COMPETITION

Party line

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1596 you were in- vited to supply a bright magazine article on how to make an alcohol-free party swing.

At Oxford I planned a party which was designed to be the least swinging one of all time. I was going to invite to drinks at my digs eight or nine grotesquely incompatible people — my landlord, Mr Squelch, Ken Tynan, and an incomprehensible Lithua- nian refugee were, I remember, three. They would arrive to find a note from their host apologising for not being there but promising to be back soon with the drink. Meanwhile I would be hiding in a cupboard with an eyehole and an earhole, voyeur and ecouteur, enjoying the horror show. But of course the producer's nerve failed at the last moment.

The needle flickered low on my clapo- meter this week; alcohol is a rather thread- bare subject for mirth. Dozens of dreadful party games were proposed, Let's Pretend

to be Drunk among them. One of you suggested, 'Play that tape of your last party as background to this one', and another, `Recreate the camaraderie of a second world war bomb shelter in your own drawing-room with mugs of cocoa and Dame Vera on the stereo'. The prizewin- ners printed below get £12 each (Tim Hopkins is lucky because, strictly speak- ing, he was disqualifiable: he gets a warn- ing). The bonus bottle of Cognac Otard VSOP, kindly presented by the Château de Cognac, goes to Noel Petty.

Now that alcohol is definitely no-no, the bright party-giver has to think of something else to help things hum, and no, we don't mean certain substances. The answer is people. All alcohol did (apart from corrode your liver) was to loosen tongues; instead, invite those few critical people guaran- teed to ensure a satisfactory noise-level.

Get yourself a fundamentalist Muslim (no alcohol a positive advantage here), a National Fronter, say, and maybe a pair of Mormons. You'll have plenty of feminists, so have some old-style Anglidans in. Similarly with the en- vironment: no shortage of Friends of the Earth, but how about a few enemies? Admittedly, you won't find many forest-burners in Hampstead, but you should turn up a few merchant bankers who'd payroll anything. Balance, you see. You'll soon get the idea.

Finally, if you can't get Salman Rushdie (and you can't), find a look-alike. (Noel Petty) Surprise your guests by breathalysing them on their arrival (dress as a constable for effect). The slightest hint of booze, and it's back to the pub with them (after you've relieved them of their car keys and money). Make sure you videotape the proceedings for showing at the cream bun stage of the night. Another party treat is the

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? routine. Joan and Mike from across the road become Martha and George. The former pretends to be drunk and persistently harangues her inadequate hus- band concerning his drinking, lack of virility, third-rate PhD and 'that dark secret in the past'. The trick here is to pick a couple who genuinely feel that way! My favourite partying shot is the sudden power failure and the mystery of the missing purses and wallets, culminating in the final 'getting' of Martha and George. Remem- ber to frisk your guests before they leave,

(John O'Byrne)

I spent last week scouting the party-givers of suburbia. People have said for years that what they do in Mitcham today Chelsea will be doing tomorrow. Random testing has been the termin- al breath of social drinking. Hide the car keys, forget where and corkscrew your way to the attic. But avant-garde as ever, Bubbles Dindo, the effervescent social height grise of Enfield, is showing us how to throw an organic thrash. She appears in one figleaf and her Ginger in mud. Marjorie Sloaf as an artichoke is appealing. Some arrive as ordinary broccoli and some as Purple sprouting, asparagus, red, green and Yellow peppers. Music is by Pan Pipes and the lighting by Beeswax Candles (which don't last long). Grub as usual is 'magic' mushrooms a la grecque. Bubbles imports them from a damp

copse in Wales. My Editor won't allow me to give you their Latin name. (Brian Coates) No garden party is complete without a maypole. There is no need of anything elaborate, though DIYers will come into their own. With all the drunken motorists one can easily obtain a felled Belisha beacon from the local traffic police. I never remove the orange globe — a fun colour. Attach some gay ribbons, and the party's away.

But maypoling is thirsty work. What is the best drink? Certainly not the aphrodisiac pars- nip; after the maypole's phallicism a soother is called for. Here linden tea comes into its own. If served cold, a mistletoe berry (with the seed removed) and an ice-cube can be slipped in. Serve in a tall glass, and a straw — not of plastic but actual down-to-earth straw — will add just the right rustic note. (George Moor)

Well, the stuff is poison to me (and David has his complaint), but our little 'juice 'n' mousse' party for the new patio did fall rather flat so when we christened the extension I thought `Spice it up, Philippa!' David suggested putting Spanish Fly in the blackcurrant . . . at our age! And in Hertfordshire! Anyway, where does one buy the stuff? Then the brainwave: no talking! We'll make everybody sing! We created a Covent Garden atmosphere — David donned his dinner jacket and we put on a nice Janet Baker compilation album. A triumph! Th mousy woman with the limp held one confer spellbound with a patter song about her library work, David's stockbroker (lovely baritone) did a splendid aria about exchange rates, and my dentist was pure Noel Coward on bridgework until he choked on an olive. 'It's just like the Meistersingers,' trilled David, 'only more topic-

al.' (Nick Syrett) Guests, in turn, must hold the floor, Prizes for the biggest bore!

Conga through the next-doors' flat, Wearing someone else's hat!

Drink a ginger beer in one,

Allude to page three of the Sun!

Suggest a game of `Triv' in teams, Play James Last and guess the themes!

Piano-playing son needs praise,

Insist on silence while he plays!

Introduce the family pooch - If all else fails, send out for hooch!

(Tim Hopkins)