What's the deal with crayfish?

After a well-deserved win over the Attila ladies, and a quick nap, some 30 people gathered at the club house for the ultimate of August parties - the crayfish party! As there were foreign guests present, Helan går had been translated into english and a little course in crayfish-butchering was held (general opinion of this scandinavian phenomenon: good, but not worth the hassle). The usual mistakes were made throughout the evening - like choosing the least tasty snaps (every time!), tapping your foot to Cotton Eye Joe, trying to persuade new girls to play by showing off your bruises and gladly accepting that suspicious-looking shot from a bartender who's desperate to get rid of the most unpopular stuff.

After midnight a big crowd staggered towards town and our regular hangout, where more drinks were consumed (that long walk really makes you thirsty!). When everyone in the room looked good, everything seemed like a smart idea and my high-heeled shoes started to feel uncomfortable, I knew it was time to go home. Myself and Blondie found a cab that was willing to take us home, but not before he'd threatened us with a four thousand kronor bill if any puke found it's way to his seats. As if. My little winger flatmate claimed to be lonely and made me sleep in the sofa bed with her, but when I woke up she was nowhere to be seen - as soon as I fell asleep she tiptoed away to steal my bed! Cunning.

This morning I found my jeans, neatly folded, on a shelf in the kitchen. Ergo: good party.