Next time you find yourself lurking in the corner at a party, watching the disgusting fun unfold around you, start saying the word ‘despair’ out loud. Begin the incantation at conversational level, then increase the volume incrementally until someone asks you to leave. I guarantee you’ll be bellowing at the top of your lungs before anyone even notices. If you’re lucky, someone else’ll join in, and then you’ve made a new friend. I know; I’ve tried it myself. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a fun guy. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a bit of poindess dicking round. It’s the single most life-affirming activity in the world. But I have a problem with parties. Parties are supposed to be the last word in devil-may-care enjoyment, yet they fill me with an infinite sense of sadness, so vast and gaping mat shouting ‘despair’ seems like the only sane course of action. After years of pondering the subject, I’ve worked out why. Parties somehow represent the rationing of fun, and that very concept depresses me.
