House Party Review: Stoke Newington

Previously: Clapton, east London

Stoke Newington, home to one of London's seven Whole Foods, which should tell you everything you need to know. Only, the Whole Foods locals here are Monocle people rather than Tatler people. Stokey's main thoroughfare, Church Street, is a good place to spot French bulldog owners, celebrities who used to live in Dalston and people with iPhone 11s queuing for breakfast.

A two-floor flat just above The Waiting Room, a venue that often hosts gigs in its tiny basement, meaning – hopefully – the neighbours are used to noise.

The main party was happening in a bedroom on the first floor, with a secondary party area in the main bedroom upstairs. One of the bedrooms had a "No Entry" sign, which, miraculously, attendees obeyed. Kitchens are usually the heart and soul of any good house party, but this one was quite tiny and so therefore not fit for purpose. The hosts didn't build the house, though, so I'll let it slide.

This is the only party I've written about with adequate bog roll, so props for that.

Top floor flats famously do not have gardens, but people kept popping downstairs for a cigarette or a desperate gasp of Church Street's low emission air.

There seemed to be an entirely new set of guests every hour, so who can truly say. Anywhere from 22 to 40.

A bathtub full of Old Blue Last beer cans – courtesy of VICE, of course – but nobody had bothered to buy any ice, so they were all room temperature. Not the ideal temperature for what should be a frosty one. Other than that, dribs and drabs of whatever anyone else decided to bring. Some girls who left early forgot to take a bag of Cherry Bs with them, which I necked.

There were also no cups provided, so guests had to wash their own dirty mug from the sink if they did bring refreshments – which made every single drink slightly reminiscent of those house party moments where it gets to 4AM and all the booze has gone and all the shops are shut, so people wind up to drinking the dregs of, like, a six-year-old bottle of Polish paint-cleaner brandy somebody brought back from a stag-do in Warsaw.

There wasn't one, but some guy was wearing the exact same outfit as me, so let's just say it was very specifically: an oversized white shirt under black top with black suit trousers event. Generally, though, it was that oversized second-hand blazer kind of vibe.

Upon arrival it seemed more like a small gathering in someone's bedroom than a party, not exactly the Friday night energy you want after a long week. A few indie kids passing a spliff around and listening to Nick Cave. That said, it was a leaving party, so I'm guessing people maybe felt a bit sombre? Sarah, the party host, cried a couple of times, as you'd expect from a leaving do. But as the drinks started flowing, everything became a little more chaotic.

One girl bashed into me, spilling my entire drink before muttering something (presumably rude) at me in French. Another girl left crying with her boyfriend approx. one hour in. Two guys got kicked out the party, which started some sort of front door war as people pushed from either side. People were chucking shit out the window. Someone popped a tent open in the upstairs bedroom, which added considerably to the already-heavy Woodstock 2019 energy.

As far as I was aware: none, aside from the three joints being passed about. One girl left about an hour in, stating, "No bags, no shags," as her reason to bounce – even though one of my mates managed to snog someone approximately 60 seconds in.

I asked a group of attendees whether any uppers were milling around, and someone told me they were promised some off a stranger if they went to the bathroom with them, but then they never delivered the goods. Which seemed really weird? Did they just want their hand holding, or something?

The only song I recognised the entire night was the long forgotten "212" by esteemed chicken sacrificer Azealia Banks. Every other track was indie, and honestly it kind of all sounded the same. It wasn't necessarily bad, but you couldn't really throw down unless you were doing it as a gag, and there's objectively nothing less funny than mock-slam dancing to The 1975.

@HattiRex / @kramerdoingbits