Things to do in the dark

I'm not usually one for Christmas parties - mainly because I'm a slightly miserable, somewhat antisocial old bugger - and as a result I've done a sterling job of avoiding the work one for about the last five years. This year will be number six; I'm hoping if I hit 10 they'll give me a watch, although the sack is more likely.

Any-hoo, when I found out that my yoga studio was having a party I immediately thought 'yes, I'll go to that,' mainly because in contrast to several other ones I get invited to I actually like everyone at yoga. Another bonus was that I thought it would be nice to actually talk to some of my fellow yogi, rather than just grimace at them in a brief moment of shared pain during class.

So on Saturday night I toddled back to the studio clutching a bottle of wine (for them) and a bottle of Pepsi (for me) – and it was awesome. They had loads of food and drink in reception, and the studio itself was transformed into a dancehall with one of the guys who works there DJ-ing, and a live singer, who was perplexingly half-naked and wrapped in what looked like a net curtain, although he was very good so I shan't question that too much. Excitingly, I also got to check out the girl's changing room without being whacked around the face.

To top it off, they'd installed UV lights around the studio, and we'd all been told to wear white so we'd look like complete glowing loons while dancing the night away. Tragically, I actually don't have any white clothes, and plans to pop to Westfield to buy something special were scuppered by bastard snow. I had actually seen a dirt-cheap pair of white jeans online, but was put off by the fact that I wasn't sure if they meant COMPLETELY WHITE clothes or just one item. And Yazzle Dazzle said they looked like leggings, which isn't exactly the sort of thing you want to hear. Anyway, I rocked up in a gingham shirt; the white squares performed admirably well.

I needn't have worried too much, though, because the lovely lady who owns the studio was wandering around the heaving masses with a pot of UV body paint, and she made a beeline for the blank canvas that was my skin almost immediately after I entered the room. I think at first she wanted to paint something on my face, but I was a bit resistant to that so she ended up daubing a heart on my arm, which was lovely. I was tempted to get her to draw a Superman 'S' on my chest because the sight of that glowing away would've been pretty damn awesome, but she'd already complained about the hair on my arms so she would probably have had a fit at the sight of my man-chest. I doubt Picasso had to put up with a hairy canvas.

My painted UV heart, sadly not glowing. By this point, towards the end of the evening, it had actually gone a bit powdery and looked a bit like a bad case of eczema; thank god I didn't have any on my face.

Anyway, as she was applying the heart I turned into the 13 year-old boy I desperately try not to be while out in public, and said "I'm going to watch you as the evening goes on."

She stopped painting for a minute and looked me in the eye.

"Why?"

"Because you're walking around with a pot of UV paint and if it was me I'd probably start drawing cocks on people after a while."

She giggled and walked off.

So as the evening wore on I got chatting to a lovely fellow yogi who was brilliant and fun and quite possibly a bit mental (in a nice way), and, more importantly, a bit drunk. And at some point she managed to get hold of the pot of UV paint, and sober old me did that thing I do where I implant an idea in someone's head and then back away from taking any responsibility for it whatsoever.

A few minutes later this young chap comes wobbling out of the UV-lit studio, looks me straight in the eyes, and says "I've got a cock on my face, haven't I?"

And I looked at him, at the massive testicles that, even in the non-UV light of reception were clearly painted on his chin, and the proud penis emblazoned straight up his face to his forehead, and I replied "why yes, yes you do."