Caroline O'Donoghue: A party is just talking to a series of people in a series of rooms. Like Cluedo

"You should be part of the molecular make-up of the party; if you left, a little of the party would die, if just a small part."

I’m going to a party this weekend. My first proper one since Covid began. 

My friend Tom is planning a small garden party at his family home. I say ‘his’ garden party; it’s his parents party, really.

They are the kind of absurdly rich early-retirees that have managed to successfully blend their children’s social lives with their own, and have been itching to plan a party since April. 

Now, with the last of the summer sun fading, they are inviting his friends round for a do, where I’m assured there will be a lot of hand sanitiser, masks, and about three bottles of Veuve Cliquot allocated per guest.

I’ve not been to a proper party since Christmas, where my fake tooth made me a bigger hit than the pigs-in-blankets. 

Truly, it was the social peak of my life: I was tooth girl! The Irish girl who would take her fake tooth out for you if you asked! It gave me a kind of gypsy fortune teller vibe that I think a lot of people enjoyed. 

This time round however, my tooth is firmly in my head, so I’ve written myself a guide to parties.

1. First, ask yourself: do you want to go to a party? 

Lots of people don’t. Lots of people hate parties. 

Consider whether a pandemic is a convenient way of never having to put your coat on top of someone else’s coat again.

2. Okay, so you’ve decided you do, actually, want to go to parties.

Congratulations! A party is just talking to a series of people in a series of rooms. Like Cluedo, except instead of a violent death you just feel a bit sick from eating too many crisps. 

There are usually three key rooms at a party: the living room (hard level: the music is probably loudest here), the kitchen (intermediate level: the chat is probably best here, but there are less places to sit. You must stake your claim early), and the host’s bedroom (easy level: you will probably end up sitting on the edge of the bed, having a very intense conversation with someone you have just met who is leaving their wife.) 

My advice is to begin in the kitchen, then work your way either up a level or down a level depending on how you’re feeling.

3. To be let into the kitchen, you must bring something, so the host can put your thing in the fridge and then you can stay next to the fridge for the next hour, where you belong. 

You are probably bringing wine, or if it’s a housewarming party for two people you slightly resent who have managed to buy a home despite the pandemic, a small cactus. 

If you find icebreakers difficult: good news! Virtually every vineyard in Europe has conspired to help you.

All the wines that cost over ten quid now are called something like ‘The Salacious Oyster’ or ‘Big Fat Prick’. Make a joke about the wine, that’s what it’s there for.

4. The first person you talk to at the party is a burner. 

A ‘burner phone’ is a phone drug dealers use and then throw away after a few calls, and this is exactly how you should feel about this person.

They are mostly likely Someone’s Brother, someone you can blither on at for the length of two drinks, expelling all of your nervy party energy before you feel settled enough to be able to move more fluidly through the party. 

Do not feel bad; this is exactly how they feel about you. You will see him, hours later, and you will nod shyly at one another from across the living room: respectful, distant, a little nostalgic. 

If the human life were condensed down to the length of one party, this person would effectively be your ex-husband.

5. Alright, now we’re cooking. You’re ready for the living room.

"Who here looks like they host a podcast?"

The surest way to shore up your popularity and guarantee your chance of being re-invited is to either dance or get off with someone. 

This is a tactic employed commonly by teenage girls, and they’re popular for a reason. 

However, if you can’t do these things, enter into a confidence with someone. 

This can range from something as simple as ‘oh my god, I don’t remember the host’s husband’s name – can you help me?’ to ‘I appear to have broken a plate, please help me hide the evidence’. 

People love an in-party conspiracy, even if it’s just a bitchy game you invent about the other guests. Such as ‘who here looks like they host a podcast?’ 

6. Once you’re in the post-midnight zone, you have two choices. Shit, or get off the pot. 

You’re allowed to leave at midnight and no one will be mad or call you a dryballs; equally, if you’re going to stay, you really need to commit to being at the party now. 

This means: no chatting about political issues, no wondering about the future of covid, no calling something ‘a travesty’. It is your responsibility to your host to be a bit silly now. 

There should be dancing of some kind. There should be songs. At the absolute least, there should be that sort of idiot banter that awkward men like, ‘Would you rather have a dick for an elbow or an elbow for a dick’, that kind of thing.

You should have at least two new best friends. You should be part of the molecular make-up of the party; if you left, a little of the party would die, if just a small part.

7. Do not leave without at least one stupid anecdote. 

In the morning, when you call or text the host to thank them, you will need this one anecdote to prove that you had a good time, and the host did their job correctly. 

“I think I broke a plate,” you will say, even if you didn’t. 

They will be so delighted that their party had even one incident that they will cluck at your like a disappointed aunt, and then go tell someone else if they heard the plate story.

Congratulations. Your work here is done.