Party Fears Two

Good music engages the emotions. Listening to Nessun Dorma will probably make your spine tingle if it’s sung properly, when Walking On Sunshine comes on the radio everyone seems to smile, and hearing Dance With My Father will either make you cry or throw up depending on how much cynicism you have in the bank.

But even rubbish music forces emotions to the surface. Don’t you want to kill when you hear something you really hate the sound of? Top Of The World by the Carpenters induces in me the desire to walk to the North Pole and throw myself off, while I frequently want to cut Simon Cowell’s digits off every time I find he’s had a hand in some new hit.

I remember hearing the song Fight For The Right To Party and thinking it was so, so wrong and getting wound up as I would personally fight for the right to avoid party invites and just stay in while catching up on my recordings of Gray’s Anatomy with a box of chocolates and a disconnected ‘phone. If I were a politician I’d certainly strive for peace, especially when the TV is on, but I’d also ban parties.

I’m sure the only reason that political groupings are known as the Labour Party or the Conservative Party is because no one has a good time, they all want to go home, and they’re fed up listening to boring people droning on at great length. Like smoked fish, smelly feet and new underwear, I like to think parties are for other people.

Occasionally I demur, like last Saturday when our neighbours invited us over for a farewell get together as they’re emigrating to France. I knew it would be a night to remember when I saw Richard Drummie from the band Go West doing Greek dancing to the Zorba tune followed by our host performing a country and western line dance send up.

But I really knew the rest would be a night to forget when I mistook Rosé wine for Rosé liquer and had a large tumbler full. My legs went wobbly, closely followed by my speech.

Before losing all sense in my legs and head I passed through that smiley phase where all the world was my best friend and I spotted all the familiar types that congregate at any party. There are the wallflowers like me who stand around failing to look cool alongside the guys who have never grown up and try desperately to give off the vibe that they’ve had more women than the Sugababes. Unfortunately, as they stroke their mane and admire their mullet in the mirror, the rest of us regret that none of these women was a hairdresser.

Then there’s the networker who hands his business card around hoping his new internet business selling paper craft models of the Titanic will take off, and the outrageous woman who gets louder as she drinks and then dances as if her life depends on it while cackling at any casual remark as if Billy Connolly personally had delivered it in her ear. Next time I’ll leave her at home.

I did have a good time even though my head felt every last drop of that liquer the next day, and I’m very grateful that anyone wants to invite me to their party, even if I secretly know it’s only as a “plus one” for Debbie.

But I think I’m with my daughter who said after her first day at school, “I’ve done that now. Can we do something else tomorrow?”