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?”

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

I was stuck at a party this week with a man who could qualify for a degree level qualification in being boring. I was going to say he deserved a PhD but, as there is no letter “I” in there, he’d probably refuse to take it. I reckon this bore should have been a policeman as I can imagine him really enjoying a walk around his beat each day, saying to anyone he met “I, I, what’s going on here then?”.

Imagine listening to the most boring sermon, given by the most boring person, about the most boring subject, and it being delivered in a language you don’t understand and you will still not get close to how life defeatingly crass this bloke was.

He had obviously trained hard all his days for this sport of droning on, and believe me he was Olympic standard. As an example, and I’m not kidding here, I mentioned the weather was just a little uncomfortably warm and he proceeded to talk of his hottest ever holiday in Morocco at length, including what he ate, bought, and saw, plus the effect it had on his bowel movements.

Trying to change the subject I asked the lady who was standing with us if she was going anywhere exciting this summer and, before she could reply, Mr B. O’Ring jumped in with facts about his past summer vacations and how surprised he was that no one ever kept in touch with him after a holiday, and he made our eyes roll in their sockets until, I’m sorry to say, I deliberately spilled my wine over him so he had to go and get a towel and I could make my escape.

I was ashamed of my behaviour but it was either that or suicide, and if I’d elected to top myself I just know he would have advised me for hours about the best way to do it. Unfortunately he would not be speaking from experience.

So how do you get away from social misfits at parties? Please let me know because I am lousy at it. I seem to have a sign on my head saying “Over Here for Sympathy” and I even find my mates standing behind these outcasts making faces at me as if they knew it would happen. The thing is, all my friends say I am too nice to nutters. I should tell them to get lost and walk away, but I am a sucker for the underdog and waste hours talking to social outcasts - most of whom are broadcasters.

It’s an easy mistake to make, thinking that people on telly or radio must be interesting, but trust me they’re not. Most do it because nowhere else would put up with them and their ego.

This bloke, for instance, works in the music world and must think that I Tunes was named after him. He told me he felt he should keep a low profile in case the public recognised him. Even I didn’t recognise him and he had already spent two hours reciting his CV. I played up a bit and took the Mickey just to stop me drawing blood as I dug my nails in my wrists. Expressing concern that his fame meant carrying a great burden, I offered him my sunglasses to put on in case he was recognised by the barman. He actually took them and, stupid me, as he ran off to get a towel, he kept them too.

I have met and interviewed many, many stars over the years and the bigger they are the nicer they tend to be. Apart from Madonna of course. It’s the small people who are the bores because they are the ones who are big, big stars in their imaginations.
Worst of all is when they come along to present a prize at some awards ceremony and, no matter how often you tell them just to keep it brief, they always have a “funny” routine worked out involving some “funny” line they’ve delivered. They seem to come with their own laughter track that gets switched on in their head as they believe they are going down a storm and they then walk off stage and hang around hoping someone will ask for an autograph.

One, who shall remain anonymous, owed me a favour and so came to open our local garden fete. He sent a list of demands ahead of time as if he was playing the Albert Hall and turned up asking what security arrangements had been made and where the Press were going to be told to stand. I reminded him this was very local and just a Saturday afternoon summer get together to raise funds, but he insisted a table was set up and people told to stand in line for autographs. As very few bothered with his signature I called in a favour and asked some kids to pretend to be interested. Afterwards they told me he’d been so obnoxious they had gone out of their way to tell him they loved the soap opera he was in. Actually he was a news reader.

So maybe the next time I’m stuck at a party with a showbiz bore I should look for a member of the public to bring them down to size.

I remember one local radio presenter who was asked to open a Christmas bazaar and turned up to be greeted by the organiser with the words “Who are you? We thought we were getting someone famous. Oh well, I guess you’ll have to do.”

It took that radio presenter a long time to get over that. In fact, if I’m honest, I’m still trying.