It was Oscar Wilde’s birthday yesterday – well OK, it would have been were he still alive… so for the picky I’ll start again:
It was the anniversary of Oscar Wilde’s birth yesterday and I was reminded of a particularly good party about 15 years ago in Hong Kong.
It was titled The Oscar Wilde and the Futurists Party and we all had T shirts for the event. I still have no real understanding of what this was all about, but I do recall the evening quite vividly.
It was Andy’s birthday and he and Frank (at the time they were or had variously been my flatmates) organised the event. The night commenced on a Junk with a plentiful supply of booze as we cruised out to Po Toi for the ubiquitous banquet. Vast quantities of Tsing Tao later – and clutching a case courtesy of the restaurant – we stumbled back to the boat and headed out into the darkness. We anchored out in the bay and all went for a swim. It was probably about midnight, pitch dark, we were all seriously the worse for wear.
And no one drowned or even died.
But the strongest memory I have is for the quote. We were each given a quote and we were either Futurists or Wildes. We had to learn it and be able to recite it on demand. I have absolutely no idea why. But I do remember mine:
For hours and hours we had trampled our atavistic ennui in to rich Oriental rugs.
Strange how the mind retains the most useless information for years.
Oscar Wilde is often quoted and with good reason: he was prolific:
Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly uninteresting event.
Quite. But not always.