Night Fever 2006

Well, I think that this picture probably tells a thousand stories... but I'll tell the story anyway!

I mentioned some time ago that this year was Chateau Holiday no. 2, this time in celebration of the mums' birthdays... a significant one that begins with "F" and ends on "y"... but shall remain otherwise unmentioned ;) The "Glasgow Crowd" consists of my parents' best friends, four couples altogether who've known each other since the dawn of, err, colour television, and their kids who have all grown up together. Indeed the only party that my mum and I missed was one legendary gathering that took place late on the evening of 17 October 1978, to celebrate the birth of the first child of the crowd - an already noisy baby girl who apparently resembled a wrinkly monkey at the time, who grew up to be yours truly. Over the years we've celebrated numerous Boxing Days together - one notable one when the 13 kids ranged in age from ten (me) to six months (my youngest brother... the young gentleman in white above) when the parents cracked open the wine fractionally early and we sat down to dinner at 11pm. The first group holiday was now nearly 13 years ago to celebrate the Dads' first F birthday, when I had my first kiss - observed and narrated by a motley crew of the younger ones and followed by the young man (who went by the name of Duncan) and I emerging shyly in post snog romantic hand holding from the woods to be greeted by a chorus of "It's Dunc the hunk, the hunk, the hunk" (sang to the tune of "Lily the Pink") from the inebriated parents.... hmmm, is anyone else sensing a pattern here?

In case you are on the edge of your seat following the adventures of el Crowdo Glasgow, the link to some of the adventures two years ago in Bordeaux is here
http://claireduffy.blogspot.com/2006/03/one-spirit-or-another.html

This year however, the only ghosts joining us were those of mental nights past. A little bit of history: during the early to mid seventies, my Dad and my Uncle Jackie ran disco nights at a Glasgow club called Joanna’s. Mum and Auntie Katie sold the tickets and I am let to believe that Glasgow partiers thusly paid for my parents wedding. We all grew up on (heavily censored!) stories from Joanna’s, so this year the kids decided to club together to throw a surprise Joanna’s night and bring Glasgow in 1974 to Tuscany in 2006.

The event was planned with military precision: many furtive phone calls took place between Glasgow, my sister and my flat in London and our brothers who live with our parents in Switzerland, planning the purchase of Rod Stewart and David Bowie albums, glittery platforms and Moscow Mule ingredients. The Dads were let into the secret just enough to fulfil their role of taking the Mums out to dinner on the appointed night and getting them back to the Villa (a somewhat humble name for the 14th century dwelling that slept 30 of us) in one piece, at the appointed hour.

Well, easier said than done. While us kids (isn’t it lovely that there remains a group in which I am one of the ‘kids’ despite knocking on 30?!) impatiently bounced around hiding glittery streamers and cheese hedgehogs, the mums decided that they wanted a wee aperitif before they headed out. And once they had been chauffeured into the picturesque village by my sister and her boyfriend, they thought that they might just pop into the local bar before arriving at the restaurant. Meanwhile, back at headquarters, we were busy transforming the grand ballroom of the castle into a tacky seventies disco with the help of lots of tin foil and a few balloons. I was transported back nearly 20 years, to the days when the kids would plan extravagant pageants and plays during the Boxing Day festivities, and the little ones would swarm around me asking “what do I do now Claire? Where do I stand? What’s my words again?” Except that this time it was people in their twenties asking if I was entirely sure that an entire bottle of vodka was to be tipped into the increasingly lethal punch.

By midnight, the ballroom was garish in the extreme, the punches and seventies cocktails were fire hazards and the kids were decked out in costumes ABBA would have found over the top. My sister’s boyfriend even gamely shaved his stubble into a fetching handlebar moustache and lamb chops - a look he has chosen to stick with, much to my sister’s dismay. And… there was no sign of the parents.

Finally, the youngest (and most sober) 11 year old Paddy who was on parent watch, announced that the headlights had been sighted turning up the drive. Action stations. The lights were cut and all 22 of us crouched beneath tables and behind sideboards in the dark. 10 minutes went by. Simon had a coughing fit, Sinead a giggling one. My knees had started to crack (so much for being one of the kids!) when finally screams of laughter announced that guests of honour had seen the “bouncer” (see my little brother above.) The “guests” were informed that they seemed a bit drunk to gain entry to the club, so were asked to list all they’d had to drink that night, walk in straight lines, recite their names and addresses… the fact that they all unquestioningly submitted to sobriety tests to gain entry to the villa that they’d paid for (having absolutely no idea what was going on!) probably tells you all you need to know about the atmosphere that night.

And moments later… the party started…