Just what is it that you want to do?

We wanna be free,

We wanna be free to do what we wanna do,

And we wanna get loaded!

And we wanna have a good time! And that's what we're gonna do.

We're gonna have a good time,

We're gonna have a party.!

(Boom! I don't wanna lose your love, etc.)

Ah yes, Loaded – the tune, as opposed to loaded the iffy early 90s lads mag, – the premier hedonists anthem, a record which ventured that parties were a very good idea indeed. But this is not strictly true as it happens, because sometimes the drugs don't turn up, and your ex-girlfriends psychotic new boyfriend does. The nearest thing you get to a bunk-up is brushing up against Mr or Ms desirables trousers by the medicine cabinet on the hunt for a bottle of Benilyn to go with your 4 pack of special brew. Or you end up in the cupboard under the stairs with the only drink left in the house (can of Hoffmeister, bottle of Pimms, Safeways own sherry etc). This is the trouble with parties, most of them are absolute shite. And the better they are, the less likely you are to remember exactly why you had such a fantastic time. You'll wake up with a distinct impression that mankind is a magnificent concept, that you, despite everything, are really quite an attractive and interesting person, and rock and roll will, after all, save the world.

The best parties, of course, are the ones where you dont wake up at all. Not because you are dead, but what with the drink and pills and nosebag and sex and all, kip was never an option. Even then you'll still have a few vague recollections: the music was spot on, you were in a spectacular mood and so were your mates, for no reason whatsoever. You copped off with the fittest bird there, and a complete stranger gave you some coke dusted from the hem of Gods very own smoking jacket, for free! At a great party the following should always happen, someone would ask you if you want some drugs?

"Then come with me behind the curtain to a small room."

Here you are offered a seat, a chilled glass of Champagne, a spliff, some friendly chat and an array of top class, grade A narcotics. Good lad. The best parties are also, no exception, always, someone elses. Have it yourself and you are guaranteed no mates paranoia for several weeks thinking no one will pitch up, or a bunch of nutters turn up and pinch your beloved Cliff And The Shadows tape collection which they'll toss in a skip on the way home. Plus, the best parties are about merging with total strangers, making up shite about what you do for a living, talking nonsense at one million decibels about the works of some obscure, underground author even though you've never read a single syllable, pretending you are the greatest dancer in the world and eyeing up the beautiful people. (You only find them at other people parties: fact!). Good mates are essential: one good mate who inhabits the same dimension as you when the much-stronger-than-anticipated pill kicks in and you have one of those "You alright?" "Im alright." "You alright?" moments, so you'll both be in a lost it ozone with each other, and you won't feel such a pillock for not being as cool as you thought you were; and one good mate of the same gender who's fantastically good-looking and interesting so you can lure the nubile young girls/boys in by association. Music, of course, is the key. OK then, drugs are the key, but musics the keyhole (or something). All other elements disintegrate if some bastard takes over the stereo with home-grown tapes of abysmal tune-free techno no ones ever heard of. You must hear the big tunes of the day (at the time of writing as they say), and the top tunes from the references of the day, in this case, XTC, The Stooges, Gang Of Four, Blondie, MC5 e.t.c. (Be warned though, dancing with too much I know all the words fervour results in loss of cool and revelation to the young birds you're trying to impress of how ancient you really are). Do not get too dressed up for a party, (unless you are of the Cary Grant/Audry Hepburn calibre of cool.) If it looks like you're trying far too hard to be seen, you'll deserve to be the loser in the corner whose only attraction come 2 A.M. is that you're the only one with any skins left. Note: If you spot a rugby shirt, leave immediately.

Do mix your alcohol. This merely results in you vomiting all over a beautiful persons very expensive suede trousers, collapsing in a bush by 11:30 and having one of those hangovers involving several phone calls along the "What did I do? I did what? Ohh fuck!" Theme. The best bet is to Drink an entire bottle of Stolichnaya before youve even arrived and it's guaranteed to be, as a professional Scotsman would have it a, – "Chips n' hame" experience.

And finally, if at all possible, invite the local drug nutter with the constitution of a buffalo. That way you get a good laugh at someone elses inability to do anything at all and if the drugs run out you can always wait till they keel over and then lick their face. That's what we really wanna do!


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