EDITOR’S PERSPECTIVE: Long party would soon end for some

It was 1988, just coming up to summer, the sun was shining, the term was over and it was time to celebrate the forthcoming 16-week break, or whatever higher-level educational establishments deemed appropriate back then.

We had walked from Bolton to Leigh, about 7.9 miles — I’ll clarify that I’ve just Googled that, in case you think I’m in possession of a fairly impressive internal mapping system — so we must have been pretty enthusiastic about this promised house party.

I came from a reasonably quiet place. There were no gig venues or clubs where I lived, so I had generally resorted to drinking as much as possible in the pub before the bell rang at 11pm.

Then, coincidentally just as I moved away, they scrapped the drinking hours restrictions and chaos ensued. Well, it didn’t, unless you picked up certain national newspapers on a regular basis and believed what you read.

There was chaos here though. Among the attendees was one Victor Tattum, a man whose married with kids life had taken a number of different twists and turns, which resulted in him living in a bedsit as a mature student and functioning alcoholic, looking and behaving a bit like a nicer Charles Manson.

He was out of control and had recently been knocked over by a gas van, but emerged from the Tarmac happily still clutching his unbroken bottle of vodka.

Vic wanted to go to the shop for some booze and I was nominated to accompany him. He was wearing a fake fur coat and, as far as I could tell, nothing underneath — it turned out it was day two of the party. As if that explains it.

The guy in the shop was keen to serve us as quickly as possible, though I don’t think that was due to us being good or polite customers, more because of the woman who was in there with her children.

We left and Vic stepped onto the zebra crossing in front of a car, the driver quite rightly annoyed at having to execute an emergency stop.

Vic then proceeded to flash at him as we crossed — it was more Nobby Road than Abbey Road with what would have been only the worst two of the Beatles on the photograph if anyone had been weird enough to fancy capturing the moment for posterity.

We hurried indoors to find a couple having sex on the floor of the room to pretty much no reaction from anyone whatsoever. A strange woman asked me if I wanted to go upstairs with her and her friend. I didn’t, I just wanted a drink. There were people out of their minds on substances I had never seen, some of which I had never heard of. Some tragedies were waiting to happen and in the not too distant future.

By day three of the party there were only about ten of us left and by day four that was reduced to around five, of which I was one. I have no recollection of anything else other than I know I hadn’t eaten anything for the duration of my 72 hours attendance, just consumed copious amounts of alcohol.

“The party’s over, it’s time to call it a day/ They’ve burst your pretty balloon And taken the moon away,” went the song. It should have been played at the end of the first day.

There was no pretty balloon and I doubt anyone went away from that party any happier than they were before they attended.

For some the party really would soon be over.