New Year’s Revenge

Posted: January 4, 2014 in Chawn

new year's revenge


This is weird.


It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m not in the Isle of Wight.


The Isle of Wight is the dreamland of new years eves, but I’m at The Maynard. So I’m having a party! And I’ve invited over a hundred people! It will be fun. Like toast. Like really good toast. With that bread they sell in Chipman.


Chipman is in New Brunswick.


New Brunswick is in Canada.


Canada is America’s Scotland. Or its’ hat.


I’ve never had a party before. It’s daunting! I’ve seen them on TV. A good party needs lots of hot people and vampires holding red plastic cups, snogging, throwing up and breaking stuff. My friends are pretty hot, but have already done all the getting off that’s goingto get off. My house is quite old, so I do hope it can cope. It’s survived 4 years of me, so probably deserves a medal. Or a hospital wing named after it. Or a left winger. Or a chicken wing!


Big Boots has arrived home early and is unscrewing living room doors so the action can flow like blood from a stabbed aorta making Phil faint in that Year 10 science lesson. We’ve borrowed lights and a smoke monster from Sneaky Pete and filled the dancingroom with balloons. It’s a 9m² disco stadium!


And soon the house is ready.


I put on my hat.



7:30 arrives and the love oozes! Big Boots’ sister Rutheo brings massive pizzas and various folk ooze in and out including former housemate Radeparty, Phil and Steph, World Renowned (but not for his cooking skills) Chef Dave, Truckle-Bed, and Man Of The Hour Colin. Hilariously, Roger doesn’t come. The guy whose house it is. And who Facebooked all the invitations. He’s with friends in Wolverhampton. Which is disgusting. I would never have friends there.



Finally the guests shimmy away, grooving fabulously down country lanes and glaring seductively at strangers and trees. Big Boots and I creep upstairs and leave the house in a state of shock. The Maynard has been Tangoed.


And it knows it.



I wake up the next I-can’t-believe-it’s-morning and roll through the house. It wants to groan, but is old, and old people never moan. Big Boots gives the Xbox360 an alka-seltzer while I set about eating leftovers.





A couple of days go by. The house has been quiet. Almost like it’s deliberately ignoring us. I decide that I am being silly, and decide to eat some more leftovers. Big Boots is fixing the doors back on when his Kosovan accent makes my ears twinge.


Hey Dan, have you seen this? The random wooden border that runs half-way up the wall has come off.”




The house is hurt. And it knows it, but I am too busy listening to free radio on the Xbox360 to care. Suddenly prodigal partier Roger enters the room.


Are we still up for going for a cider tonight then, dear boy?”


Yeah, sure. Big Boots, what time do you want to go?”


Big Boots is in the front room pumping iron. Or ironing his pumps. I don’t know, I’m not really listening.


“Fifteen minutes then, Dan.”


I run upstairs to do some emergency bathrooming.



I come out of the bathroom. And decide to take another look at Big Boots’ refitting job. I find the door, and am impressed. It looks adoorable. I wonder how it’ll look from the other side. I grab the knob, and twist.


It doesn’t move.




I try again. Harder, as the door rejects me to my face. Which is fine, for girls have made me immune to rejection.


“Something must be blocking it, Dan.”


I decide to try pushing the top of the door open, which doesn’t work, and causes a large crack in the door. Big Boots emerges with one of those over-the-radiator clothes-dryer things and jams it in the tiny not-crack-hole we can create, but it fails. I sigh. And watch Big Boots whip out his toolkit. Suddenly we are men!


Men who can’t unlock a door.


Big Boots hacks at it while I stand aside helpfully. This is definitely going to work. Roger waggles his fingers.


Why don’t we just go in through the patio doors?”


Oh. Yes. Yes, that would make sense. Except that Big Boots spent a whole evening gaffa taping those doors up the last time we needed confidentiality while I stood aside helpfully. I look at Big Boots. Could it really have come down to this? Breaking into our own house? Roger looks into the distance and says a word. A single word.




Oh… Oh heck no!!!!! Frasier is in the living room! My Christmas present! Eleven series of pure class! It’s…. inaccessible…..! The three of us share of moment of shared thought.


Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”


I’m not.


We go to the pub.



A couple of hours later, we return with reduced doughnuts. Ready for war. Roger bring the spare keys. Big Boots brings a torch. I stand aside helpfully. We look through the window at the gaffa. And sigh.


3… 2… 1… Let’s do it!”


I unlock the patio door, grab the knob, and twist. It squeezes open just enough for me to squeeze inside. I find Frasier, helplessly cowering on the DVD shelf.




Big Boots and Roger run in, before scanning the door.


That border.


Sticking out and blocking the door by less than half a centimetre.




I push the wood out of the way. And hear something.




It’s the house! Getting it’s own back! How dare we not attend to its’ hurts for so many days! I smile, and grab a leftover chicken wing to name after the house as Roger sticks on some Frasier.


We smile, and eat reduced doughnuts.


Happy new year.


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