Street Partyyyy...

Another day, another street party. This time a celebration of 40 glorious years since Trafford Borough was brought into existence. Oh deep joy, so much more to celebrate than just another royal wedding or a mere jubilee. Yes, forty glorious years of Trafford… Huzzah!

Mind you our road doesn’t really need much of a reason to break out the booze and vol-au-vents, and once the cars were cleared, the gutters emptied of the previous night’s chip papers, burger wrappings, dog ends, and flyers advertising everything from curry to stick on nails, the road scrubbed up pretty well.

The organisers (three cheers) had managed to order up a sunny day, a barrel of beer, a long line of tables, some fun activities, and a glorious karaoke which all helped the party to go with a swing. 

The menfolk of the street were as alpha male as ever, competing in the egg and spoon in shorts and frizzy wigs as if it were an Olympic sport that they’d each been training for all their lives. The women, pretty little butterflies in their gaudiest clothes, tried their best to remain sober and demure and as always failed abysmally, either falling into a haze of drunken oblivion or laughing very loudly at everything until night fell.

Not all was as it seemed though; there was a shadow over the proceedings. Although the day seemed to be going well, on closer inspection it managed to bring out some of the roads less than salubrious characters. Shady drug dealers, less than modest go-go dancer types, aging hippies rolling joints, fat old blokes in caps singing Elvis’ ‘In the Ghetto’, even drunken doctors, teachers, and young business executives, all rubbing shoulders as if they could possibly coexist on the same road. The words ‘hoi polloi’ sprang to my classically educated mind as I observed the tawdry shenanigans, then to top it all a number of these characters sat down in the road as if in protest and proceeded to (well, there’s no other way to put this) got oops outside their heads.

I sometimes wonder what the road is coming to, I really do. It gets harder everyday to keep order and decorum.

Oh well, it’s not over until the fat bloke sings and I’m a sucker for karaoke - three cheers for the king! Bring on the next one and God save Trafford and all who roll in her!