So the Mad Prof decided that over half term he was going to have a Star Wars Marathon. This marathon, he informed me, would take the form of a…
‘…no-holds-barred 11 hour Star Wars fest where me, Jake, Mick, Sam, Harry, Max, Tom…’
‘Yup. Oh, and the two girls…’
‘Wait, EIGHT of you?’
‘Yup, as I was saying, we’re all going to watch all six Star Wars films back to b…
‘Eight mates? EIGHT BLOODY MATES?’
‘Yeah, that’s okay isn’t it? I thought you could do cupcakes and stuff, and we could order pizza, ooh and you could make those awesome cocktails…’
It’s the guilt, you see? Years in Ireland away from their mates and living 30 miles from school and not able to socialise because of living in such a rural location…
Reader, dearest, I gave in.
And so it was that our lounge came to be inhabited by seven enormous, gangly teenage boys, plus two token girls (I offered them the Prof’s bedroom, but they declined).
‘But where will you all sleep?’, I asked…
‘Muuuuum, we’re not going to sleep, it’s a Star Wars Marathon!’.
Oh, right. And that’s when the Death Wish Dude chipped in:
‘Erm… so if he’s having some mates round, can I have a mate round too?’
Why the hell not.
So I made Wookie cupcakes (badly) and we bought cider and ordered pizza (nearly £100 worth of pizza, incidentally), and I made cocktails and we sat upstairs, me worrying about spillages and breakages, and English Dad worrying about his precious telly and whether they’d keep him awake all night.
Turns out our fears were unfounded. Not many of them managed to watch every film, and yes, there was plenty of hilarity, a lot of thudding about, some pillow fights, clinking of bottles, choruses of ‘these are not the droids you are looking for‘, oh, and the window blind fell down, but there were no breakages, no spillages, no drunken antics and a perfect queue of ‘thank you very much for having me’ as they exited stage left, a little bleary eyed, the next morning.
‘That was awesome, Mum, we must do that again’.