Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

As Ol’ Robbo types, it wants about an hour or so to the new year, and for the past couple hours the basement of Port Swiller Manor has been seething with kollege kid merriment, which seems to consist mostly of the yoots screaming at the tops of their lungs at each other over a background of thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.

Ol’ Robbo never had much taste for this sort of thing even back in the days of his own misspent yoot. You can imagine what I think about it now: Calm and quiet Port Swiller Manor transmogrified into Animal House. Cor lumme, stone the crows.

This is all because Youngest Gel wanted to throw a New Year’s Eve party for some of her old high school chums. “It’s been such a hard year for them, why not let them have a little fun?” was the main argument in favor. I confess that this has a certain merit to it. And I will admit further that the idea of figuratively snapping my fingers under Kommissar Northam’s nose also had some appeal. (I didn’t do an actual head count, but I’m pretty sure there are a few more kidz down there than Der Kommissar deems acceptable for social gatherings.)

Anyhoo, like the sap that I am, even though I knew the current inescapable, disruptive, brain-scrambling, mellow-harshing atmosphere is exactly what it was going to be, I didn’t smother the idea in its infancy. And now I’m paying for it. (Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa!!)

The good news is that, although it is still very unpleasant, so far I’ve only had to go downstairs once to tell them to turn the music down. (I said I was concerned the neighbors would call the cops.) The Gel spent all afternoon gussying up the basement and it’s pretty dark and clubby, but somehow the patented Robbo Squint still effectively discomfited those yoots on whom I directed it. Heh.

The better news is that we made abundantly clear ahead of time that Youngest’s guests were to be Ubering out of here by no later than 12:15 a.m. It’s 2021. Congratulations. Now get lost, kidz.

The bestest news is that, by putting up with this ruckus now, Ol’ Robbo feels he has exhausted any and all equitable obligation to host such a yootful shindig ever again. We’re done.

Anyhoo, just writing this post has killed some time and the end is in sight. So, a happy New Year to all friends of the decanter, and I’ll see you on the other side.

Post-Midnight UPDATE: Again, Happy New Year, my friends! Bumpers all round, and no heel taps!

About twenty minutes prior to midnight, the tumult and the shouting downstairs suddenly died, suggesting that the captains and the kings had departed. *** A quick search confirmed this, as it also did a firm resolve that if anybody thinks Ol’ Robbo is going to participate in that clean-up, they’ve got another thing seriously coming.

Teh kidz seem to have migrated to somebody else’s home to consummate their NYE celebration. I still have to stay up, of course, not to shotgun festivities at Port Swiller Manor anymore, but to make sure Youngest gets home from her jaunt in one piece. Heigh ho. At least this vigil is less noisy.

*** G’wan, spot the riff.