Party food

SOME people have a knack of being invited to the big events. Take Marc, who is so fed up that he hasn't got a nickname on this blog that I shall now be referring to him as the Fabulous Baker Boy. Sitting in The Yard last night at the reconvened meeting of the Wednesday Club, the Fabulous one announced he was not partaking of alcohol on the basis he was off to a party.
We were all stunned at this news. Why hadn't he shared the wealth, looked after his mates and got us invited to the glitzy affair?
Becks chimed up: "Where is this soiree then?"
The Fabulous one was extremely coy before finally admitting: "It's in Habitat."
"What, Habitat the shop?"
"Yes, Habitat the shop."
"Habitat the shop are throwing a party?" Withers looked incredulous.
"Yes, and I am told that if I turn up I might be able to buy the mirror I want."
Of course, none of us believed a word of this, expecting said party to be another Men dressed as Ladies night at the boozer around the corner.
Then the Fabulous BB produced the invite. It was actually a children's party. Curiouser and curiouser.
So the Fab BB was going to stand around eating jelly and ice cream and lots of jammy donuts. What would they do afterwards, we pondered? Play a game of pass-the-Anglepoise-lamp or pin the tail on the Customer Services Manager? Intriguing.
Becks, though, didn't see the funny side. He wanted in on the action.
"I need a quilt. I've got one from Next and another from Habitat but I desperately need a new quilt cover. If I come along do you think I might be able to get in."
Now gatecrashing a party in Habitat does sound a bit risque, not to mention damn silly really.
Without an invite, though, Becks wasn't sure he could pull off the daring adventure.
"Well, if you see a quilt cover can you get me one - in brown - particularly if they are offering them at a special discount to partygoers?" he asked of the Fab BB.
Silence, was the stern reply. I've yet to hear the full story of the Habitat shindig. I'll keep you posted.

Withers, meanwhile, has taken to whistling the tune of the early 80s sitcom Shelley. It came about after Nathan explained that he was trying to obtain an interview with star-of-the-show Hywel Bennett. It prompted me to tell the story of the night myself and my former sidekick Lewis carried out our own version of the Spying Game by tracking the Welsh actor around the seedier pubs and clubs in Cardiff.
We ended up having a rather surreal evening chatting to the impressario in Kiwis, while he declared his desperate need for female company, though in far more crude terms.
At one stage I admitted to Mr Bennett that, while living in Stoke, I was given the nickname Shelley. Apparently, when I owned hair, I looked very much like the work-shy layabout.
Withers insisted on scanning the internet to find a picture of Shelley and agreed that the resemblance was uncanny. There followed an afternoon of inane theme-tune whistling from the Withered one until Rosey suggested he might find it difficult to whistle without teeth.
Glad to say, the Roger Whitaker impression have since ceased.