The Ballad of Barry's Bruises: A Cocktail Catastrophe

Barry ‘Butterfingers’ Bingham approached the shimmering cocktail party like a gazelle approaching a minefield – with extreme caution, and an almost certain premonition of impending doom. He’d been warned, of course. His mother always said, “Barry, dear, a bull in a china shop has better spatial awareness than you do.” Tonight, he was determined to prove her wrong. He clutched a delicate flute of champagne, his pinky extended in an approximation of elegance, navigating the crowded room like a blindfolded tightrope walker.

His first hurdle: a particularly plush rug, seemingly designed by a sadistic interior decorator to catch errant toes. Barry’s left foot connected with it, sending a small tremor through his carefully constructed poise. The champagne did a little dance, but miraculously stayed within its glass. Victory! Or so he thought.

Emboldened, Barry attempted a confident stride towards the canapé table, aiming for a miniature quiche. That’s when it happened. His right elbow, acting with an independent mischievous spirit, collided with a passing waiter’s tray. A cascade of tiny spring rolls and precisely arranged shrimp cocktails launched into the air like edible confetti. One particularly juicy prawn landed squarely in the perfectly coiffed hair of Lady Beatrice, who let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a strangled pterodactyl.

Barry, mortified, tried to apologize, flailing his free hand. This, predictably, resulted in the champagne flute making a graceful arc through the air, before landing with a *plink* directly into the punch bowl. A collective hush fell over the room. Barry could only offer a weak smile, a single spring roll still clinging precariously to his earlobe. He decided then and there that wearing protective bubble wrap to social events wasn't an overreaction; it was a necessity.