Can't Boris remember No 10 parties? I can remember far worse

It was a rampant, disjoined soiree as doorbells went off left, right and centre, before Z list celebs popped their heads through the unlocked doors and the audience cheered as wildly for Lionel Blair as they would for the second coming of Elvis.

To his eternal credit, Edmonds never seemed to get phased when a pink, phallic freak called Mr Blobby showed up, broke a few ornaments, and tried and failed to have any impact on this country’s comedic landscape.

As house parties went, it lacked the true staples of an unforgettable event: food, drink, music, someone sleeping in their own vomit in the corner of the hallway, and copious breakages.

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Despite now being a relic of my past, thankfully, we have Bojo to keep the house party fires burning. I’ve never heard of a party being so raucous that you couldn’t remember if it took place downstairs, and you needed an inquiry to ascertain if it indeed did or did not take place (spoiler: it did). In a few short lies he has now relegated himself from a heavyweight political hitter to a bull’s hitter.

A suitcase full of wine. Photo: Pixabay

Yes, it's true, as the years advance the fewer house parties we are invited too, courtesy of the fact that we are no longer young, hip and up for an all-night jolly.

Usually, they would take place in rented accommodation or when parents were away. I recall attending one such event in St Leonards in my early 20s along with a group of lads, none of whom knew the host, what her name was, or who had invited us.

We were greeted upon arrival by a rugby-playing Aussie swinging on the dining room light, which gave up the ghost under his weight and left exposed live wires hanging from the ceiling.

The hostess seemed none too bothered through the haze of 20/20 as we scrambled around for something to eat. Three of us ransacked the kitchen cupboards and could only find dog food, so for some unknown reason, through the bravado and stupidity of youth, heated it up for a taste. At that point a hungry Scotsman came in and asked, ‘what you eating, pal’? and then looked confused as we replied ‘yes’.

The police showed up, in the days when they would attend a call, after a fight broke out in the downstairs toilet, and we scarpered into the night before finding out the next day that father had returned and gone ‘ballistic’.

Apparently, he had a glass eye and some ‘wag’ had chosen to defecate in the box of his spare eye, before placing said eye back in the box.

The poor fella had to also shell out for a deep clean and an electrician, as well as order a new eyepiece. He really didn’t see any of that coming when he popped off for a romantic night with the wife.

Parties need to be really good for you to completely forget them

But those were the days: neighbours rarely seemed to complain, you could openly throw up on the Persian rug and no one would bat an eyelid, as free love became hip again in the raving days, arguably more so that it ever did in the 1960s.

But alas, such times are now gone, to be replaced by more serene dinner parties where you can hear what is being said, have a few bevvies and inevitably talk about politics and football in the knowledge that no one is going to defecate in your contact lens case, raid the food cupboard or have Mr Blobby run around the kitchen as he continues to fail to muster a chuckle.

• Brett Ellis is a teacher