Partied out.

My hopes for the Miami Beach Party were not high, and yet it still managed to fall short of my modest expectations.

The party venue was a smallholding an hour's drive away from town, complete with dogs, sheep, and ducks which happily floated (and defecated) in the swimming pool.

Deafeningly loud and awful music prevented any conversation on arrival. A welcoming platter of polony sandwiches waited on each table, condensation forming on the clingfilm that covered them as they festered in the sun.

A waiter/farm labourer regularly scooped the empty plastic cocktail beakers from our table into the giant bin-bag he carried with him (the mark of a fine establishment).

I suffered through the obligatory boring speech by the CEO, and the awarding of endless hilarious joke awards to various staff members. Fortunately, many years ago I established this golden rule: Never go to a party without your own transport, no matter how far away it is. This enabled me to sneak off and spend the rest of the afternoon splashing out payday bounty at the shops.

As long as the duck's enjoying itself.

Note:
Credit must go to the MAM, who really went the extra mile with his party costume. He arrived resplendent in a Panama hat, mirrored shades, beaded necklace, loud Hawiian shirt unbuttoned right down to the bulging waistband, and checked Bermuda shorts revealing pale hairy legs that ended in white slip-on shoes.