Who killed Bubba?

Don't ask me, I was drunk.

Last Saturday Lyn held a murder mystery party. It was rather hilarious. Set in a small town in the backwoods of Texas, someone called Bubba had been murdered. And we were the suspects.

Lyn had decked out her house in flags and US memorabilia and guests were greeted by the soothing sounds of the white man's blues, otherwise known as Country and Western. Dinner was chilli con carne, corn and potatoes and all sorts of tasty fare that they probably don't eat in the South at all, but that we just think they do. It was tasty though.

My role was that of a country and western wannabe who ran a karaoke night at the local saloon. I was possibly having an affair with someone and may have been in cahoots with someone else over something or other, but I can't really remember. I was too drunk. As half the party had turned up late, Annette and I nad knocked back a few too many, er, sasparillas and by the time the game started we had no idea what was going on. But we all enjoyed speaking in a Southern accent and singing karaoke before finally we'd drunk everything, revealed the murderer and were ready to go home.

And on the night bus home I tried my hardest not to look as a fat, ugly, white girl who spent the entire journey talking into her phone with a Jamaican accent. It did cross my mind that she may have eaten one or two black girls and they were inside trying to fight their way out...