Guide to understanding a London house party for the foreign party guest (or dealing with open drug testing by those dressed like they are going to solve a hipster mystery)

The world is full of people gathering in a room, around a fire or occupying the table of a restaurant (bar and/or pub depending on geographical location, time of day as well as alcoholic intake level of the persons involved). Now dear reader allow me to describe to you a gathering so uniform it becomes unique: The London England house party.

The specific location will vary but it will be owned/occupied by someone who is either not actually there or hard to identify because he is, to quote anyone at the party, you know “a friend of my friend’s roommate”. You will enter the apartment/loft/butcher shop with a mattress guided in by your friend who knows somebody who is leaning against a wall, a pillar or sitting gazing at a women from the midlands who works for a record label. Your friend had to guide you to the party because no house location can be is easily described to you within London city limits so he meets you at the tube station. (Note: make sure you specify which exit or you will be standing in the odd bitter England night being starred at by men with rapist eyes and women with champagne fog wafting from their barely covered by black faux leather dress skin.)

The ambience is established quickly by the soundtrack of Scottish happy hardcore, a 60's throwback iPhone playlist, or the red wine inspired loud chatter of a woman wearing a hat, or all of the above. You now have a choice; option #1 find your friend who quickly abandoned you to do drugs, get a tin of beer or attempt to fuck someone/something, or all of the above. Option #2 you talk to the other people who are attending the party so you can do drugs, get a tin of beer or attempt to fuck someone or something, or all of the above.

Let's say you are like me and think that being a social is the best policy. Well then allow me to introduce you to everyone you will ever meet by the stairs, in the kitchen and if you are really lucky by the bathtub. (It won't be in the toilet, it will be in the hall or something for absolutely no fucking reason.)

- There will be a man on drugs and by that I mean Tony Montana amounts of cocaine with a dash of red stripe so he has something to keep his body from jangling apart. He is not an individual but a variety of people that will be populating the party. He will be wearing an ensemble best described as "Black Keys impersonator" or perhaps he has matured to “Indiana Jones hugging a S&M Gimp”. He is fun to speak with briefly although the conversation will be focused mostly on his upper gums. He may or may not be dating a woman in attendance.

- This woman will be on pills. She works at a record label/television/movies/other cliché "cool" job that people on pills need to tell you about, (She is more than likely a waitress who owns a copy of “empire records.”) but if she is not dating the man on coke she is fun to hit on, and if she is dating the man on coke she is fun to listen too. No matter how vapid she appears in conversation out of you can drag some chatter about Johnny Cash and/or The pixies. There will be many of these girls and the more angelic their face the more likely they are a blogger with Dad’s credit card bank-rolling that jaunty vintage life she leads.

- A dog, not human dressed as a dog but a dog the ‘woof woof’ kind which either lives in the house or was asked in by the pill lady, or perchance used to smuggle in cocaine and pills spread around the party. I have no idea why every party in London has a pet dog but they do and he/she is fun to pet when things get to intense with the power couples mentioned above.

Which brings us to the next guest at the party…

- DRUGS he was invited by every guest (if the first two guests were any indication). He will be resting on a CD jewel case, which coincidently is how the compact disc industry is kept on life support currently. You do not need to engage him but he is why people find you interesting, insightful and lovely. He is also possibly why some people find you annoying, evil and a pillar of daunting black soul crushing flame. I am not much of a drug guy I prefer booze because it is easier to regulate for the first part of any evening and leads to a noble hangover, which leads to breakfast, which leads to Die Hard, which makes me think I am an adult. Drugs for me always leads to watching the sunrise which leads to getting the first tube train of the day which leads to a sense of shame and loathing which leads to a sweaty sleep that turns a mattress into a sponge which leads to a 7pm shower best described as the water park version of early Tom Waits.

-Then there is the fella who had too much red stripe. He will be wearing collared shirt. He will not know where his shoes are. He will grope a woman. He will breathe his liquid bread onto your cheeks in an attempt to tell you a fact. You will wish him dead. Give it time. His liver will take care of it. (Note: I love boozing and talking but we have been this person and they are horrendous because you know a liquid from their body is going somewhere and all you can do is hope it is a cab, not your shoe or as well as mouth.) He will be alone. This is not North America. Londoners hold their liquor and this fella is more cider than man. Seriously steer clear or you will have to see pictures of his daughter from his Blackberry.

-Cool dude with a job like photographer will also be in attendance. He will talk with you about life, love and a story about limousines or something. You will share secrets and gossip cultivated from your shared time at the party and you will think for a fleeting moment “I am gonna be pals with this guy FOREVER”. Now if you are just drinking (or for Americans "pounding brews bud, BEER PONG MOTHER FUCKER") like I always am at these parties your conversation with this person will fade out as he moves to his original tribe or snort drugs.

Now as it hits twenty minutes after you originally thought you would be leaving for home your friend who invited you to come will be found talking to women or talking to other friends. He will need cigarettes or beer or both. He will ask you if you are having a good time. You will tell him you are thinking of tracking down a night bus (for those of you who have never been to London they shut the tube at like midnight and you need to join the vomit comet of two tier red madness known as every bus on the streets of London while the phrase "no, I should have fucked her" is bounced of the moon by a thousand men with crew cuts and collared sweaters). Once this idea has escaped your lips you will leave. That is the perk of booze; the goal oriented sense a task takes once it hits your brain with a clang similar to a rat being smoked with a frying pan.

Now you want to leave. To feel the kiss of night air, to have a thought unaccompanied by an R&B base line, to maybe get a Kebab and to figure out which bus gets you in walking distance of your house. So do what I rarely do. Leave. Do not have another beer while your friend slaps you on the back saying you were right to stay. Go home sleep or you deserve to take the wrong night bus every god damn time, you none will powering ass!! (Note: totally talking to myself, you are great.)

*this last paragraph can be rendered nonexistent if the chance for some fun not “really sure of the name of the other person sex”. Stick it out ( or in, ba-zing) get to know that person and then take a cab (do not be the fucked up people making out on the aforementioned night bus. Those spit-ey assholes deserve an unwanted pregnancy) have fun orgasm-ing then figuring out if you want to eat breakfast with this person.

There you have it. Enjoy meeting these people. They will give stories involving a guy named Sasha. Just remember as unique as you think the experience is as crazy as the night seems we have been there before and you will survive. Unless you don’t, then your name gets to be in the paper.