The cold, wet dribble of another miserable English summer finally drove me to act. I had to figure out how I could have a bit of fun, and decided I’d ask all the guys from my books to a big party – in my garden, under a marquee. I’d have gallons of booze, loads of food, and whatever other recreational stuff they used. I’d find a good band, who would play loud, eclectic music and nothing dreary, and I’d buy some fireworks for later. I’d tell the nosey neighbours to come along, or go away and shut up. It’d be fancy dress, and I’d ask my guests to wear crazy, off-the-wall outfits. The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. It could be wild, which reminds me; I even thought about a few ‘tame’ wild animals. I called up London Zoo and asked if I could borrow a tiger, or lion, or even a croc for the night. I was about to ask for some snakes, as well, when the guy at the other end of the line interrupted me.
Guess what the man said? Oh, he was such a pompous fart. ‘Sir, you not being serious, are you?’ he asked, in a high-pitched, posh accent.
‘Of course I’m being bloody serious,’ I replied, no doubt with a touch of annoyance sounding in my voice. ‘I’m having a wild party, and I want some wild animals. Can I, or can’t I?’
He just cut me off. The next thing I knew, an RSPCA van turned up at my house, a guy strolled up to the front door, asked to come in, and said he’d had a report that I was harming animals and he had to check it out. ‘Do me a favour,’ I said, as I slammed the door in his face. He came back with a police officer, and I had to let them in and allow the RSPCA man to do his pointless search. I was as polite as pie, saw them off out of the front door, and screamed, ‘Fucking arseholes,’ as they walked back to their vehicles.
My next concern was how to get in touch with my characters. I didn’t have contact details for any of them. So I started to search for them online. I Googled them, searched FB and Google+, and put up a board on Pinterest. The replies started to flood in even before I finished the search. I’d asked for an email address, and they all sent one. They could have been imposters – wanting to come to a free party – so I devised a cunning game to check if they were genuine. I emailed back, saying I didn’t want to offend them, and would they mind replying with the first words they said in my book. Oh my God; they all came back immediately, and got it right, and asked for the details of the party.
I was on a roll. These wacky people were coming to my house for a night of hilarity and fun. My imagination took off. I couldn’t hang around or they might lose interest. I looked at my schedule. The following Saturday was free. I plumped for that, and sent them all an invitation.
Come to my place, this Saturday, for a night of fun, frolics, and hilarity, when anything can happen, and nothing is forbidden.
Wear fancy dress. It must outrageous. Come stoned, drunk, or sober, but don’t think you’ll leave that way.
Lots of drink, various substances, and food provided.
Come late. Leave late.
See you then.
Your earthly creator – not the guy in the sky, up there.
I put my address on the bottom of the message, and hoped for the best. What have I done? I asked myself later.
My God, I thought the next morning. I have to organise this thing. The booze and food were easy. I could go and buy the drinks, and, as for the food, I’d light a BBQ. It was the other stuff, you know – drugs, narcotics – that were my main concern. I’ve used a little gear myself, but nothing big, and didn’t know of a reliable dealer. I couldn’t foul up on this. I knew that some of the guys coming did it all, big time. Then I remembered Jimmy Ali, the guy in Playing Harry who was a petty drug dealer, and ended up working for the spooks. I sent him a short message, asking him to call me. I wanted to talk to him, personally. I couldn’t risk saying what I wanted in an email.