You’re invited to the worst party in the world

You look like crap and your ex is snogging your mate. Now what?

This is the sort of hideous throwback photo that would be shown on the big screen at The Worst Party In The World (sorry Liv)

Have you ever heard about The Worst Party In The World? It’s a fun conversation topic that my friends Nicky and Kate invented - and have specifically demanded credit for high up in this newsletter. Basically, if you had to picture the worst possible scenario to be forced to socialise in, what would it look like? Here’s mine - and trust me when I tell you that in the end it all becomes relevant to the point of this newsletter…

The location 

I would arrive at The Worst Party In The World sweating profusely and feeling severely travel sick after being forced to face backwards on a sweltering bus for two hours along the South Circular while reading a rugby player’s autobiography.  

The party is, naturally, being held in west London. Apologies to anyone who lives in west London but I’m afraid I hate everything about it. It’s fine, you probably hate south east London; we’re used to it and we don’t care. And no, I can’t be more specific than “west London” because I don’t know my Ealing from my Acton and YOU CAN’T MAKE ME. 

Due to the long, hot, arduous journey, I am very, very late, and everyone else is already there, simultaneously having fun without me and being furious that I am so late.

The venue 

The party is inexplicably being thrown in a windowless, brightly lit department store where there has recently been an extreme spillage of the cloying perfume formerly known as YSL Champagne. 

Dotted around the room are vases of white lilies, which make my throat close up.

The greige walls are emblazoned with gin-related puns etched into synthetic driftwood. May the fun be-gin!

The music 

I was once, in that heady early dating period when you’re desperate to embrace the other person’s interests to impress them before admitting some months or years later that YOU NEVER FUCKING LIKED THE WIRE THAT MUCH ANYWAY, taken to a Squarepusher gig in Hackney. 

Squarepusher produces music for nerdy men who wish they were cool and it is supposed to be exclusively listened to in cluttered, faintly jizzy bedrooms in damp houseshares, not on date nights or indeed at parties. I also cannot tell the difference between the music of Squarepusher and that Friends episode where Ross has a keyboard, and I’m sure the nerdy men would say that this is because I am not cerebral enough. Perhaps they are right - I did perform two Taylor Swift songs at my birthday karaoke on Saturday (aka THE BEST PARTY IN THE WORLD).

Anyway, I’m sure Squarepusher is a lovely guy, but he would almost certainly be playing, loudly, tunelessly and harrowingly, at The Worst Party In The World. To offer some respite between his two hour sets, there will also be a few spins of He’s A Cat Flushing The Toilet by Parry Gripp, my kids’ favourite unbearable novelty artiste.

To offset all the terrible unlistenable music, here’s my favourite song about trying to impress someone by having SO much in common with them. It would not be played at The Worst Party In The World…

The food

No food, only shots of sambuca, one to be administered every five minutes for four hours. It turns out there was an all you can eat Chinese buffet and a chocolate fondue, but I got there too late for it.  

The guest list 

First I spot my worst old colleague [redacted], regaling my closest friends with stories about how horrific I was to work with, and afterwards they all tell me how wonderful and hilarious and stylish and talented she is. 

Then, in the corner I spy my former friend [redacted] snogging an eager line-up of Men Who Disappointed Me Between 2004 And 2010. 

Meanwhile, my despicable ex-boyfriend [redacted] is chatting animatedly to my parents about how weird and bad and gross I am at sex. 

To keep everyone entertained, a stage has been set up where Olly Murs, wearing shiny brogues with no socks, is gleefully presenting a slideshow of hideous old MySpace photos of me, interspersed with candid snaps of me running. 

Throughout this ordeal, my adorable children are tugging at my clothes repeatedly complaining that they are bored and hungry and need a poo.

The dress code 

If you had asked me this a few years ago, I’m pretty sure I would have said… activewear! I’m picturing an ill-fitting flesh-coloured sports bra that squashes and slices my boobs, and some shiny, white, capri length leggings that both cut into my stomach and don’t stay up properly. 

But now… I love activewear! OK, so I’d still pass on the outfit described above, but one of the biggest revelations of my fitness revolution is that I DO NOT HAVE TO LOOK TERRIBLE IN ACTIVEWEAR. AND NOR DO YOU. Getting some half-decent activewear can be key to feeling better about exercise, and there’s actual science behind it too (it’s called “enclothed cognition” - basically, dressing the part helps you belong).

And so here comes the newsletter angle. For many people, The Worst Party In The World would involve exercise.

Perhaps it would take place in a loud, heaving gym full of pumped-up men and tiny, gorgeous women wearing those creepy Gymshark leggings that deliberately emphasise their bum cracks.

Perhaps it would be a team-building day at work where someone who used to be captain of their school netball team has come up with the most hellish concept imaginable to those who hated PE: “I know! Let’s do a Sports Day! Everyone loves Sports Day, right? I’ll pick teams!”.

Or perhaps it would be a really complicated, exclusive, expensive yoga retreat full of beautiful people who are deep in a blissful trance… until you let out a rip-roaring fart.

Yes, unfamiliar exercise scenarios are way out of the comfort zone for many of us, so we just… don’t bother. In fact, even the most confident people I know get a bit anxious when they go along to try a new fitness thing for the first time.

I’m fairly up myself but I still get butterflies when I go to a parkrun I’ve not been to before (like this weekend when I ticked beautiful but hilly Brockwell Park off my list). How long will it take me to get there? Will there be somewhere to stash my stuff if I need to? Is the course definitely easy to follow? I always get there really early and I have even been known to watch time-lapse YouTube videos of new parkrun courses before doing them because I like to be prepared for every eventuality. But ultimately the unfamiliarity is part of the thrill.

Stuff is more rewarding when it’s hard. Right now, London Marathon is less than eight weeks away (SPONSOR ME HERE FOR ASTHMA + LUNG UK!), and I’m pretty sure that running 26.2 miles would be up there on a lot of people’s Worst Party In The World list. To be honest, I’ve not made it past 14 miles in training yet, so it’s pretty high on mine. But, as long as on the day I don’t listen to Squarepusher or neck sambuca or spot swarms of my enemies spectating, I think it will all be worth it. Plus, have you noticed that whoever designed the route totally missed off the whole of West London? HERO.

PS. I would LOVE to hear all about your Worst Party In The World so do share the horror in the comments.