(03) 9020 2905Parties seem to be what life is about. The rest of our lives seem to just be filling in time between them.
In our modern lifestyle, the more parties you attend, the more popular you may assume you are. By that measure, Mrs DebtMan must be one of the most popular people on the planet.
As her party accessory, I share in her reflected popularity. After all, if I was a party pooper, people would stop inviting her, surely.
We’ve just had a big birthday bash around our place. But it wasn’t the 4am sort, where police knock on the door every hour from midnight and where United Nations-style diplomacy is required for a year with the neighbours.
No, nothing like my 40th. DebtGirl turned three.
Among the pink helium-filled balloons, pink cup cakes, pink-iced chocolate cake, pink Dora the Explorer birthday cards, pink present wrapping and a treasure hunt (strawberry/pink Freddos), was pass-the-parcel.
That’s where the little cuties hold on to the parcel for as long as possible, in the hope the music man will hit “off” and they’ll get to rip off the last piece of paper to display the lolly bag. A year’s worth of sugary sweets will then be consumed in just under 16 seconds.
On top of all the nutritionless crud served at most children’s parties (including ours), the pass-the-parcel winner will, like a heroin-addict going cold turkey, hit the wall in a screaming, tantrum-chucking hissy fit on a candy crash right about dinner time. Pity those parents.
There was no time between DebtGirl’s little friends leaving, the sitter arriving and Mrs DebtMan and I heading out for a 40th.
But, in taking on the responsibilities of children, most parents learn to, largely, behave and to not make a complete goose of ourselves.
It would seem we’re nearly at the end of another party, possibly the biggest party since Woodstock, whose 42nd anniversary was this month. According to the recent stock market turmoil, it must be 3am at least for the Monster Global Debt Party (sounds a bit like a rave).
The staggering, the swearing, the slurring nonsensical arguments …
It’s showing signs of coming to a nasty conclusion. People you thought had gone home ages ago suddenly reappear, having expelled their insides on your garden, to embarrass themselves a little more.
There were people who got drunk early and were escorted out the door before 11pm. The first one to puke and be put in a taxi was Iceland (the 16-year-old dipping into the punch while no-one was looking).
Lehman Brothers did a Bon Scott. Ford, Chrysler and General Motors were on their knees outside in the bushes.
My Greek friends say their countrymen believe etiquette is other people. Their place at Debt Party was to show up early, not help with anything, “borrow” everyone else’s booze, steal the comfy sofas when people go to the toilet, then demand others bring them cocktails so they don’t have to move.
They knew it was BYO, but they decided to run a tab, even though they didn’t bring their wallets. If you want them to go the bottle shop, you’ll have to spot them.
Most of their European relatives (Italy, Spain and Portugal) just followed their Greek mates to the party. A bit shy at first, there’s no holding them back now.
You can never tell with the Irish. They can handle their drink. They never look drunk. But even they have their limits. And they passed that some time ago.
The Americans? As always, they create the biggest scene.
In their booming voices, the husband and wife stand in the middle, bickering about how much they’ve consumed and whether they should be having any more.
That part’s a charade. They will both continue drinking. But their screaming matches are loud and mood altering. But they don’t care.
For a while there, Australia had promised to be the designated driver. But they’re now on the heavies. (They’ve broken other promises at this party. “No carbon tax” is gone and “budget returning to surplus” looks dead and buried.)
Now everybody’s way too debt-drunk to play pass the parcel. And the equivalent of the candy crash is descending.
What wonderful examples our government parents set for us, their children. Leave the retribution for when their hangovers kick in.
Bruce Brammall is the author of Debt Man Walking (www.debtman.com.au) and a licensed financial adviser. bruce@debtman.com.au .