Throw a New Year’s Eve party that will raise the bar. Probably right over the barman’s head.
Start by carefully building a guest list — upon a foundation of lies. Pick names out of Page 3, rich and famous old classmates, their exes. Casually mention that Virushka is invited (‘invited’ is true). Be assured of a stampede.
Stock up on numerous posh bottles of liquor. From the paper kaagaz wala . Fill your posh bottles with bootleg hooch. If you haven’t washed them well, and a guest points quivering at a swimming cockroach, elaborate on how tequila with worms is so out now and single malt with roach is in.
Don’t stress over the food. If the liquor’s enough, the food will come out the way it went in anyway. What’s more important is to tell some earnest colleagues that the theme is white. Now you sport an impressive number of white-liveried waiters hovering around, even if they’re a tad surprised when they’re handed empty glasses and tips.
It’s party time! Choose music that makes no sense at all, but is loud enough to perforate eardrums in the next neighbourhood.
Your party is a rocking success — it will be talked about for years. Guests pour in. Spirits are poured out. It’s so crowded, dancing elbows are routinely smashed into teeth. Feet are stomped upon. Faces are slapped. Your lights are blinking with hormonal irascibility, so no one can see who anyone else is. Some people sidle up to your office peon asking for his autograph. Others bring up the menu over the balcony with admirable aim. Still others sit on the candles and join the screech of the heavy metal band. While those who lurch into the malfunctioning string of lights, invent frenzied new dance steps. At some point, the strobe light crashes on to those who will always boast they finally saw the light.
Fights break out over old exes, new taxes, the peon who insists his name’s not Virat. The college dropout you’d bribed to valet-park has eloped with someone’s Audi. Plates and glasses are used as medieval weaponry. Everyone sports at least one black eye and the more fashionable ones, a few missing teeth. Some A-lister who has actually turned up in flesh and blood, is in literally just that. Good, nothing like a few fights to spark up a party. The neighbours complain. Good, nothing like a few complaints tom... Oh, the police arrive.
This is the time for you to exit. Did we forget to mention to carefully plan the venue at someone else’s place?
Where Jane De Suza, the author of Happily Never After , talks about the week’s quirks, quacks and hacks.
