A French in Glasgow. Party 1/3

If you’re French and end up in Glasgow, at some point in your journey, you will end up in parties, some will be horrible, you’ll just be bored out of your face but for some reason you won’t move, find an other rat ( that’s how I call them, because they sit in a corner with a face that inspire pity and a tendency for self-destruction.) and stay with this last one.
Some parties will be the best memories of your life, so good that you will think to yourself as you see your dad :” How the fuck do I come from your balls?”

 You will also stare the tummy of your mum picturing yourself when you were in it thinking: “Something went wrong in here…”

Parties can be sometime a long and draining process because before you have to GET TO the party.
It’s the most tricky part, basically no-one knows but everyone knows. You have to pick your good partner in crime for this part, that’s why the get-to-the-party-thinking-process usually starts at 2:45 am for the normal human being.
At this point, you usually remember that you told yourself and your friends in a pseudo-convincing way that tonight is just going to be a quiet one. It’s now 3 am, you’re out of your tits and you keep shouting: ”Taps aff!  Tits oot!” as if it’s the end of the world.

But let’s not forget the point of this text, I’m not going to describe you the average night out, no no, but the night through the eyes of a French man who let’s face it,  is very French…
Let’s pretend that we managed to find out where the party is after a good half hour. After having at least ten people spitting in your face asking: “Fucking Frenchyyyy!!! What ye up tae?” I was tempted to answer many times:  Sorry i only speak French and English, maybe if you write your sentence on a piece of paper I could ask the big issue guy to translate it for me.
 Instead I would say with nonchalance that I had no idea what I would do next, even  if I knew, or shall I say especially if I knew! Only because looking at a drunk feeling lonely in front of a club can be the highlight of my night.

 Here comes my favorite part, the waiting is killing you, you’re in front of a flat, with a bunch of people. I don’t like most of them, but of course they love me (Because I’m a FROG!!!).  I had to use those people to get a taxi because I have the power to always be skint. Never underestimate people you don’t like. May as well put them in your pocket instead of putting them on your back, could be the philosophy of the day. Do I sound like a cunt?
But it’s also important to have enemies, it builds your charisma when you’re in a party, and say how much you hate the way they dress and that they got fat. I do sound like a cunt.

So we start walking to the top floor, because yes, most parties are at the top floor (it seems to be a curse).  It’s the same feeling as Christmas, you’re excited, you’ve lost patience and you will know in a matter of seconds if Santa came by or if you actually became Jew whilst walking up the stairs, therefore Hanukkah came by, so no present.

If you’re lucky, you’ll know the host, if not, do like me. Put on your nice face, very easy thing to do. You have to pretend that you’re a children again, instantly, your gaze will be more naïve looking, and very endearing because you’ll start looking at things as if it’s the first time that you’ve seen it.
The door handle will suddenly be fascinating, and the lack of harmony of your friend’s moustache will become obvious.  It works every time, if you push this technique too far, you might look drunk or fucked, so be subtle.
The door is now opening…


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