Give me a P

A P party in Sydney is quite different to one in NZ, which I imagine is illegal and much less fun. However, a P party over here is also fraught with difficulty, namely, what the phuck to go as? I refuse to hire costumes because it's lame. You can hire parts of costumes, yes, but not the whole thing. That means you're lazy. It also means you can't fall over, trash it, lose part of it or give it away.

For this particular party I dismissed the obvious, going as myself, realised my bank account said I couldn't purchase much in the way of accessories and then realised that with ten of us going, we could probably manage a posse of something. Pirates, as it transpired. Which, I grant you, could sound a bit old hat, a bit so 1998. So we had to throw in another P. Pregnant for the ladies, proctology for the chaps. Because we just happen to have a suitable amount of small cushions and vet rectal gloves lying around the house. A smear of marmite for the gloves, an extra plump to the pillows and we were off. Accompanied by the usual German porn star. There's always one.

As always at such parties there are the people who cannot think outside the square and the women who feel the need to wear as little as possible. I'm sure you could add pirates to that, except we were all up the duff and wearing tights to support said ... duff? So the usual assortment of playboy bunnies, prostitutes, police officers and so on. What became alarmingly apparent quite early on was that apparently a posse of pregant or proctologist pirates was just a few too many p words for the average punter. Consequently most just assumed that we were in fact pregnant or proctologists who had come dressed as pirates. Not even the sight of Ann and I necking back rum stopped some believers. Or the fact Nic is quite clearly not responsible enough to be allowed to wear rectal gloves for any occasion other than a dress up party.

At any rate, eventually people braved the bellies and enquired after our health. I'm not sure I should have lifted my dress to show them my tights straining to contain my cushion but it made for a good photo.

Regret of the night - not convincing the two ladies dressed as Pocahontas to fight it out for number one. Pochahontas A was far, far sexier than the Pochahontas B. Definitely a reason to fight to the pelt knickers.

Important to note - I look quite dashing with a moustache. Maybe I should have given my belly one as well.

Lockjaw

I appear to have been clenching my teeth a great deal in the last 12 hours - in my sleep no less - because today I have quite the sore jaw. The more filthy among you will leap to the first dirt-ridden conclusion and assume I had one hell of a good night. Or my bed partner did at least. WRONG, mofos. I have no bed partner. This is very sad, obviously but right now we're focusing on the fact that I have a sore jaw for no good reason.

I suspect I was clenching my teeth at having had my previous bed partner of one week, the lovely Jody, taken away from me by ... AirNZ. Admittedly, Jody doesn't put out but in her week with me she did cook, clean, snigger, provide port and cheese and discuss her favourite Gary Larson cartoons so she's pretty much perfect.
Apart from the no putting out bit.

I have not yet watched any of the World Cup. My workmates are flummoxed by my blatant lack of patriotism. I, in turn, am flummoxed by the fact I don't want chocolate this morning.