Party tears.

I spent much of Saturday in tears. Maybe this seems silly, but the reason was the people who live above me, and their party which went on for 36 hours (at least). It started at 12 on Friday night. It was the usual, people shouting and jeering, throwing bottles from their balcony, with really continual crap trance THUMP! TUMP! THUMPING! The walls were actually rattling. I tried to turning up mys music, and puting on headphones. I even dug out my ear plugs. Nothing drowned it out.

I thought – oh well, it‘ll stop at two or three am. But they kept right on going, winding down slightly at six. But with misdirected/drunk/tripping latecomers began knocking on my door all night and then all morning, the relief of the music being lower was wasted.

Why not simply ask them to stop, you ask. Would you? I mean really, would you challenge burly blokes – who are drunk, and abusive - to turn it down? They turned the music up again at 8am, and I screamed at them from my balcony to please stop, but they just laughed at me.

I returned home at midday, when the music, and party started up again. The front door had been broken, and there was puke and rubbish all over the building.

Why not just move, you’re thinking. Well, why should I? In any case, it’s true that this is a growing problem all over the city. These parties aren’t intimate occasional festivities for a group of mates. Tickets are sold. Websites give directions.

I had important things to do next day. By the afternoon, the music was still thumping, but more gently. Then they turned it up again full blast at 6pm. I was tempted to buzz their door, claiming to be TV Licencing, or the police. It’s just that they know, as do I, that the police don’t call to break up rowdy parties anymore.

That’s why I was crying; I felt so helpless. Loud parties are supposedly one of the hazards of city living. The authorities expect us to just get on with it. They say – well it’s only every now and again. It’s just that banging parties are always coincidentally held the night before other residents must rise promptly at six.

It seems daft, and weak, to have been so upset. Then I saw the headline from the local paper today. It says that city flats are being rented out to stag parties, as flats are cheaper than hotels, and less likely to throw out rowdy guests. I don’t expect a silent life, not in a bustling city. But thirty six hours of relentless, unstoppable thumping was too much.