The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Saturday
The pure joy of a great party
We’re all ready for a big bash... aren’t we? Misbehaviour must be on the menu, says Kathy Lette, while overleaf, Katie Russell meets those who attended history’s most memorable get-togethers
So, how do you know when you’re at a good party? I was once at a birthday bash where the guests were invited to lick icing off our naked Hollywood hostess. I think you’ll agree that really does take the cake. But with restrictions finally lifted and a joyous summer party season upon us, we’ve never needed a collective swing from a chandelier more. The best thing about being a writer is that you can attend lots of parties and call it “research”. Generally speaking, you know you’ve been to a good bash when you wake up in an unfamiliar nation with nipple jewellery. The sign that you’re at a bad one is when the host approaches you with mistletoe and it’s mid-July. Plus he’s tucking it into his belt buckle. My top party tip is to always remember that drunk is the future of drink. Two glasses of fizz and you may be feeling pretty damn cosmopolitan… but you’re probably not if you can’t pronounce it. At a Savoy party a couple of years ago, I was feeling so coz-mmo-polly-tan that I thought it would be funny to throw my knickers at Tom Jones: it was only as my pants arced their way across the bar that I realised I wasn’t wearing my lacy black G-string but the kind of undies that could double as a spinnaker on a yacht. Oops.
Yep, being thunker than you drink you are can lead to all kinds of embarrassing moments. At hedge fund manager and philanthropist Michael Hintze’s opulent birthday party in Blenheim Palace, I kept congratulating the Billy Joel Tribute Band on how much they sounded like the real thing – all they needed was a little more work. “Thanks for the tip,” winked
Billy Joel, introducing himself.
And then there was the time a friend threw an intimate party for Al Pacino. “Just don’t mention his alopecia,” she warned. “Of course not!” I replied, earnestly. A couple of cocktails later, in a classic Basil Fawlty moment, I shook Al Pacino’s hand and accidentally said, “G’day Al Opecia, how are you?”
If you’re at a posh party, don’t turn into the Edmund Hillary of social climbing: you may think you have a head for heights, but you’re only inducing altitude sickness in all your friends. At a literary soirée at Clarence House, I hobbled in on crutches. When Camilla asked me how I had hurt myself, a
jogging injury seemed too mundane a reply. “I fell off my toy boy,” I wisecracked, half expecting to be sent to the Tower. The Duchess of Cornwall cackled like a kookaburra – proving that it’s best to treat everyone at a party, from maid to monarch, equally.
When I was a teenager, a successful party meant at least one police raid. But what makes a great party for me now is a diverse two-legged menu. The best I’ve ever attended was Billy Connolly’s 60th – a four-day affair in the Scottish Highlands. What made it memorable was the human minestrone. Welders and bar-room brawlers rubbed shoulder pads with Python legends, comedy gods and thespian and rock royalty – plus the odd genuine monarch.
It’s hard to pinpoint my favourite vignette. Was it Robin Williams’s impromptu send up of Rabbie Burns’s haggis hagiography, entitled “Ode To Fiery Bums”? No, without doubt the highlights were Connolly’s off-the-cuff flights of comic fancy, which practically had guests hospitalised from hilarity. Douglas Adams’s parties were also a delight, with members of Procol Harum, Deep Purple, Dire Straits and Led Zeppelin jamming in his Islington basement.
But a shindig doesn’t need a sense of exclusivity, secrecy or lavishness to be fabulous. I’ve been to no-expensespared parties that have fallen flat, then found myself at impromptu gatherings in dusty sheds that registered off the fun-o-meter. That’s because, while good booze and delicious food are a bonus, it’s more important you serve up delicious discourse. A guest’s only commandment should be “thou shalt not bore”, so best avoid discussing ailments,
It was a memorable human minestrone: welders with comedy gods and rock royalty
alimony, house prices or the weather. If you do end up in a conversational cul-de-sac with someone who has nothing to say but spends the whole night saying it, simply cough a little in their direction and mutter: “It’s so brave of you to come into contact with me, you know, after my diagnosis.”
Now that the Government has said we can put on our glad rags, I am planning a lot of fun in the sun with my favourite people at beachside barbies. Not only does a beach party offer the best dress code – “clothing optional” – but sand also makes for a soft landing when the post-lunch stupor sets in. Plus, you can drown that freeloading banker who groped you over by the guacamole: you’d be amazed at the surprising lack of buoyancy a debauched, paunched playboy displays after his 10th prawn cocktail.
So buy some tiaras in six-packs and go forth and party... and girls, if you do throw your knickers at a rock legend, make sure you do so after you’ve swung from that chandelier.