[montsnmags]

Originally Posted by pshrynk

Well, for that value of reality, I suppose...

If I'm going to have an imaginary multiversal abode, do you think I'm going to imagine something humble? Why that would be like having an imaginary friend and not imagining them to be desperately loyal, intelligent (but not too intelligent), sophisticated (but not too sophisticated) and good looking (but not too good looking). Only an idiot would...

[sound of twittering whistle heard as the crowd watches half-empty bottle of vanilla vodka parabola through the air to shatter quite delightfully tonally on the back of Marc's head. Screeches and capering turned back to by crowd, and Adrian across the room capers and points and lauds his own ballistic skills while all his friends cheer him on]

Ow...bastiche...I'll get him later.

Originally Posted by columbus

Party at Marc's??

I heard rumours he has invited a mad monk & some welsh bimbo - is it true?

Funny you should say. When I said tonight's menu included monk fish, I actually meant Mad Monk and fish. Mmm, tastes like Catholic Friday. Welsh rarebit...ahem, red-headed bint, to follow. Mmm, tastes like Milk Wood and has two-fifths of buggerall calories..

Originally Posted by bjones6416

Well, I wasn't sure of the dress code, and I just used the excuse of the excessive noise to crash the party...

There's no dress code. Two rules:

1. DON'T FRAK WITH THE FAIRY!

2. THERE WILL BE NO JAZZ!

(I just added that last one in. I didn't realise I had to).

Is drinking still occurring?

As if millions of livers suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

Originally Posted by GeoffC

The passed out ones are the newbies, those of us who've been there before know how to cope !!!!

You should have seen next year's extravaganza .....

So if you want to get conscious, take the third door on the left to last year's Party, and go familiarise yourself.

Originally Posted by DixieGal

...

Hi Adrian! (Blows kiss).

[Adrian blushes]

Originally Posted by recluse

So, you are okay with me being torn to pieces by an invisible gibbon?
That's heartwarming.

Adrian would never. He'd do it to me, maybe; someone who fraks with the fairy, definitely; jazz aficionados, absolutely; but never you, Jon. It's a Party zone, and violence is strongly discouraged (*Conditions apply).

I don't do parties.

For the empathetic benefit of Jon, and other new folk for whom this is their first Marc's Party, note that there is an infinite amount of history and lore, not to mention architectural space and places of cultural or personal interest, scattered amongst the unending corridors and innumerable rooms of this self-contained Reality known as Chateau Pompette. I extend welcome to my unhumble abode. While there are some areas common to much of the goings on - the Kitchens ("GEFAHR! Dangerous levels of Radiation and Meat-Unfriendly Machinery!"); the Dining Room, with it's infinitely beautiful and infinitely long dining table (beautifully to be made/being made/was made, by that genius craftsman of cellulose and lignin, yvanleterrible); the Conservatory (where the Sun lives); the Pool (twirly straws provided...just lay back and sip the "water". No peeing in the pool!); the Ballroom (Wow! Look at all those coloured balls!); and the Antechamber (the largest room in the house, being 17 Oortwhale-lengths wide, and 6 Belgiums across, and beyond which most rarely venture, as that's where the music plays) - there is much, much, much more beyond.

As MC Hammered of this Party (Stop! Zanytime!), I am a chronic introvert, and by necessity the Party is meant to accommodate all tastes. If all you desire is a quiet corner of a small study (with attached, lockable guest room, simply furnished, dog-friendly, soundproofed, catered, and with an open-ended invite to stay), perhaps with a couple of intimates sitting around in winged, leather chairs sipping funny-coloured drinks with umbrellas and twirly straws in them (ZCDs...as if I have to say) amongst the sounds of quiet, friendly chat, well, eleventyeth door on the right, down the North-Southerly Hall. There is a room, somewhere, for whatever floats your boat or hovers your car or shaves your llama. Just ask.

The Party is meant for those (like me), who don't do parties; for those who always do parties; and for those who just want to experiment with...well, pretty much anything.

I apologise for Adrian in advance.

[sound of twittering whistle heard as the crowd watches half-empty bottle of vanilla vodka parabola through the air to shatter quite delightfully tonally...]