A party with poofs, designers, footballers… and me.

If I were to throw a party, the messy mix of friends I have mean it would go something like this:

The footballers would be looking at the designers thinking… what a bunch of stuck up poofs. The designers would be looking at the footballers thinking… what a bunch of common halfwits. The footballers would be looking at the actual poofs thinking… what a bunch of poofs. The poofs would be looking at the footballers thinking… oh, don’t hate us coz we’re poofs, be nice! The footballers would then beat the poofs up, after beating the poofs up, they would then proceed to get blind drunk, see how many times they could cheat on their girlfriends/wives, before participating in a gang rape (and laugh about it the next day at training). The designers/art history students would be standing back observing it all, so they could do an ironic, postmodern take on it while sipping a latte over brunch the next day. And I’d be standing there thinking… see, this is why I never throw parties.

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