It’s not what we planned. To successfully execute a twelve-year old’s birthday party, the two of us would need to work as a team if we were to have any chance of withstanding the onslaught of prepubescent energy, super-fueled by sugary soft drinks and what I can only assume is madness. I had prepared – goggles, shin pads and a helmet for each of us just to be on the safe side (even if, technically speaking, ‘the safe side’ would be the other side of bullet-proof glass). But despite our preparations, the unthinkable happened – Katrina got sick, leaving me to run the party on my own.
This would be a test of character, a battle of wits and a feat of endurance all rolled into one. The last twelve-year-old birthday party I attended was probably my own and, even then, I left early, citing ‘traffic’. There would be no escaping this time. Rather, I would be responsible for ten primary school-aged boys. In public.
Failure, when it happens, is something best done in private. Ideally, it should not include others who are in a position to laugh and point at your misfortune. Of course, I wasn’t truly alone. I was given both moral, practical and emotional support by Katrina’s family, who stepped in to help me as I tried to fill the void left by her absence. As she convalesced at home, I gritted my teeth and embarked on the most gruelling and perilous two hours of my life.
The (about to be) twelve-year old had selected ten-pin bowling as his birthday activity of choice. This came as a relief, as some of the other options under consideration included laser tag and paintball and I expected I’d be the primary target with my pleas for clemency roundly ignored. From bitter experience, I know that these kinds of events quickly evolve from ‘harmless party shenanigans’ to a Hunger Games-style battle for survival of the (un)fittest.
As we arrived, there was a huddle of expectant primary school children. I made a critical decision – they would each choose their own nickname, or I would choose one on their behalf. This would both compensate for the fact that I was no chance of remembering their real names (and I still recall the confusion at the last birthday party when I gave them names I’d made up – a kid I christened ‘Spartacus’ was especially confused) and we could distance ourselves in the event things turned sour.
And so it was that Leemo, DJ Stinkfist and ‘the Ferret’, along with assorted other kids, made their way from the cafeteria to the bowling lanes proper. It was then that most, if not all, hell broke loose. Having the kids sign up under nicknames seemed like a pretty funny idea until I saw them on the overhead electronic scorecards. Everyone could see them and found them less funny than I had. In fact, other bowlers were, at best, slightly disgusted and, at worst, slightly afraid of a noisy gang of youths that included ‘Little Lord Fartleroy’ and ‘Toxic Terry’ amongst their number. As they screamed and ran around like maniacs, I began to regret ordering full-sugar soft drink. Bowling balls flew around with all the randomness of cow in one of those ‘Twister’ films as I hid under a bench.
At one point, the birthday boy expressed concern that his guests weren’t taking the bowling part seriously and I had to tell him that the noise and anarchy meant they were having a great time. Granted, the absence of anything that could reasonably be described as technique was startling beyond belief, but there was too much chaos to worry. Then, just like that, our time bowling was over, and we were sent to ‘the party room’.
I knew there was trouble when the ‘party room’ was comprise entirely of easy-to-clean surfaces. All you’d have to do at the end of a session was hose the place out. As soft drink slushed and food became airborne, I considered whether we could crank up the hose whilst the room was still occupied. For the first time in my life, I wondered whether ‘Lord of the Flies’ was understated.
It was at that point things took a turn for the worse, as our host highlighted that we could select the song of our choice to play through the stereo for a sing-along. What demonic musical atrocity would this group of hyperactive pre-teens choose to subject me too? I braced for impact….
As I melted birthday candles to block my ears, I swore I heard the unmistakable strains of … John Denver’s ‘Country Roads’. They say along. They even knew the words. I could not help but lament for what was clearly a lost generation of troubled youths. Confused, I started tipping over furniture and throwing jugs of full-sugar raspberry lemonade around the room as I descended into madness.
As the security team dragged me away, the kids put on Tiny Tim’s ‘Tip Toe Through the Tulips’. As though I hadn’t suffered enough. Finally, various parents appeared and DJ Stinkfist, Little Lord Fartleroy and the rest vanished into the shopping centre. It was over. ‘I can’t wait for my next party’ said the twelve-year-old as I passed out.