A complete non event
For all the bleeting security warnings over the parliamentary election, it turned out to be a complete fizzer. Hardly anyone voted, and hence, there was hardly so much as a double happy to blow the day into a joyful White City. (Quite frankly I was hoping for a bit of gunfire and a few rocket hurls just so we’d get some good stories which is alarming because this means Afghanistan, as it now stands, is relatively boring). This momentous occasion of peaceful parliamentary polling could invoke a serious blog about democratisation but then again, if the world’s media thought it so boring as to pay it no attention, why should I? Instead I will turn my attention to events of a far more entertaining description.
It was bound to happen. A university-fuelled nostalgic whim passed through the cerebral of a Frenchman and before we all knew it, Kabul was donning the white sheets and running around with no underwear. Drunk. Oh so slothfully wastedly wickedly drunk.
First there was the immaculately tied toga on the tight touché of a lovely French fille, then the loose tea towel tied around the head of a bare-chested stoned South African, and a blue bed sheet wrapped like a mummy on a paunchy 40-year-old with no hair and a penchant for staring slovenly at any girl with a face better than a bulldog. My personal attire was a white Patou (yes Pilot – that is the right word) wrapped nothing whatsoever like a toga, but more like a hospital gown that kept gaping open and showing the world my lunch. I, however, was too tired to care. I had just been flying for what felt like 8798 hours and only had two hours sleep and three espressos to go on so one drink and I was soon on the floor, spouting complete drivel to the Yank who has, understandably been avoiding me ever since. However, I did still manage to notice the fancy footwork of a certain antipodean towards a delightfully pretty Chianti. Apparently it went quite well. Good for you!
Yes folks, the ultimate in banality, the epitome of the prosaic and the definitive expression of party pooping--the toga party--has hit Kabul. Is nothing sacred here? Do we have no limits? Are we development workers not superior in entertainment sophistication? It appears not. Instead we’re much like the hackneyed juvenile youths in our lands of birth and find little consolation in higher forms of diversion. But as the cliché says, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. So, murder mystery dinner party at marshmellow’s house next Thursday. Look for the update after that one.
It was bound to happen. A university-fuelled nostalgic whim passed through the cerebral of a Frenchman and before we all knew it, Kabul was donning the white sheets and running around with no underwear. Drunk. Oh so slothfully wastedly wickedly drunk.
First there was the immaculately tied toga on the tight touché of a lovely French fille, then the loose tea towel tied around the head of a bare-chested stoned South African, and a blue bed sheet wrapped like a mummy on a paunchy 40-year-old with no hair and a penchant for staring slovenly at any girl with a face better than a bulldog. My personal attire was a white Patou (yes Pilot – that is the right word) wrapped nothing whatsoever like a toga, but more like a hospital gown that kept gaping open and showing the world my lunch. I, however, was too tired to care. I had just been flying for what felt like 8798 hours and only had two hours sleep and three espressos to go on so one drink and I was soon on the floor, spouting complete drivel to the Yank who has, understandably been avoiding me ever since. However, I did still manage to notice the fancy footwork of a certain antipodean towards a delightfully pretty Chianti. Apparently it went quite well. Good for you!
Yes folks, the ultimate in banality, the epitome of the prosaic and the definitive expression of party pooping--the toga party--has hit Kabul. Is nothing sacred here? Do we have no limits? Are we development workers not superior in entertainment sophistication? It appears not. Instead we’re much like the hackneyed juvenile youths in our lands of birth and find little consolation in higher forms of diversion. But as the cliché says, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. So, murder mystery dinner party at marshmellow’s house next Thursday. Look for the update after that one.
posted by Emira Shafiqa at 8:10 am
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