the floor, then the same fucking relatives run out the house screaming at him like he’s some vile, predatory hoodlum. We separate them and once again, in vain, attempt well-mannered explanations.
Then to top it off, a trio of wobbly, tear-soaked scrundys charge out (including the birthday girl who earlier didn’t even pop out for a brief apologetic explanation), squealing “Hoooowwwuuuhhh could yooouuu!” in fluent ignorant-drunk-bitch. That pathetic fassy clearly having spun some yarn of his courage to the party to cover up that he got straight honourably bodied.
As a middle class white guy, I was kind of enjoying the novelty of experiencing some bona fide prejudice, albeit second hand. With a look to my chocolatey accomplices, it was clear to see they weren’t.
Prejudice breeds prejudice. Although we are taught to keep our heads held high and our other cheeks turned, I’m ashamed to say that tired of the unfruitful, pacifistic approach, the next group of white folks that left the party, I flayed with a torrent of racial abuse with all the venom of a seasoned bigot.
“Crackerjack motherfuckers! Fucking jive-ass pasty motherfuckers! Fucking halloumi guzzling, gora ben chort, honky bitches! Honky-ass snowflake jive turkeys! Fucking semi-skimmed motherfuckers!”
They scurried away, eyes on the pavement. The party went on inside, and we got a dear taxi home, all feeling a little sad. I wanted to get this shit seen by as many people as possible, as the thought of them discussing events from their warped perspective on their lofty fucking turret between nibbles of focaccia was too much to bare.
Man, I love white people, but I hate crackers.