My birthday was yesterday, and honestly, I still can’t decide whether it was a total disaster or the most epic celebration of my life.
It all started when I, like a proper fool, trusted my best mate Emily to organise everything. She swore it would be “top-notch,” with a table groaning under posh nibbles and guests in absolute awe. Classic Emily. When I got home from work, I was greeted by a scene straight out of a sitcom about party nightmares.
The living room table was pure chaos. Stale slices of ham and cheese lay scattered among untouched olives. The veggies—cucumbers, tomatoes, and some sad-looking bell peppers—looked like they’d been chopped last Bank Holiday. I half suspected Emily had just raided her fridge and called it a “party spread.” Bottles of wine, juice, and something fizzy stood in haphazard clusters, some already half-empty. Clearly, someone had kicked off the festivities without me.
Emily beamed at me like she’d just won the lottery. “Well? Proper brilliant, innit?” she asked, proudly gesturing at the culinary carnage. I nodded, masking my horror. Didn’t have the heart to crush her spirit—she’d clearly given it her all. But all I could think was, “Who serves stale ham at a birthday do?”
My brother James, ever the legend, outdid himself. He’d brought a cake that looked like it had survived a rugby scrum. The box was dented, the icing smeared across the lid, and the “Happy Birthday!” scrawl had melted into something Picasso might’ve painted. “Handpicked it myself!” he announced, plonking it down. I eyed the mess and reckoned dim lighting would save us—maybe no one would notice. But James was so chuffed, I couldn’t ruin his moment. At the end of the day, he’s my brother, and his heart’s always in the right place.
Then there was my coworker Lucy. She handed me a gift—a makeup set that, judging by the battered packaging, had been gathering dust under her sink. “Thought it’d suit you!” she said with such genuine cheer, I couldn’t even be mad. Well, at least my bathroom shelf would get an upgrade. Though I already knew that “English Rose” scent would be cloying and the mascara dried to a crisp. Small sacrifices.
The guests, mind you, were a riot. Someone dragged in a karaoke machine, and within half an hour, the house was vibrating with off-key renditions of Spice Girls hits. Emily, emboldened by a few glasses of wine, decided she was the second coming of Adele and belted out “Someone Like You” with enough passion to wake the dead. James, not to be outdone, launched into “Wonderwall,” sending everyone into fits of laughter.
By midnight, the table looked even worse, but the mood was golden. We cackled at the absurd gifts, shared old stories, and even held a spontaneous competition for the daftest toast. Lucy won with, “May your happiness be too big for a suitcase but lighter than a bag of bricks.” No clue what she meant, but it sounded genius.
As people trickled out, I took in the wreckage and realised I’d never forget this birthday. Sure, the food was dodgy, the cake a wreck, and the gifts… questionable. But the laughter, the warmth, the sheer ridiculousness of it all? I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Emily, James, Lucy—they made it exactly what a birthday should be: chaotic, real, and bloody brilliant.
Next year, I’ll probably take charge. Or at least hide the stale ham before guests arrive. But let’s be honest—this is what proper celebrations are made of. And I’m already counting down to the next one, just to see what fresh madness my lot cook up.
